


Ebony And Alabaster

by excelsis



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol, Angst, Barebacking, Blood and Gore, Complete, Dark, Drama, Dreams and Nightmares, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gen, Harm to Children, Love, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Other, POV Third Person Omniscient, Slavery, Torture, Trauma, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-13
Updated: 2014-11-18
Packaged: 2017-11-18 13:28:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 116
Words: 645,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/561570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/excelsis/pseuds/excelsis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"And the wolf was bound in the rarest of bindings, woven by dwarves, and sealed by mages.  But if freed, once free, will destroy everything, until it was cut down by the son of one the wolf killed."</p><p>If this story is about anything, it’s love.  Love of honor, compassion, and nobility.  Love of bloodshed, pain, and others’ suffering.  Love of dance, family, and friends.  Love of religion, sex, and politics.  Love of joy; of fear; of hate.  Love of passion.  It’s about finding small things you can admire in someone you dislike.  There is no such thing as evil, and the world is never that black and white.  And we so rarely do the things we should.</p><p>The story opens in Leto's third summer...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bleeding Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doom lurks in the air like a crow, and everyone feels its presence even if they cannot yet see it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Guide (For those of you who want to skip sections):  
> Part One: Chapters 1-15 This section is when Leto is a small child, detailing how he is enslaved, primarily from the eyes of his mother.  
> Part Two: Chapters 16-20 This section details Leto growing up and learning how to fight.  
> Part Three: Chapters 21-44 This section is when Leto decides he has to win the Tourney to free his mother and sister, and about the Ritual.  
> Part Four: Chapters 45-65 This section is about Fenris’ life as a slave to Danarius.  
> Part Five: Chapters 66-81 Fenris' travels before he gets to Kirkwall.  
> Part Six: Chapters 82-End In-game time and a little post-game.

**Part One**

                Before the city, the golden sun was setting, its warm light casting a soft glow to the foggy land and reflecting off of the glass windows and mosaics in the city, but also creating long dark shadows in its wake—shapes that would twist into dragons and demons.  It was at once beautiful and frightening, and in so many ways felt like the last day on earth.

                “They’ll be here by tomorrow,” Calias said, looking out at the empty horizon, leaf-green eyes squinting against the sun.

                Mieta’s fingers wrapped around her husband’s arm, seeking comfort as well as his full attention.  “Do… Do you suppose we should have gone north with the others?” she asked apprehensively—a question she asked herself at least once a day lately, as the time drew nearer.

                He looked back at her, and smiled so warmly that it even reflected in his eyes, as if nothing in the world were wrong.  She found herself wanting to smile back on instinct.  His smile had always tugged upon her soul like that.  She hadn’t loved him when they had been wed; he had seemed so austere.  As it turned out, she had intimidated him into silence unwittingly.  After she was pregnant with their firstborn, and she was sick, he became very attentive.  One day, he had come back from a scouting mission, and she had presented him with their son; he had presented her with a bouquet of wildflowers he had picked during the mission, and her heart had softened to his thoughtfulness.

                He put his hand against her slightly swollen belly, and kissed her gently on the mouth.  “It would be dangerous to make that journey, my love,” he told her, his voice a soft whisper.  She felt like all the world was right when she looked into his leaf green eyes, like nothing in the world could ever come between them.  Tomorrow, they would weather the day, and everything would be all right.

                But that wasn’t how it was, and defeat lurked inevitably in the air all around them like the fog, so thick you could almost pluck it from the air.  They were outnumbered—badly.  They were alone; the branch of the Antaam stationed closest to them, the one harrying the Tevinters in Seheron, was still weeks away and would never make it in time to save them (many said they had never intended to come), and there was nothing they could do.  Infuriating, considering that the army could have moved to help them, but they had not.  Weeks ago, they had been warned that they were coming, and some had fled in fear.  At first, the others had laughed.  Surely their city was too small to warrant their attention?  Surely the Antaam would arrive before it was ever a problem?

                But that had been weeks ago.  Others had continued to flee as their impending demise came down upon them.  Others had remained resolute:  They were too stubborn, or had faith in their warriors.  They didn’t believe it could happen—does anyone believe their doom is coming before it is upon them?  They would not abandon their post.  They were invincible; and they were going to win.  The Tevinters had been breaking their teeth against the walls of Schavalis for years now, and they had never fallen.  They had always held fast, an outpost and haven for decades since it first fell.  But the fist of the Antaam had never been so far away, called to where they were needed; one of their own ports was under siege and they had to break the siege.  Of course they were more important than a mostly sovereign town.

Schavalis had an interesting history, reminiscent but not quite like the Free Cities.  It was, once, part of the Tevinter Imperium but war left it ravaged and for some time all but abandoned by the Imperium.  Years ago, it had been assaulted by the Qunari forces.  The histories spoke that the siege lasted three days, and by the third, the city burned.  The Tevinters escaped in their ships or horseback if they had to, but they had no room for their slaves and anyone they deemed too unimportant to be granted life, who were left behind at the mercy of the Qunari; it had been a liberation of sorts.  That had happened little over a generation ago.  Now, it bordered on the territory the Qunari controlled, but was overall considered a free city with its sympathies toward the Qunari; the Qunari did not have anyone to spare to maintain control over it at the time.  There was some talk and dispute over officially joining the Qun, but the city officials never seemed to stop bickering about it and were reluctant to give up their “sovereignty”.

In reality, it was a feigned sovereignty, but only a rare few actually knew and acknowledged that.  They had convinced the Qunari, though it wasn’t easy, to begin conversion slowly, though it was only beginning to take deeper root.  The Qunari were rarely so patient, but even they had seen that forced conversion wasn’t working every time and there were those in their own people who suggested a different way might be better.  Their leaders had accepted this, as they had seen in the past for themselves how peoples of other cultures and races would go to them, given time, of their own free will; Schavalis was a trial of sorts.  It also helped that forced conversion generally roused the attention of the Chantry—and that only led to more war.  The Chantry, for the larger part, was content to ignore the Qunari if all they did was attack Tevinter, but Schavalis was different since it declared sovereignty.

People had begun to notice, to accept.  In a few more years, it might just simply become natural.  One of the biggest arguments was that the language would be difficult to pick up and learn, more because many Qunari do not speak the common tongue than anything else, so it would be required that everyone learn their language, so they might speak the Qun as it was meant to be spoken.  There were a few Andrastians in Schavalis who were starkly in opposition to this, but Schavalis’ former allegiance to the Imperium had left its Chantry a ghost of what it meant in other countries.

                Mieta stared at Calias, wanting so desperately to believe him, but all she could think of was the death that marched on the horizon.  They would be in sight by morning, a dark death brought by the dawn.  And, with the flat of the land, they would see them march all day, slowly.  The waiting alone would drive her mad, she felt.  It was rumoured that they would attack at dawn the day after tomorrow, when the light was in the defender’s eyes.

                “You didn’t answer me,” she insisted, taking his callused hand in hers.  It was strong, usually, from work, from a sword.  Today, it felt that her terror overpowered his calm and his strength.

                But even so, his calm did not yield.  “The walls have never fallen, not since they were built,” he told her, still evading her.  She looked at him, her eyebrows raising in disbelief.  He thought they were going to die.  At best, that would be true.  At worst… it didn’t bear thinking of.

                She looked back, at the town below them.  She looked back at him, her eyes watering in terror.  They could run.  Her husband couldn’t; he would be considered a deserter, but no one would stop the helpless refugees.  It had become so bad that they had drafted anyone who could hold a sword or bow into the militia, and those ones would likely balk once the gates fell.

                He must have guessed her thoughts from her expression, for he said, “My dear, if you ran, you would be alone in the wilderness.”

                She swallowed hard.  But if she ran, she might preserve her life, and their child’s.  Her hand touched her belly.  Her throat still felt dry.  “So I should be alone in our house, listening to the gates breaking and the sound of men dying?” she asked him.

                He didn’t know what to say, so he pulled her close against him in his arms.  It wasn’t private.  There were others on the wall too, but they gave the two some semblance of privacy by looking away.

                She could say nothing more, so did not.  She kissed him, and headed down the stairs.  The walls seemed strong.  Impenetrable even.  Tall, thick, something she had seen all her life.  It had been a constant throughout her life, something solid she felt she could rely on.  Would that be gone too?

She continued on.  Everyone else seemed to feel what she had felt.  It was so quiet.  Shops closed early, and people kept their children close and shut inside.  Everything was so eerily hushed, she reflected as she looked around the street.

                There should be people here—a few scattered Qunari on occasion (mostly those on scouting missions stopped to resupply or even Tal-Vashoth when they dared), elves, humans, a couple of surface dwarves too.  They should be selling their wares, laughing, telling stories.  They should be living their lives.  This shouldn’t have to be.  Nothing like this should have to be.

                The Qun taught that if death was visited upon someone, that that is their fate.  Was it their fate to die?  She didn’t want to die.  Didn’t want anyone here to die.  Why couldn’t they just leave them alone?  They were a peaceful farming village.  They supplied the Qunari with food, occasionally warriors, mages when they cropped up, but they had never, _never_ actively fought.  She couldn’t understand what would drive a person to want to slaughter innocents.  She couldn’t imagine a world where those people could be allowed to exist.

                They denied everything of the Qun, and the Maker.  Why?  Mieta couldn’t understand it.  Growing up here, she had been taught both ways, and allowed to come to her own decisions.  There was never harm in knowledge, after all.  She still wasn’t sure what she believed, and wasn’t sure it even mattered any longer.

                She stopped walking, not suddenly but more as if she had forgotten to continue her path.

                A shutter in the distance banged shut, and it echoed— _echoed!—_ in the lonely streets.  The sun was just beginning to spill its fires across the distant sky, and it was already so…

                _Abandoned_ , she thought.

                She looked around herself, as if seeing this place for the first time.  In her mind’s eye, she saw the buildings ablaze, their smoke blocking out the light of the morning’s sun.  The river would run red with blood, and bodies.  It would be a city of decay, and death.  Crows and ravens would flock to feast upon the carrion, where the bodies would simply be left to rot in the elements as a warning to all…

                Calias had always said she was over-imaginative, but the thought only caused a deep pang in her gut.  What if she was right?

                She could not bear to think of it, yet the thoughts still came, and she wished they would stop.  She could not think like that; believing in something could make it true—her Ma had always said that, both as a hopeful wish for her to carry, and as a warning.

                The cawing of a crow startled her enough to jump.  She looked up at the dark bird, perched on someone’s roof.  It watched her curiously from its perch, clacking in a way that sounded to her like chortling at her misfortune.  If she had wings, she could just fly away, after all.  More to her folly; she did not.  The bird twisted its head to one side, its black shiny eyes staring down at her.  She felt like it was waiting.  She had heard that the birds went for the eyes first.

                _Where are the gulls?_   The noisy seabirds were always about, even in the evening, looking for scraps.  She didn’t even see the pigeons, and that bothered her more than anything else.  She looked back up at the crow.  _The birds know more than we do.  Or they just have more sense._

                She hesitated at the street she should take to get home, but instead turned down another passage.

                The twist of the road led her through the town, and she was conscious that she was heading downhill slowly.  The town sat on two large hills, with a wall surrounding it, and even the harbor was cut off by the wall.  In the past, it had been more to ward out predators, but with the war going on, the fortification had been added to, again and again until they became the high, strong walls they were now.

                _They can’t be breached_ , she tried to remind herself.  The walls were thicker than she was tall, and filled with sand.  The doors were bound in iron.  Atop the walls were archers of skill, and boiling oil and tar.  They had held fast in times past, against pirates, against raiders, and armies.  They should hold fast now.

                _But they had no mages_.  No, the Qun dictated, and they gave them away.  Oh, there might be one apostate—perhaps two at most—hiding in the town, but she doubted it.  More than that, whoever they were would not dare to reveal their existence unless it was already too late, and it would be nothing but an act of desperation.  They would have waited too long to help—too little, too late.

                She stopped at the market square, looking up at the statue.  It was a work of smooth granite by a craftsman of great skill, one that had been a slave years ago, then a freed man, and had died that way long ago.  The warrior was clothed in magnificent armor, poised, dignified.  His face was hidden by his great helm, and the armor and the helm kept all from guessing anything more about him.  The artist may have intended him human, or elven, or even dwarven; it was taller than a Qunari.

                The Warrior faced south, in stark opposition to the unknown forces that would seek to suppress him, and the positioning was no coincidence.  He watched the south, ever vigilante, never yielding.  He was a figure of strength amidst the weakness all around that she felt all too clearly in the air.  He was a figure of light amidst this darkness.  And, she felt, life though he possessed none.  Sometimes, a thing didn’t need to have something to make that thing real to someone else.

                Seeing the Warrior gave her a sense of resolve, a determination.  She bowed her head for a moment, whispering a silent prayer to the Maker for deliverance.  But even as she said the words, she knew they fell to deaf ears.  The Maker had abandoned all of them years ago, even the Chant of Light dictated that bit.  He had never heard her prayers before, or anyone’s, she imagined.

                Why would he start listening now?

                Perhaps the Qunari were right; if it was meant to be, it would happen.  Such is the way of the Qun.  It was an almost comforting thought, but not one she liked.

                Her path led her down into the valley.  Superstition and a sense of propriety kept it away, but it had become vast and sprawling out of necessity.

                She went past the creaking gate, lost in her thoughts of divinity.  She passed among the headstones, some so old they were crumbling, others growing lichen.  There were a few larger monuments rising out of the mists, but most small headstones.  She saw flowers on a few of the graves, and seashells on others.  She saw crumbling tokens that had meant something in life to the deceased, that meant nothing now to her.  They were forgotten, and lost, except by their families and those that loved them.  And even so, they didn’t care; they were dead and cremated.

                She found the small bend her family lay.  She knelt before her parents’ grave, not knowing any words she could give them, nor what she could ask.  Looking at their graves, she felt a sense of sadness in her heart.

                “I envy you, Mother,” she said gently.  The wind rustled the dried grass, lifting her dark hair.  She tucked a lock of it behind one pointed ear, twisting it in her fingers like she had when she was a young girl.  She swallowed, thinking of the encroaching army.  “You never doubted if your children would know where you lay to rest.”

                She touched her pregnant belly, trying to swallow past the dryness she felt in her throat.  There was so much wrong with this world, and it would not be content to leave them alone.

                Mieta clasped her hands, and resolved to pray.  Whether anyone heard her or not, she felt better for having done it.

                When she finished, she made her way back up the hill, down the streets, until she came to her street.

                She had left Leto at the neighbor’s for her visit, and they had a daughter born not two weeks after he, and, being neighbors, had grown up friends.  She hoped that they had locked them in the house instead of letting them in the garden, though she had little hope for that.

                She went up to the house with the faded red door.  There was a stain on it that to her looked rather like a ram’s head.  She rapped gently on the door, and only a touch louder after a moment and there was no answer.

                She heard Sharall before the woman came to the door, apologizing all the way.  The door opened with a modest squeak of complaint.  She made a face at the sound.

                “Inrir!  You said you fixed this door!” she complained, calling back over her shoulder at her husband somewhere inside the house.

                “Fool woman—of course I did.  The door just knows more than you do,” he called back through the house.

                _Like the birds._   But Mieta forced a warm smile on her lips, though she feared that it did not touch her soft hazel eyes.  Sharall rolled her eyes at her husband, but stepped aside to let Mieta inside.  She wiped her feet gingerly on the matt.  Sharall closed the door behind her, and locked it, she noticed.

                “Would you like tea?” she asked, wringing her hands nervously.

                Everyone was nervous.  Tea would do her some good.  “Please,” she said.  She followed Sharall into the kitchen area, where she already had a kettle of water on the stove.  Mieta had a seat as her hostess prepared the tea.  The kettle was whistling before she was finished, and she poured three cups.  One, she explained, for her husband if he ever decided to be respectful to their guest and say hello.

                “How has my son been?” Mieta asked conversationally.  She held her cup in her hands, grateful of its warmth and the pleasant aroma of the steam on her face, even though the tea needed more time to steep before it was worth drinking.

                Sharall laughed gently.  “He’s darling,” she replied.  “I love having him, and Lura is just smitten with him—you should see them.”

                Mieta found herself smiling in spite of herself.  The muscles felt good to use.  “And he’s as oblivious as ever, I assume?”

                The other elf took a tentative sip of her tea.  “As ever,” she agreed.  Both sets of parents had been discussing having their children wed when they came of age.  Arranged marriages were much less complicated than leaving it up to their children to decide, after all, and the Qun taught that it was much more efficient besides.  Well, the Qun didn’t actually condone marriage as a concept, but the Qunari did agree that if they had to have marriage, it shouldn’t be up to the children.  Though, they had also agreed not to tell either of them for a few more years yet, for both their sakes.  Let them enjoy each other’s company before they learn that they must tolerate it the rest of their lives.

                _If they lived long enough to be wed._


	2. Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Leto and Lura are in the Garden.

                “No!” the girl cried.  “Oh, please come down, Lady, _please_!”  Lura stood at the base of the trunk, forlorn and miserable.  The apple tree wasn’t _that_ tall, but she couldn’t reach, and she certainly couldn’t climb!  Her lower lip quivered as the little ball of fur teetered on a branch.  The kitten mewed piteously, trapped by its own curiosity.

                She never should have taken Lady outside to play.  Mama said that the kitten wanted to climb into trees, and she had snuck her out in the folds of her dress anyway.  Oh, she just _couldn’t_ tell Mama!  Her little fists balled at her sides.  She felt like flopping down in the grass and giving up.  Lady was too scared to climb down, and Lura was too scared to climb up after her.

                She stared up at her kitten, reaching her arms out toward her, wishing the cat would just jump down into the safety of her arms.  She was scared for Lady.  She shouldn’t be outside on a night like tonight, after all.

                “If you keep doing that, she’ll _never_ come down,” Leto chided her.  He was sitting on the little bench Papa had made, his legs dangling over the side, feet not quite long enough to touch the ground yet.  He had been watching her beg and plead with the cat intermittently, much more interested in the bird’s nests, terrorizing the fish in the pond, and trying to catch the frogs in the garden.

                Lura turned to him, lips curled in a pout, brows drawn down in a petulant glare.  Her little fists planted on her hips.  “Well, what would _you_ do, Mr. Smarty-pants?”

                He smirked.  “Leave her there—she’ll come down eventually.”

                She stared at him, aghast at the idea.  “No!” she exclaimed after a moment of stunned silence.  “She’s my _baby_!  I can’t leave her out in the dark all alone.  What about owls?”

                He glanced up at the kitten, a ball of pale grey fur lost amidst the branches.  He could hear it mewling occasionally.  “Um… Well, why would anything want to eat Lady?  She’s more fluff than meat anyway—Hey!”

                She heaved a convenient rock at him.  He ducked, and it hit the garden wall behind him instead.  She stuck her tongue at him.  He made a face.  “Meanie,” she called him.

                His mouth twisted into a frown.  “If you’d ask me _nicely_ I _might_ go get her, y’know.”

                She perked up at that, and walked over to him.  She batted her long lashes up at him, just as sweet as you please.  Her bow lips curved into a flattering smile, her eyes growing wide and hopeful.  “Oh, please—pretty please—would you go rescue my kitten from the apple tree, my prince?”

                He started to scowl, then decided to make it a game.  He hopped off of the bench, going to one knee, taking one of her hands in both of his.  She giggled.  “And when I’ve rescued your kitten, princess, what would you give your knight?”

                She scowled at this.  “You’re ruining it!  I want a prince!”

                He made a face.  “What do _they_ ever do?  Knights slay _dragons_ and _fight in tournaments_ and—“

                The kitten’s desperate plea for help cut him off.  Lura said, “I would give my knight my hand in marriage, and make him a prince.”  This seemed to appease both of them.  He climbed to his feet, and trotted over to the base of the tree.  He seized it up, trying to work out the best way to climb it.  He was very determined for a three-year-old, though elves are very limber and acrobatic by birthright.  He found a bucket nearby, and carried it to the tree.  He overturned it and climbed onto it so he could reach the first low-hanging branch.  He gripped it tightly, near the trunk of the tree, and pulled himself up.

                Lura watched from the ground with a growing sense of apprehension.  What if he fell?  Or just knocked Lady out of the tree?  Would she get hurt?  Would _he_ get hurt if he fell?  She began to worry if she shouldn’t have just told Mama.  If he got hurt, it would be much worse than just getting in trouble for disobeying.

                She bit her lower lip, watching him climb up higher.  Lady had never liked him overmuch though, and in her fright, she scampered away from him, climbing out on to thinner limbs to evade his grasp.  A gasp escaped her lips as the kitten tottered.  It squeaked, but Leto pursued it mercilessly.  One small hand reached out toward it.  The kitten spat, regained its balance, and bristled at the approaching hand.  Its ears laid back.

                “Watch out!” she called from below, but too late.  The kitten raked its claws across his hand.  He hissed in sudden pain, recoiling briefly, before darting his hand back out.  It skittered away to a lower branch, and he climbed after it.  In its fright, it kept perching precariously on thin branches, and sometimes had trouble finding footing.  During these moments, there was a brief window of time in which the animal would teeter, concentrating more on not falling than avoiding Leto’s reaching hands.

                She watched as his hand grasped a patch of grey fur, and yanked the complaining creature off of the branch.  It spat furiously, and she knew its little claws were sharp as it tried to claw up his hands and arms.  He grumbled something, but she couldn’t quite make out what exactly.

                He looked about himself, then shrugged and dumped the kitten down the front of his tunic, belted at the waist, it created a sort of pouch for it, leaving his arms free.  He began the treacherous climb back down, carefully, and occasionally flinching from what she imagined were tiny claws.

                He dropped to the ground, bits of twigs stuck in his dark hair.  Looking none too happy, he reached into his tunic and unceremoniously dumped the little ball of fur and claws into Lura’s anxious outstretched arms.  The treacherous creature started purring almost immediately, rubbing its head against her chin, grateful after its ordeal.

                Leto, on the other hand, glared at it morosely.  But Lura smiled as if nothing could ever go wrong in the world, holding her tight.  “Oh, Lady…” she breathed in relief.  “I’m so glad you’re all right.”

                Leto crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow.

                Lura remained blissfully unaware.  She spun about in a circle, her skirts lifting about her knees.  They settled when she stopped.  “Oh, you poor thing—you must have been so scared!” she went on, utterly oblivious.

                The boy’s lips pursed into a dissatisfied frown.

                “Was it scary stuck in that tree with a big monster grabbing you?” she cooed.

                At that, Leto exploded, “Monster!?”

                She looked up at him, as if just having taken notice of his existence.  “Oh, thank you for rescuing Lady,” she said quickly, and went back to cooing over her kitten.

                He threw his hands up in the air, giving up on the matter.  He stomped by her, grumbling something about “stupid girls and kittens.”  She smiled to herself, rubbing the kitten’s little head.  She turned to her friend, calling, “Leto.”  She smiled sweetly at him, eyes all for him.

                He turned his head, still looking just as displeased as before.  She giggled, stepped closer, and kissed him gently on the cheek.  She stepped back in time to avoid him shoving her away.  He wiped at his cheek as if it were mud.  He made a face.  “Why’d ya do that?” he complained.

                She stared at him admonishingly.  “ _That’s_ what a real lady does when a man does something nice for her.”

                His face twisted into a sour expression.  “Well, I’m never doing something nice for a _lady_ ever again!” he insisted, dashing away before she got any ideas.  She scowled after him, shaking her head in despair, as if she had some secret enlightenment that he did not.  Her auburn curls bounced as she marched to the door.  She let her kitten into the house and quickly shut it after her.  She chased after Leto, but didn’t see him.  She looked around herself despairingly.

                “Leto?” she called, feeling alone.  She looked up at the sky.  It was getting dark.  She took a nervous step back.  The shadows seemed so much deeper, darker.  They seemed like they could hold maleficar and abominations in their shadows, and other monsters.  Every rustle of the wind to her ears suddenly sounded like something malevolent coming to devour her.  She felt her heart race in her chest, pounding in her ears like a drum.  She looked about herself.  Maybe she should go back inside?  She looked back toward the door to the house.  It seemed so far, and there were so many shadows…

                She had heard the adults talking, whispering as if she couldn’t hear them.  They said things, things that scared her.  They spoke of war, and battle.  They spoke of things she didn’t understand, but things that frightened her nonetheless.  They said that something was coming on the horizon, something bad.  In the shadows, it felt like it could be all about her now.

                “Leto?” she tried again, now feeling desperate.  Something touched her shoulder, and she jumped with a yelp of fright, whirling to face it.  She was met with his grinning face, and he howled with laughter.  Her hands fisted at her sides.  “Oh, you’re so mean!”  She kicked him in the shin, and he barely seemed to notice.  She angrily stomped away, suddenly no longer worried about the shadows.  They were just shadows after all.

                His laughter trailed behind her, but stopped after a moment or two.  “Lura!” he cried, chasing after her.  They weren’t allowed in the garden alone, after all.  She stomped up to the door, still mad at him.  She turned and glared at him.  He frowned, not at all sure of what to do.  “It was…  I was just joking.”

                She stuck her tongue out at him, crossing her arms angrily.  She huffed, looking away.  “Hmph.”

                He started to roll his eyes, then stopped.  “Fine—I’m sorry I scared you.”

                She stared at him for a moment or two, trying to judge if he were really sincere.  His pretty green eyes were soft, not unkind, and so full of life and promise.  She didn’t know how she could _truly_ stay angry with him.  “Well…”  She tried to be angry anyway, but he was looking at her with such big puppy eyes that she couldn’t help but smile shyly.  “Oh, all right.  Let’s go inside—it’s getting cold.”

                “Is not,” he countered, but got the door anyway.  As she passed inside, she glanced back over her shoulder at the encroaching shadows.  The garden looked like an entirely different place in the dark.

 

 


	3. The Horns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the bells of disaster begin to chime...

                Sharall of course invited them for dinner, and Mieta could think of no good reason not to stay and enjoy the company of others for a touch longer.  The children kicked each other’s feet under the table until the adults put a stop to it.  They weren’t mad at each other; quite the opposite, in fact.  Children will be children, after all. 

As her son sat beside her, she couldn’t help but pick all the bits of twigs out of his hair, much to his chagrin.  He tried to dodge her hands, but she would patiently wait until he went back to eating or kicking Lura’s feet, and took the opportunity to pick another bit of tree out of his dark hair.  She swore her son would be happily content to never bathe sometimes; boys will be boys.  Though, she much preferred him spending time with Lura as opposed to some of the other neighbor boys his age.  When he did that, he would come home completely covered in mud most times, and even brought home a frog once or twice, a small garden snake once too.

                Mieta attempted to help clean up, but Sharall badgered her into sitting back down.  The two women talked, of mundane things mostly, while the children listened in the other room, in rapt attention, as Inrir told them a story—he was an excellent storyteller.

                Mieta glanced into the room over her shoulder in a lull in conversation.  Inrir was making gestures as he talked, whispering when the story called for quiet, and his voice boomed with the tale as necessary.  Lura held Lady in her lap, and she sat on the floor, eyes wide with wonder.  Leto lay on the floor, looking up at Inrir, but as if he weren’t really seeing them.  He was living out the story more in his mind; he didn’t need all of the gestures and effects.  As a girl, Mieta had been much the same; whatever she dreamed up in her mind was always better than anything the storyteller could try to paint with words.

                She wished she could dream up a different reality.  One without this approaching battle.  She wanted to watch her children grow up, and get married, and have children of their own.  She feared the next few days.

                A hand touched her arm gently, and she jumped, but it was only Sharall.  The elf smiled down at the other.  “It will be all right,” she said.  “We must not give in to despair.”

                Mieta could only shake her head.  How could she not give in to the despair that was all around them?  Even the children could sense it; she heard it in their uncertain laughter.  Despair clutched at her heart like a cancerous thing and only crept in deeper, spreading its deadly touch to all it came to.

                “I fear that despair is all we have left,” she whispered after a moment of silence.  Sharall didn’t know what to say.  Mieta rose to her feet.  “It’s late; I must get Leto to bed.”

                Sharall caught her sleeve before she left the room.  She looked cross.  “Don’t you _dare_ let Leto see you like this,” she hissed.  “You’re the adult—act like it.”

                Mieta blinked as if she had been struck.  Act like what?  What was she doing?  _Giving in to her despair_.  Her son would sense it.  She had to be the adult, she had to be a pillar of strength and support to her son.  Else, she was no mother at all.  She composed herself, nodded with thanks to her friend.  “Thank you, Sharall.  I needed to hear that.”

                Sharall’s hand dropped away at her side.  “Don’t we all.  Be safe.”

                “You too.”  Mieta hugged her farewell, and a part of her wondered if it would be the last time.  They were all going to die, or worse.  Her mouth felt dry at the prospect.  There was still a bit of tea left in her cup.  It was cold by now, but welcome when she drained the cup.  She swallowed her cold lump of fear and walked out into the parlor as if nothing at all was wrong.  “Darling, it’s time to go.”

                “The story isn’t finished yet,” he complained, but began to rouse from his spot on the floor.

                “You’ve heard the tale,” she told him, beckoning for him to rise.  Lura clasped his hand as he passed, and he squeezed her hand back.

                “Bye-bye,” she called over her shoulder.  The others said their farewells.

                As they walked back to their house, Mieta asked, “Did you have fun?”

                He glanced back at the house with the red door, spying the garden behind it through a small alley—just a glimpse in passing.  He looked back up at his mother.  “We played in the garden, and Inrir taught us a game.”

                “What game?” she said, her real thoughts elsewhere.

                Her son either didn’t notice her tone of voice, or chose not to acknowledge it.  He shrugged.  “Well—he made chores into a game.  We had to fill a bucket, with water from the pond.  We each had a bucket, and cup, and had to race back and forth to fill it with the cups.”

And probably got water all over themselves as a result.“What did you two do after the game, when you were soaked to the bone?  I bet you’d look cute in Lura’s dresses,” she went on.

                Leto fumed.  “I wore one of Inrir’s shirts—tunics--until my clothes were dry, and we played inside.”  His eyes wandered off to the corner of their small front garden.  There was a tiny grave marker, and that was what he was looking at.  He sensed the despair and impending death, just like the animals.

                A bird was in that grave, she remembered.  Leto’s cousin on their father’s side had come over to visit, and his father had given them both a sling shot.  The two had ran off happily to play, and had had a pretty good time shooting at birds in the yard, until one of them actually killed one.  The game had seemed fun, but when the two boys saw the tiny crushed body of the sparrow, they had both fallen deathly silent.

                _Ah, their first encounter with death_ , Mieta thought.  One moment, the bird was alive and well, the next dead and cold, and the two had witnessed it and caused it.  It was one thing to talk about something, something else to do it.

                She unlocked the door, and stopped and looked down at him when she saw him still staring at the grave.  “Leto?” she called to him.

                He looked up at her, slowly, as if being pulled from deep thoughts.  What deep thoughts could a toddler have?  “Mama… are we going to die?” he asked her.

                She felt her eyes threaten to water, a lump sticking in her throat.  She didn’t know what to say.  She couldn’t answer him.  She just couldn’t bear it.  She said nothing at all, and lifted him up, off the ground, holding him close to her.  She wished she could hold him close to her forever, and keep him safe forever.  She would do anything to keep her son from falling into harm, do anything to keep him safe.  And she feared that she could do nothing to prevent either from befalling him.

                What trials lay in his future?

                “Mama, don’t cry,” she heard him whisper as his little arms wrapped around her neck.  She hadn’t realized that she had begun to cry.  And he shouldn’t be comforting her.  A child should never comfort their parent.

                She sniffed, cleared her throat, and swiped at her eyes with one sleeve, holding her son in the other arm.  She opened the door, and carried him through.  She kicked it shut uncaringly, like she was always yelling at him not to do.

                “You slammed the door!” he admonished her.

                She laughed, all her fears and grief forgotten for just a moment, and she wished it would stay that way for an eternity.  She kept laughing, then, desperately trying to never let go of the moment.  She swung him around, dancing around the room, all the while laughing in the dark, and soon he was laughing too.

                She sang when she couldn’t laugh any longer, for her fear.  High, happy notes, and songs that were silly, all the while continuing to dance.  She had always loved to dance, and she danced about the room with her son, her graceful feet spinning in never-ending circles, figures, complicated steps and simple ones alike.  “You’re getting a bath tonight,” she informed him in a sing-song voice as she danced into another room.  She fervently hoped her gift of dance would be passed to at least one of her children.

                He made a face.  “It’s late—don’t I need to go to bed?”

                “Nonsense.  Bedtime is for babies,” she told him, setting him down on the floor.  “Help me with the water, will you?”  While he tried to escape this chore, she naturally wouldn’t allow it, and he grudgingly helped her haul water at the late hour.

                They put the water in the copper-plated tub and she had him help stoke a fire under it to heat it, and while waiting, she pulled her child up in her lap, listening to the night.  He yawned, and she rested her cheek against the top of his head.  It was as if… by staying awake the night would stretch longer and she could hold on to the precious things in her life for that much longer.  Carefully, she tended the bath and sent Leto to get the soap.  When he had taken longer than he should have, she went to look for him.  She knew he had gone in to the supply room, because he had left the door ajar, but the soap was still there.  She felt a ghost of a smile touch her lips, her eyes shining with adoration for her mischievous child, but she made her voice mock-angry.  “Le-to?” she called.  “Where’d you go?”

                She listened for some kind of response.  Three-year olds weren’t known for stealth.  She heard a very muffled shuffling noise, around the corner.  She wandered from the supply closet, and banged about a bit in the kitchen, then tip-toed round the corner.  She heard it again, and, triumphant, pulled the cabinet door open.

                “No!” he cried in alarm as she reached toward him.  She caught him as he tried to escape.  She picked him up with ease.  He continued to struggle, so she grinned maliciously and tossed him over one shoulder.  His legs kicked, and he continued to yell as if the water was poison, but not so loudly as to disturb the neighbors, or she would have given him a swat.

                She picked up a towel with her free hand, paying no heed to her son’s kicking legs.  She hummed to herself to help drown out the sound of his complaints as she went to fetch the soap.  She knelt and set him down on the floor.  She snatched onto his collar as he tried to bolt again.

                “I don’t need a bath!” he insisted.

                She kissed him on the cheek, and pretended not to hear his complaints as she unbelted his tunic.  He struggled, but not overmuch; he knew better, he just didn’t like it.  When she had stripped off his clothes, she held on to his wrist with one firm hand, and tested the water with the other.  It had cooled enough by now.  She had to let go of him to roll up her sleeves, but a glare kept him rooted to the spot.  She picked him up, and he kicked more and tried harder to escape, but she had both hands on him, and she shoved him into the tub before he could manage.  He crossed his arms, indignant.  She giggled, and splashed him with the water.  He made a face, then grinned, and splashed her back.

                She didn’t normally allow such nonsense in the house, but… tonight…  She splashed, and laughed, and her son had her dress absolutely soaked by the time they had both stopped.  She contemplated just peeling it off, but, no; it was all right.  Mieta picked up the cake of soap and attacked her son with it, making monster noises as she tickled him.  She dunked him under, and he came up gasping.  She smirked from the edge of the tub.

                He scowled at her.  “Mama!” he complained.

                She shoved him playfully.  “When you have children, you can dunk them too,” she told him.  He seemed thoughtful at that, then splashed her for revenge.  She hauled him out of the tub, and toweled him off.  She shooed him off to his room to dress in his nightclothes.  She mopped up the spilled water on the floor, sighing when she saw that his clean clothes had gotten wet as well.  Still wet herself, she hung them up outside to dry on the line—she doubted it would rain tonight, and she would take it in later, best not to leave it in a messy wet heap all night.  If it still mattered by then.

                She came back inside and peeled her dress off.  She stepped into the tub, and sunk up to her neck.  The water was no longer steaming, but the warmth felt good all the same.  Mieta closed her eyes, thinking about the child growing in her womb.  She hoped it was a girl this time—she didn’t know what she would do with two boys!

                She considered possible names for her as she enjoyed the silence of the night.  Perhaps after her late mother?  That would be nice—Varania.

                _Varania…_

                She heard little footsteps tromping over to her.  She sunk lower in the tub, and decided to ignore him until he said something.

                “Hey,” he whined.  “Get up.”

                She opened one eye.  “Why?”

                He pouted, and she had to try not to smile.  “I want you to tell me a story before I go to sleep,” he said, quite seriously.

                She smiled a little.  “Give Mama a minute, all right?”

                He huffed, and turned, running out of the room.  Why did toddlers have so much energy?  She groaned, and washed off quickly, then got out of the tub.  She toweled herself off, and wrapped herself in the towel to get to her room.  She put on an old shirt and a pair of pants and called Leto to help her empty the tub.  It didn’t require help, but she still pretended it did.  It emptied itself into a drain outside, which would empty into the larger gutter on the street.

                She wandered into her son’s room.  He had lit a lamp, but was standing on a small stool to look out the window at the night sky.  She pointed up at a constellation, the one he was looking at.  “That’s the warrior, my love,” she told him.

                “I know,” he said.  He looked up at her, reaching his arms up for her to pick him up.  She bent to lift him.  She carried him to his bed, and set him down gently.  She curled up with him, holding him close, stroking his hair, as she told him a story of knights and dragons, a witch in disguise.  She told him tale after tale, until she sensed that he had fallen asleep.  She kissed his brow gently, and eased away from him, making an effort not to disturb him.  She rearranged his blankets, and closed the window, blew out the light.  She looked back at him before she left the room.

                He slept so peacefully, dreaming.  She wondered, _What of?_   _What do you dream, my son?_

                She smiled to herself.  To be like his father, she imagined—strong, handsome, a warrior.  Not many elves were in other parts of the world, she had heard, but this city was primarily elven.  As a result, there wasn’t an alienage like in other places she had heard about, but it sounded awful—a slum where elves were segregated from humans and dwarves.  The Qunari wouldn’t have tolerated it anyway; all were equal in the Qun.

                That was one thing she liked very much about it—everyone was welcome, everyone played a role, and everyone was, essentially, the same.  Race made no difference, background made no difference.

                But then… she wondered if anything in life really made much difference.

                She went to her own bed, weary and tired, but too fretful to sleep.  It couldn’t hurt to lie down for a time though.

                But, though she tossed and turned, she did finally find sleep, though her dreams were troubled, and frightening, and when she woke in the night, she couldn’t recall what they were except for the fear it caused her.  It made her rise from her bed, and check on her son, still fast asleep.  It had been silly to be so frightened.  She listened to the quiet.

                She heard a click as the door unlocked, causing her to jump, but when she heard the light footsteps, and a small sigh, she knew it was Calias.  It must be earlier than she had suspected.

                She headed down the stairs to embrace him.  He looked bone-weary, but welcomed the sight of her.  She held him close.  In his arms, she felt safe, and only there.

                They kissed, and still he held her.  She leaned her head against his shoulder.  “What do you think of ‘Varania?’” she asked him.

                He kissed the top of her head.  “For our next child?  What if it’s a boy?” he teased, as he let go of her and walked farther into the house.  She trailed after him.

                “Then we can call him ‘Vinathe,’” she said.

                He frowned.  “I have a cousin by that name—I think he’s dead.”

                She rolled her eyes.  “Died last spring, you lout.”

                He nodded thoughtfully, walking up the stairs.  “Either one then.”

                Mieta felt like sighing herself.  He had no real opinion on the names of their children.  He had allowed her to choose Leto’s name too—and she had named him after his warrior great-grandfather, of course, a namesake he delighted in hearing about oftentimes.

                Calias yanked his clothing off, leaving it in a messy heap on the floor, and fell into bed without further comment.  She decided to lay with him for a while.  It would be nice, for once.  She slid into bed beside him, her arms wrapping around her husband.  She heard him sigh gently.

                “I love you,” he whispered, and she knew he was falling asleep already.

                She kissed his shoulder lovingly.  “And I you.”  She slept for only a while longer, then woke to make breakfast.  Leto woke as she started cooking, and she put him to work immediately.

                _Today is the day_ , she thought as the two breakfasted on pastries and tea.  Calias rarely came down for breakfast; he normally slept through it, but she saved him a few of the pastries.  She sent Leto out to play after making sure everything he was wearing was matching, and went to her small work room.  She was a tailor by trade, though her specialty was in hats and embroidery.  She had a couple orders to work on, and doing something busy would keep her mind off of the town’s impending doom.

                She watched outside from the window as Leto went chasing by.  She had told him not to stray far, but had long ago resolved that children didn’t always listen.

                The morning wore on into noon, and Leto came back hungry and eager for lunch.  Mieta was already cooking, and had him wait, and she made him recite a lesson while she set it out.

                By then, Calias came down and joined them for lunch.  Her son adored his father, almost idolizing him.  And why not?  He was a good man.  Mieta marveled at how alike the two looked.  To a point, all elves looked a bit alike, but one couldn’t too easily be mistaken for another—unlike Qunari—they all looked the same to her.  If Leto had had his father’s auburn locks and his eyes were slightly different shade, they would look just alike.

                Rather, Leto had inherited his hair from Mieta’s side, which all had dark hair, though rarely, if ever, the true black in his hair that was so seldom found on a person.  Almost everyone on Calias’s side of the family was a brunette—himself being an unusual exception.  In the summer, his hair looked more red than auburn.

                They were just cleaning up from lunch when a deep, resounding, desperate blast from the horns blew.  One blast for enemy sighted.  The sound made her pause, made her heart be still for a moment in fear. 

But one sound of the horns meant that they were hours off still; plenty of time to mount the defense—A second blast peeled through the air.  Mieta dropped the plate she was holding, her face going pale.  The plate broke at her feet, and she scarcely noticed it.  Leto peered up at his parents, searching their pale, silent faces for an answer that wasn’t coming.  _A second for attack._

                To her, the horns were sounding their destruction, their doom, their defeat, their death.

                Calias, though, was moving before the echoes died, running upstairs.  Mieta grasped her son’s hand, not knowing what else to do.

                “Mama, what’s happening?” he asked her.

                She licked her suddenly dry lips.  She wanted to lie to him.  She wanted to tell him that it was nothing, that everything would be all right and nothing in their lives would ever change.  But that wasn’t the truth.

                She turned to him, kneeling in front of him so they were both of the same height.  “Whatever happens, I love you very much, all right?” she told him.  That did nothing to reassure him of what was going on, and she could see it in his irresolute eyes.  “Schavalis is under attack.”

                “What…”  His sentence broke off as Calias came rushing down the stairs, and Leto broke from his mother’s grip, running to his father, who paused at the sight of his son.  “Where are you going?”

                Calias looked pained at the question, but not at the asking of it.  He bent to one knee before his son, his leather armor creaking.  “I go to defend the city,” he told him, resting his gloved hand on top of his child’s head.

                “But I want to go with you!”

                Calias shook his head.  “No.  You stay here, and look after your mother,” he told him.  Leto looked at him, his eyes wide and frightened.  Her husband forced a smile on to his face.  “You remember the story I told you about your great-grandfather?”

                Leto nodded suddenly.  “The one you named me after,” he said.

                The warrior nodded solemnly.  “That’s right.  Did I ever tell you that he wielded a great two-handed sword?”

                The child’s eyes were filled with wonder more than fear now.  “How did he do that?”

                He smiled crookedly.  “A lot of strength, and practice.  But before he did that, he had to learn how to wait, and _when_ to attack, when to defend, and when to wait.  It’s not always about attacking—sometimes knowing the right _time_ to attack is more important than anything else.”  He touched his son’s nose.  “Now is the time to look after your mother.”

                Leto paused, considering the weight of his father’s words, then gave a single nod of consent.  “I understand, Father.”

                He muffed his hair affectionately.  “I know.”  He hugged him close suddenly, and looked to Mieta.  She rushed to her family, and embraced them both.

                When he set his son down, he turned to his wife, and kissed her tenderly.  He whispered “I love you” in her ear, and she did likewise.  One last kiss, and he had to run from the house.  She locked the door behind him, wondering if it would be the last time she ever saw Calias.


	4. Nobility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the city is sacked.

                Newlyn wasn’t part of the main assaulting force.  He was to be held back, just in case.  It was all well enough by his standards.  He had no taste for this insanity.

                He had listened in shocked silence when he had heard explained what they were doing.  To his ears, it was all but madness.  Why?  Why attack this place?  They had nothing worth taking.  They were not rich, not an enemy outpost.  They were a farming and fishing community, nothing more.  If their armies were ill-supplied he might even consider this attack, if not in the right (was anything they did in the right?), at least justified in a sense.

                But that wasn’t the case.  They were attacking simply to attack, to seize.  He understood that it helped to cut off the Qunari supplies, but this was hardly a main supplier.  But, his superiors reasoned, they could make up for this by capturing as many as possible from the battle and selling the remaining as slaves.  There was a lot of coin in that, he knew.  And they _were_ funding a war.

                But…

                He wondered if it couldn’t simply be out of spite, considering that the current elves living there were descendents of slaves—property that couldn’t be reclaimed in the past for one reason or another.  Many of his fellows saw it as simply that; going to reclaim lost property.

                Being of the Soporati class, he had grown up with slaves in his household.  Maker, there were slaves in the _army_ used to fight the Qunari, be it as fodder for arrows, fletching arrows, or even wielding a sword in battle, they served.  He had never thought much of it—and why would he?  He hadn’t been raised to think for himself, hadn’t been raised to look at an elf and see a person.  Rather, he had seen nothing at all, not really.  He hadn’t _seen_ because he hadn’t _wished_ to see it.  He had been trained in the art of the sword, horsemanship, and groomed for knighthood.  He had been anointed, even, but it hadn’t meant anything, not really.  A knighthood didn’t make a man, and certainly didn’t make him noble.

                But then he had met Kiersten.  She had a way of looking at the world that he had never seen.  She told him that it wasn’t about the shell their body inhabited; it was about their soul.  She said that everything had a soul, and that the soul is what we should see, not the shell.  It was such a beautiful thought, and she was so lovely, and her spirit and her heart burned with such a passionate intensity that he could do nothing save fall hopelessly in love with her.

                He so missed her.  When he returned to Tevinter, they were supposed to be wed.  He could scarcely wait for the day.

                Newlyn watched the smoke rise from the city.  It was burning, the light reflecting almost beautifully in the steadfast fog of Seheron.  He could smell the acrid stench of the smoke all the way from here.  Horses pawed restlessly at the ground, anxious by the sight of the fire.  Leather creaked as men shifted in their saddles.  He reprimanded that thought—there were a few women too.

                He couldn’t hear it from here, but he could imagine the screaming, glass breaking, the sound of men and beasts dying.  And he couldn’t smell it either, but he could imagine the stench of burning flesh, viscera, blood, and shit that came with the smell of battle.  He didn’t have to imagine the sights, though.  He had seen enough towns of similar size after a battle—it was terrible.

                Kiersten had not approved of him being a soldier, not really.  But he had told her that if they did not press the attack, the Qunari would press their own, and the cities they claimed in Seheron had to be defended.  She had consented, and told him to keep them from their homeland, but only on those grounds.  He could not control what he was ordered to do though.

                The battle had gone on for hours.  It had to be mostly finished by now; the town hadn’t offered that much resistance, not to a mage’s power.

                A small contingent, battered, came limping back to the force scattered, seeking medical aid.  The two mages who had been held back were slaves themselves actually, and saw to the wounded.  Newlyn was close enough to hear some of the wounded complaining.

                “… then the apostate resorted to blood magic, and killed half my men,” the man grumbled to the superior officer he was reporting to.

                “You apprehended her then?” he asked placidly.

                He snorted.  “She was a maleficar.  We killed her.”  _So are most of the magisters,_ Newlyn thought icily.  That was the rumor, at least.

                “Close enough,” he snorted with a nod, then gave the order for the remaining forces to move out.

                Newlyn fell into line glumly, and mildly resented his horse for being eager.  Why should anyone be eager for this?  It wasn’t battle any longer; it was slaughter and plunder.  They weren’t brigands.  They were supposed to be an army.

                He had begun to dream of serving noble lords, with noble ideals, as a child.  Doing something that was right, even before he really knew what “right” was.  Defending the helpless, he assumed.  This was none of that.

                He felt his soul become more blackened and corrupt by the day.  He felt that he himself was corrupt and beyond redemption for the deeds he had committed in the name of his homeland.

                Funny, he had once never thought about the war.  It had been so distant to him, after all, and as a child, a thing that did not touch him.  His father had been wealthy, wealthy enough to keep him from getting drafted, and his other sons, despite Newlyn’s knighthood.  Well, that had all ended when he had been killed outright, his property and finances seized.  Treason, they said, but never really gave a reason.  Sometimes, Newlyn wondered.

                He had to join the army to survive.  He would get enough money to marry his beloved Kiersten.  That was all that mattered—providing for her.  Or, so he tried to tell himself.  It would be so much easier if he was as selfish and unfeeling as his fellows seemed to be.

                There was a brief skirmish in an alley, and they joined the fray in another, but his primary duty lay in helping end the skirmishes left to the city.  Those were put down in short enough order.  A few captives were taken, to later be executed, he suspected.

                He rode on, killing any too wounded to walk.  It was a butcher’s work, and he wanted to be as dispassionate as he was supposed to be.  As it was, he couldn’t look at them, and tried not to hear their pleas for mercy.

                One man was dying in a pool of blood, coughing and drowning in his life’s blood in a tragic irony.  He had ended it quickly, and moved on.

                At another place, he found a man—he didn’t know if it were elf or human with the helmet and armor, and frankly, it didn’t matter—arm hacked at the elbow, bleeding out, but whispering names.  He imagined that they were the names of parents, a sweetheart maybe, perhaps children.  He killed that man too.

                Maimed people, dismembered limbs, entrails strewn across the road.  Some the townsfolk, some Tevinter soldiers—but they were all naught but bloodied corpses now.  He saw charred bodies, the ones the mages had gotten to, and others that looked like they had been encased in ice, their limbs just falling off of them like the fastest of frostbite.  He saw one woman, barely a woman at that, with her face caved in, an eye hanging arbitrarily from its socket, the bone around her eye crushed.  At first, he only looked at the body with a critical eye, and then saw the other eye track his movement.  He felt something like fear, disgust, and horror clutch at his guts, making his stomach tighten.  It was a mercy to kill this girl.  He could only imagine her pain, her horror, at what must have happened to her in her desperate rush to flee to somewhere safer.  Perhaps the afterlife was safer.  He thought he would have nightmares of these horrors he had seen over the past two years to last him a lifetime… but he hoped not.  How he slept at night, he didn’t know.

                Surely, the horrors of what he had seen would be enough to keep him awake.  And if not those horrors, then surely the ones that he had had to commit under orders.  But…  No; he slept.  He had tried not to see, and thought of his beloved Kiersten whenever he could.  Sometimes, it was her memory alone that got him through the day.

                Moving on through the city, he came across a woman, delirious with the butchery, and covered in blood.  She staggered, but he wasn’t sure if it was the delirium or if it was her own wounds; he couldn’t see.

                She saw him, and froze, her lips moving, but no words forming.

                “She’s mad—kill her,” his captain barked.

                Newlyn approached her, drawing his sword to slay another innocent.  The dying were one thing to him, but he counted the innocent he had had to kill in the name of duty, and tried to give them the dignity of remembering them.

                Her hair was long, and tangled, and might have once been brown if not for the blood.  Her eyes were haunted, and her lips continued to move.  As he came near, she backed up a step, tripping and falling gracelessly to the ground.  Her hand touched a man’s spilled entrails, and she shrieked away from it, shivering with fear.  “No…” she pleaded.

                His heart panged with guilt.  He didn’t want to do this.  Maker, he didn’t want to do this.  “I’m sorry,” he told her.  “Maker rest your soul.”

                “No!” she cried, weeping now, her hot tears tracking through the blood on her face.  “Please!  Mercy!”

                He hesitated, but knew that she was mad.  He would be punished if he didn’t follow through his own orders.  And was death worse than slavery?  He didn’t know.  He just didn’t know.  He looked into her terrified blue eyes as he stabbed his sword into her chest.  He felt he owed her that much.  She stared at the blade in open shock, and died as he ripped the blade free.  Her body crumbled to the ground, her face falling heavily into the innards of the dead man beside her.

                _One more sin to add to the many_ , he thought, and turned away from it, though the woman deserved more.

                They all deserved more.

                His secondary task, after the minor mess was cleaned up, was to root out the living.  He was assigned a certain district, and went with a contingent of other men.  All valuables would be heaped into a cart, all potential slaves marched to a warehouse by the docks.  As sad as it seemed, it was routine.

                Most of it was pretty methodical, and many houses were empty already, so he just had to find any jewelry or expensive silks and heave it into the cart in a manner of speaking.  He couldn’t bear it when he found a person though.

                He wanted to tell them to stay quiet, to hide.  But he knew better.  They found them eventually—always.  The army would stay for a few days, patrolling and listening, the mages and the dogs alike hunting out any who might be hiding.  Those ones were beaten, then brought with the others.

                Newlyn had learned that the hard way, and in the end, the service he had thought he had given to one young girl had been no service at all.

                And so it was.  He broke the lock on a house with a blue door, a garden in the front.  Some of the herbs in it might be useful—he should check them on his way out.  There was a tiny grave in the corner of the garden.  Maybe it had been a child’s pet.

                He wasn’t destructive on his trek through the house.  Some were; they smashed anything they couldn’t take, either out of anger, spite, or just because they liked breaking what others had once called home.  He respected it though.  This was a person’s home once.  It held memories, a life—once.  But no longer, maybe never again.

                The ashes in the fireplace were cold, though he could smell the smoke from the other part of town still, though the fires were mostly put out.  Mages were useful—he would give them that.

                There was food here, and he would take anything the army had said they needed to resupply.  He left the larder open.  The animals would get to it eventually, and he supposed that was better than nothing, though he would take whatever wouldn’t spoil quickly.  He opened cupboards, idly searching.

                The house seemed empty enough, he supposed.  He sighed deeply, closing his eyes for a moment.

                _Oh, Kiersten.  You would hate me if you knew what I did…_

                His heart felt heavy with sorrow as he treaded through the house.  He opened another door.  It was a child’s room, and that made him swallow in grief.  Another child’s life, so full of promise and hope—destroyed.  He wondered if the child could be dead.  He thought of the other dead children he had passed, their tiny corpses cold and stiffening, some held to their parent’s breasts, both dead in each other’s arms.

                Knowing he would find nothing, but didn’t mind stalling, he fished through the drawers, and wondered what the child was like.  A boy, obviously.  He imagined that if he were to hunt more, he would find secret troves of things like bird’s nests and dried frogs—things he had collected as a child.

                Kiersten wanted to have children one day.  She told him that she’d like two boys and a girl.  He thought she even had names picked out.  Sometimes she spoke of it in her letters to him, how she wanted so badly to be married and begin bearing his children as soon as possible.

                Was it selfish?

                He shut the drawer, and put both his hands on the dresser, inhaling deeply once, then twice.  He felt like he would be sick.

                It had to be selfish to do this to other people—shatter their lives, their hopes, their dreams—and continue to hold and cherish his own.  Was he no better than his fellow soldiers?

                He shook his head, as if to clear it of his troubling thoughts, and stepped away from the chest of drawers.  He moved in to the other room, the parents’ room, no doubt.  There were clothes on the floor, thrown about carelessly, which hardly surprised him.  He found a bit of jewelry, and dutifully stole it, as instructed.  Though he still felt like a thief.  They called it the plunders of war, but it was still petty thievery, and no less in his eyes.

                There was a silk dress here too—maybe a wedding dress once--and he took that as well.  He took his bundle into the main room, and glanced at the door he hadn’t explored.  He set the bundle down, and opened it.  It led downstairs, into what he imagined to be the cellar.  Maybe there was some wine down there—he could use a drink right now.

                He found a lantern, and lit it.  He carried it high as he trod down the stairs, all the while weary.  People acted strangely in desperate situations—even the most ladylike of women would attack when they were scared enough.

                He heard a small muffled noise, and paused.  He listened again.  Rats?  That was entirely possible.  The board he stepped on creaked, and he heard it again, faintly.  He continued down, holding the light above his head to cast as wide a spectrum as possible.

                He shone it in the corners, around the casks and trunks.  He sorted through the trunks, finding nothing of particular import.  Supplies in some cases.  One of the people living here had been a tailor.  Still, cloth was valuable enough in war, for uniforms and bandages if nothing else.  He shoved the trunk to the bottom of the flight of stairs, and checked the others.  The one with the cloth was the only one worth taking.

                He almost left, then something seemed to nag at him.  He turned back, and went around a dark corner.  His eyes softened when he saw the woman, clutching her son tightly, under the stairwell.

                The boy turned and looked at him, staring at him innocently.  They were both elves, which at one point in his life meant something—meant they were a subspecies to humans at that point, and worth nothing of value, except as slaves.  He didn’t believe that any more.  They were souls, just like Kiersten said.  Souls that he was sentencing to slavery.

                _He has no idea what’s going on, not really_ , Newlyn reflected.  He could really use a drink right about now.  _He has no idea what’s going to happen to him and his mother._

Newlyn kept his voice soft.  “Ma’am, please, get up and follow me out.”  She didn’t move, just stared at him as if she didn’t understand his tongue.  It was certainly _possible_ but definitely not probable.  More than likely, she was just too frightened to do anything.  “Please,” he found himself pleading with her.  _Be reasonable!_   “The dogs will find you, or the mages.  Please, ma’am.  I’ll try to keep you and your son together, but I can’t guarantee someone else will do the same.”  He found himself wanting to choke on his own words.  He must seem like such a… monster.  A murderer, a slaver, a rapist, a thief—all those things and worse.  “Please, they’ll beat you.”  It occurred to him, suddenly, that perhaps she did not speak Tevene.  While his grasp of the Trade tongue was loose, he said in the other language, “Please, ma’am, follow me.  I don’t want you to get hurt.”

                Her lower lip quivered.  Her eyes were unbelieving, either of what he said, or of what was happening, but the end result was the same, so the means made no difference.  Newlyn reached a hand out for her, to help her up.  She didn’t even seem to see it.

                It was the boy who pried himself away from her grasp, and from the looks of it, it wasn’t an easy task.  She made a small squeaking sound, reaching out to him, but seemed otherwise frozen in place.  The boy stared up at him, and Newlyn had the odd feeling that the child was judging him, weighing his soul.

                It made him strangely uncomfortable, as if the child really could see all of his faults that he felt so clearly.  Like all of his sins were laid bare to the world.  All he wanted to do was cover them, hide them, bury them so they could never be found.  Life didn’t work that way.

                “Mama, we have to go,” the boy said, looking back at her.  Slowly, his green-eyed gaze went back to Newlyn’s face.

                She trembled, but her son’s voice seemed to give her the courage to stand.  It seemed for a moment that she would stumble, but she was surprisingly steady.  He ushered the two out, and carried the chest up the stairs after them.

                He started to push them to the door, then stopped.  His sense of morals was screaming at him to leave them be, but he had tried that once.  It had ended in bloodshed and pain.

                He stopped and looked back at them.  “Get something to eat—bring whatever you can carry, and change clothes—travel clothes, if you have them.”  He closed his eyes, as if in pain.  “Please hurry.”

                The woman paused, and he felt her gently touch his shoulder, reassuringly.  Why was she comforting _him_?  He was a monster, he was the one ruining their lives…  “You’re a good man,” she whispered, and took her son down the hall.  He followed them partway, but gave them the privacy to change their clothing.  The elven woman helped her son into his clothes, and Newlyn paced restlessly as he waited.  She took her son into her room while she changed her clothes, and he trailed after them into the pantry.  She filled a pack with breads and cheeses, and another smaller one that she gave to her son.

                She looked up at Newlyn, her eyes filled with dread and despair.  He wished it were not him, but others might have raped her in front of her son and cast them both out to be rounded up and brought to the warehouses that they were keeping the captives.  In fact… it happened.

                He put his bundle—the silk dress and the jewelry, into the chest, and carried it out the door, the two elves in tow.  It was only in the light of the dying sun that he realized the woman was pregnant.  A new pang of guilt washed over him.  Another life he had doomed, and right from the beginning.

                The man in charge yelled at him about the packs of food he had allowed them to bring, but Newlyn didn’t back down.  He defended his decision to let them have it, and in the end, it wasn’t worth debating.  He volunteered to be one of the four men taking the people found in this district to the warehouse.

                Two of the others were downright cruel, the other simply unkind but didn’t care enough to be cruel.  Newlyn tried to keep the pregnant woman away from them by bidding her to walk closer to himself.  He didn’t know what else he could do for her.

                But Kiersten would want him to do something.

                He took it upon himself to shepherd them into the warehouse, and looked after them sorrowfully as he locked the door, putting the heavy bar across it.  He sighed, shaking his head, and trudged to a different area of the town for more pillaging and herding.

                They spent a few days there, collecting the rest of the people—mostly elves—and questioning them.

                The questioning process was… gruesome, to say the very least.

                First, a random captive was selected.  It had been the humans and dwarves first, who were normally in positions of higher power, and so it was so here as well.  The one captured Qunari, naturally, had been tortured separately and put to death when he wouldn’t talk.  The captain had little patience for their kind.

                The humans, though, he questioned, relentlessly—over and over again and especially any of those in positions of power.  Some disdain was held for humans who lived together with elves, particularly when there wasn’t so much as an alienage.  Elves, it was taught, were an inferior race.  But the questions, overall, were simple enough, and frequently produced nothing of value.  Were they hiding anything?  Were they hiding anyone?  Was there any gold or jewels?  Resources?  What did they know?

                Two a day, perhaps three if one didn’t last very long, but all the captives were brought out to watch, which cowed many of them and rooted out the more aggressive of them.  It was… war, after all.  Information was valuable, and they did have to feed the army, so anything of value was looted.  From a logical standpoint, it almost made sense, and that was when Newlyn knew he had spent too much time with the army.

                Newlyn spotted that pregnant elf and her son amongst the crowd on the last day, the day they were executing captives.


	5. Blood and Flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which nothing good happens.

                Mieta had done her best to make sure that her son had not seen the questioning of the past few days.  It was hard, though, to keep such a young child still and in one place for hours while it went on, and he looked every time the one being questioned screamed, or tried to; he was much too small to see.  He asked her what was happening, but she simply refused to answer, and that alone made him grow silent, left to his own imagination.  She wondered if that were worse.

                In the crowd, she had seen little Lura and Sharall, but they must have been kept in a different warehouse, because she never saw them there.  She couldn’t bring herself to approach them in the brief expanse of time that they were outside.  What, after all, was there to say?

                It was becoming so routine that she could have asked the questions, and she knew all the answers.  No, they knew nothing, and that was the most important thing.

                Though, rarely, they did find a few things of value—a silver cup, and a couple of old gold and silver coins, a ruby ring, maybe a few other trinkets—locations of people who might still be hiding, and the direction of those who had fled.  But what the Tevinters really wanted—information—no one had that.  One of the city officials did admit, under torture, that they had been slowly converting their people to the Qun.  Nothing else though, nothing worth staying and torturing people for—certainly nothing worth murder.  Nothing the Imperials could not have just guessed by themselves.  But what did she know?  She didn’t know if she… really knew much of anything anymore.

                And giving up these items never won the captives anything either; they died in the end.  Everyone picked for questioning died.  She prayed it was not herself, as she was sure that everyone else did as well, including those that died.

                She had heard tales of such brutality, but it astonished her to find that these things could be true.  She couldn’t believe that such a thing was just… allowed to happen.  How could a divine Maker allow this to exist?  How could the Qun condone it?  How could their simple _souls_ bear what they were doing?  Did they not see?  Did they choose not to?  How does a man look at another living being and hurt them so, and kill them?  _How_?

                Early yesterday morning, a young girl, scarcely thirteen, had been selected.  The mother had cried out in anguish, and pleaded to go in her stead.  Rather, they took both of them, tortured the girl to make the mother talk.  There was nothing to say, though—and that was that.  They were both dead now, their bodies dumped in a ditch somewhere on the other side of town, where the soldiers wouldn’t have to smell the rot quite so much.

                She supposed that the Tevinters, in truth, didn’t really care that much if they gained or lost anything.  She supposed, with venom, it must be nice to be in one place for a while, to rest their Imperial feet and their Imperial horses on the townspeople’s land and houses.

                She wondered, at times, if these humans were any better than darkspawn.  They drank, and cursed, and killed—and seemed to take such pleasures in their corruption.  It was… madness.  Mieta felt as if the entire world had simply gone mad.  Something like this… it just couldn’t be, could it?

                But she knew better.  She wished she could simply believe that she was having a nightmare, or anything else, but this was real.  _Real!_ And her mind could only just grasp the idea that such ghastly things as she had witnessed could be true.

                Mieta held Leto close.  It wasn’t so difficult this morning; he was becoming more bored with the entire thing more than anything else.  Tired, even.  He often just sat on the ground, leaning against one of her legs, and picked idly at the dirt.  She didn’t know what to do.

                She knew, or at least had an inkling, of what awaited she and her son.  If there was anything at all to be done, anything…  She had to stop this from happening.  She had to escape somehow.  She couldn’t let them both be cast into a life of slavery.  She looked down at her son in abject misery.  He would never know anything else.  If she didn’t do something… there would be nothing else.

                But what could she do?

                Today, the prisoners in another warehouse were taken.  These were the captives from the battle, the ones wounded but not so much that they could not walk of their own volition.  They were chained together, and she could hear the heavy chains clinking as they were marched outside in the morning sun, though seeing them through the fog before they got to the high platform was difficult—she supposed that was why the Imperials had constructed the platform though.

                The sun was bright that day, cheerful, its warm light playing on the mists that rolled in from the sea, meeting the fog that crept in from the forests.  The wind blew in a pleasant ocean breeze that helped with the faint smell of rot.  The Tevinters had simply piled the dead somewhere.  Some heads, they put on pikes after dipping them in tar, but most were just left to rot, a feast for the birds and other vermin.  Those particular tarred heads were the officials of the town, the ones in charge, of course.

                Those dead had been happy once.  Farmers, laborers, healers, soldiers, wives, children, husbands, parents—all.  They had been leading their own lives, with their futures a bright spark ahead of them.  Now they were rotting corpses.  She hoped their souls found peace at least.

                She looked up at the men being led across the wooden platform to be beheaded.  Some she recognized, and sorrow touched her heart to see it so as they were put to the block.  Not all of them were truly warriors.  There was the city guard, of course, but many were in truth farmers or laborers, and were part of the city militia.  They had no full-time soldiers as such.  Still, others were not even in the militia.  …The Tevinters emphatically did not want slaves that could read.  They had asked Mieta if she could read too.  She had been so terrified that she couldn’t even answer, and they had just passed her by.  Now, she knew to pretend that she couldn’t.  It was hard to pretend to be illiterate, but possible.

                The axe made a dull thumping sound that made Leto jump.  After a while, he raised on tip-toe, trying to see as more people were stirring, gasping, others weeping for their men.  The boy was frustrated.

                “What’s going on?” he asked her.

                Mieta shook her head.  “They’re executing people, baby,” she told him, putting a comforting hand on the back of his head.

                He moved away from her, his eyes narrowing.  “Father?” he wondered, half a whisper.

                Before she could stop him, he was running through the crowd.  No one stopped him, and he was small enough to dart around and go where she could not follow, though she tried, calling out to him desperately.  She pushed her way forward.  Another thunk of the axe made her cringe inwardly, and a second, quick thunk reminded her that the blade wasn’t as sharp as it had been earlier.  Often, it took more than one strike to behead a person… and they felt it.  She finally caught sight of his ebony hair through the crowd and the fog.  She reached toward him, but someone stepped between them.  She wove around, nearly panicked.  What if the Tevinters…?

                She could not bear to finish the thought; she had to find him.

                It felt like an eternity before her hand clenched tightly around his arm, angry more than anything else.  She knelt beside him, down to his level.  “Leto,” she hissed, but his eyes were on the line of chained men, now that they were finally close enough to see.  There, four people back, was Calias, and her words died on her tongue.  _No…_   She had thought he would have died at the wall.  She had… hoped he had escaped, but death in combat would have been better.  There was glory and honour in that.  Now, now he was a martyr.

                His green-eyed gaze found them, and the three looked back at each other, silent.  She couldn’t even hear the crowd all around her.  She was scarcely aware of anything but his eyes, his face caked with dried blood and dirt, his soiled hair, tattered clothing.  He looked bruised, cut, with a split lip, and she did notice that he leaned more to one side as he stood, and limped when he moved forward in the line.  Had they hurt him?  Had they tortured him too?  She was frightened to think of it.

                Leto took a step forward, and her grip on his arm tightened.  “But…  Papa is…” he looked at his mother, and she saw the first flicker of understanding in his eyes, but a refusal to believe.  His eyes flicked to the chopping block, widening at the sight of the bloodied axe, and back at his father.  His mouth opened, then closed.

                Mieta wanted to cry for him, for that innocence that was suddenly lost and shattered, and there was no way to bring it back.  No way to hold on to it, to pick up the pieces and make it whole again.  The boy went limp in her grasp, but she knew him too well to let go of him.  Rather, she pulled him into her arms so she could hold him with both hands—for both their sakes’.  He stumbled, his gaze locked on his father, who could only look at the two of them.

                Mieta felt her eyes sting with tears.  She felt her throat tighten, and the first of her tears spilled as he was unchained from his fellows and marched to the block.  A Tevinter soldier pushed him down on the block, his neck bare before the blade.  The block was covered in blood, fresh blood, and pieces of flesh, maybe a bit of bone too.

                She didn’t want to watch her husband die.  She didn’t want to watch the axe fall, the head drop with a dull thud to the platform.

                But she couldn’t not watch either.  She couldn’t look away, and her mind was so numb that she didn’t even think to cover her son’s eyes and spare him the sight.  It was foolish.  Any proper mother would have done even that small a thing, but she felt so dizzy, so sick, that she never gave it any thought.  But surely a child would look away?  Surely a child would close their eyes?

                Not Leto.  His eyes were wide and unbelieving, a perfect picture of shattered innocence, as the headsman raised his axe.  Calias took a sharp intake of breath.

                She remembered his smile, the feel of his lips against her own.  She remembered his strong arms around her, his callused hands against her skin.  She remembered their wedding day, and how frightened she had been.  She remembered their first coupling, so full of hesitation and shyness.  How she had started to cry, and he had held her hands and told her that he was willing to wait if she was too frightened.  She had never thought a man to be so courteous, but he was.

                He was kind and understanding, logical and even-tempered, and always did exactly as he said he would and lived exactly as he preached.  He was a dutiful, faithful husband who had never so much as given her cause to doubt him.  He was a loving father that adored his son, and had been so happy when she had presented him with the news that she was pregnant again.  He had been so gleeful that he had picked her up and swung her around, kissing her until she was breathless, and whispering to her that he wanted three more, and that they had best get started as soon as possible.  _Elves bred only slowly_ , she had been told, aware of the child in her arms and the one in her womb.  She had been both lucky and uncanny to have two so close in age.  _Lucky_.

                The tears felt hot against her cheeks.

                The axe fell, and it seemed so slow.

                Blood blossomed on his neck like a flower as the blade bit into his skin.                 

Lilies.  She had always liked lilies.  He brought her lilies every time he was sent out scouting or on any other errand that took him away for a long time, when it was the season.

It only took an instant, but it felt to her as if she could see every possible movement.  The blade hit bone first, and it wasn’t sharp enough to push through it.  To her horror, Calias was still alive, in obvious pain and shock, too much so to make a sound, but she saw his eyes roll.  The axe was hefted free.  Blood ran over his neck, and the block.  The axe was raised again, and it fell, this time hacking through the bone.  The blade sank into the wood under his neck, slicing through skin, muscle, sinew, bone, tendons, arteries, a fresh wave of blood glistening on the block, just another red coat on the already bloodied axe.

                Leto practically worshipped his father, doggedly trailing after him whenever he was home, and his attentions were only too welcome by the man in question.  She had always said that he spoiled him, and he did.  If their child wanted something, he was only too quick to get it, though he may make him wait for it for a while.  He had promised to take him hunting when he was older.  He would chase him around the house tickling him until Leto yielded in a fit of laughter.  So many memories, and yet… not enough.  Not nearly enough.

                The head dropped into the waiting basket below with the same dull thud as before.  Leto didn’t jump this time, but he had gone utterly still.

                Mieta seemed to suddenly regain herself as the body was tossed carelessly into a cart of other headless bodies.  She averted her eyes as the head too was taken, and snatched her son, pulling him into the relative safety of her arms, pushing his face against her shoulder in an effort to spare him anymore.

                There were other prisoners being led to the block, and she watched all of them, and all of them seemed to be Calias to her eyes.

                It was as if he died dozens of times, and each time hurt as much as the last.  Twenty-six, to be exact, and they were all dead.  A horse pulled the cart away, and she watched the animal bear its dark burden, taking away the body of the man she had loved so dearly.

                Calias, her dear husband, would have no grave and no pyre.  No marker to call his own.  A plea had already been given for them to tend to their dead, and it had been denied.  There was no reason that it would be granted now.

                Leto had fallen deathly silent since the ordeal.  He said nothing as they were led back to the warehouse, nothing as the door banged close behind them, and nothing as they were fed a small bowl of rice.  He stared at it without really seeing it, and only ate when she insisted that he had to.

                She looked at her son, and wondered to herself if he would ever truly smile again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, wasn't that depressing?


	6. The Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter, detailing Lura's perspective of what is going on.

                Lura looked around herself, one hand clutching her mother’s skirts as they were marched down the road, driven very much like cattle.  The fog, most days, was so thick she could barely see, but she knew she must keep going.

                There were men with axes, and swords on either side, and many of them were mean.  Some stared at Mama in a way she was sure she didn’t like, but didn’t really understand.

                They had been walking for what Mama assured her was two days, and her legs were already sore.  She wanted to stop.  She wanted to go home, and didn’t understand why they couldn’t.

                Why must they walk?  Why?  What had happened?  Why couldn’t they go back home?  But when she asked, Mama just told her to hush, so she eventually stopped asking.

                Sometimes, she heard women screaming and crying at night.  Maybe it was because they wanted to go home too; she knew that she cried at night, when she was cold and hungry, and missed her warm bed.  She missed her toys, and Lady.

                She even missed etiquette lessons.

                She missed the garden, and the apple tree.  She missed her dresses, and her ribbons.  She missed Papa.  What had happened to Papa?  Some of the older men were here, and young boys.  There were a few that were adolescent, but not very many.

                “Where’s Papa?” she asked her mother again.

                Mama held her hand, squeezing it gently.  “Papa died in battle, my love,” she said to her daughter.

                Lura blinked up at her mother.  Died?  She thought for a moment.  Hadn’t Mama said that before?  She didn’t really understand.  What did it mean, to die?  What happened?  Mama said that her grandparents were dead.  She had asked when Leto’s grandparents came to visit him; she remembered that.  So, naturally, she had inquired as to what that meant.

                Mama had explained that it was what happened when you got very old, and you couldn’t get around very well any longer; your soul went to rest at the Maker’s side in eternal bliss, and if she was very good, she would get to meet them one day when she, too, got very old and died.  She hadn’t understood then either.

                “What does that mean?” she asked insistently.

                _Mama seems sad,_ she thought as her mother answered her, “It means you won’t see him again.”

                She missed a step, aghast.  “But… but why?” she cried out.

                “Because he’s dead.”

                That just seemed to go around in circles.  She didn’t understand.  What did that _mean_?  When someone died, what did that _mean_?  Why _couldn’t_ she see them again?  Mama said she could!  Mama said that they went to the Maker’s side!  So why couldn’t she see them again?  It just didn’t make any sense.

                Angry, she tore away, running, sobbing as she ran.  She couldn’t go out of the line, but the soldiers didn’t care over much if she ran within the line.  Sometimes, after all, they just had to move to the side to make water; they didn’t stop often enough for that.  Lura would hold it as long as she could, but she had to squat eventually.

                She stumbled, and as she did, saw Leto.  She ran toward him, snatching on to his wrist.  He turned and looked at her, pulling her to her feet as she started to crumble.  He held on to her, walking with her.  She sobbed against his shoulder, unable to grasp what was going on.

                “What’s happening?” she demanded, wailing.  “What’s ‘dead’?  No one will tell me!”

                Mieta gazed down at her.  “It’s when your soul leaves—either because you’re old, or sick, or hurt too badly.”

                She looked up at her, lower lip quivering.  “I don’t understand,” she complained.

                Leto remained utterly silent.  Why wouldn’t he talk?  Why wouldn’t he tell her!  He always said things so that she could understand.  Why wouldn’t he now?  “Darling, when your soul leaves, your body stops moving.  It’s like being asleep, but you’re asleep forever and no one can wake you up.”

                Lura looked up at Mieta, trying to make her words make sense.  How could someone sleep forever?  How could someone never wake up?  But people still moved when they slept.  Mama said that she kicked in her sleep, and stole the blankets.  “I…  But…” she stammered.

                Sharall took her daughter’s hand in hers.  “Thank you, Mieta,” she told her friend.

                Mieta gave her a slight nod.  “Anything I can do, Sharall,” she said softly.

                Sharall’s eyes softened as she looked down at the two children, one in tears, and the other as silent as the dead.

                Lura held on to Leto’s arm for comfort as well as support.  Her feet hurt so much, and Mama carried her as often as she could, but she knew that she was tired too, so was doing her best.  “Do you know what’s going on?” she whispered to him.

                Finally, he answered, “Yes.”

                She blinked in surprise.  Finally!  Someone who could explain it to her.  “Then what’s going on?  Where are they taking us?”  
                “I don’t know,” he said.

                His voice sounded funny to her.  Blank, like he didn’t really care about what they were talking about.  If she weren’t so tired, so frightened, she would have gotten angry.  “But you said you knew!”

                A slight, but uncertain, nod.  “I… heard some of the soldiers talking,” he admitted in a low whisper.

                She blinked, anxious for news.  “What’d they say?”

                He glanced up at their mothers, who were engaged in their own whispered conversation as they led their children down the road.  Lura stumbled again, but her mother and Leto kept her from falling.  When she regained her footing, he said, “They’re taking us to Tevinter.”

                Lura paused, confused.  The word was one she had heard before, and she knew it as a distant place, but only as an abstract concept, one that was far away from her.  “Why?”

                His brow furrowed in thought, and he fell silent again.  She fumed for a bit, but was too glad of his company to march away from him in her anger.  Maybe he would tell her later, after all.  She would have to remember.  It was hard to do that sometimes.

                She sometimes forgot about her father as the days passed, forgot that he had died.  Sometimes, she cried at her own failure to truly understand.  She cried because her legs felt like they would fall off.  She cried for her blistered feet, and because she was always hungry.  Sometimes, Leto would give her some of his food, saying that he wasn’t hungry.  She didn’t know if it were true or not, but he seemed so sad, and just stared at it most of the time anyway.

                She tried talking to him about whatever was bothering him, but he wouldn’t talk about it.  He wouldn’t talk about anything, not really.

                It seemed to her that her life in Schavalis had been nothing but a dream that she had long ago woken from to face reality.  It felt like she had been walking forever, and would continue to walk forever.  Her feet bled, and her mother carried her often, but still she hurt.

                She wanted a bath.  She wanted hot food.  She wanted a warm bun from the oven, and butter.  She wanted lamb stew, and pastries.  She wanted cider, and apples.  She wanted her bed, her house.  She wanted the garden, and Lady.  She wanted to play in the park.  She even wanted to practice embroidery.  She wanted Papa to tell her stories by the fire after dinner.

                She wanted not to hurt any more.

                One night, a man took Mama away, and she had cried when she saw how much Mama didn’t want to go.  Why would he take her like that?  What was going on?  Why was Mama leaving her behind?  Leto had grabbed her arm to keep her from running after them, and she had sobbed and asked him what was going on.  He stared at her, and it seemed to her as if he knew more than he should, but he didn’t answer.  Maybe he really didn’t know, or even just didn’t know how to tell her.  Why not?  If he knew, why couldn’t she know too?  He hauled her back down, and told her to go to sleep. 

                But how could she?  _Why_ should she?  It wasn’t _fair_.  What was happening to her Mama?  Why did everyone else seem to know so much more than she did, but no one wanted to tell her?  Why did they want her not to know?  She lay awake, crying for not knowing what was happening.  Would Mama even come back?  Would she be dead too?  And then would Lura die as well as her Mama and Papa?  She was afraid to die.  She didn’t _really_ understand it, but it seemed scary, and like it might hurt.  She didn’t want Mama to die either.  She didn’t want anyone to die!

                No one but those soldiers.  It was _their_ fault.  _Their_ fault they were going to die.  _Their_ fault Papa was dead, and everyone else.  _Their_ fault they were on this march and her feet blistered and bled.  _Their_ fault…!

                And her tears of fear turned to tears of rage.  She rubbed at her eyes and lashes, hot tracks of wetness running heedlessly down her cheeks, making tracks in the dirt caking her face.  All she felt that she could do was cry.  She didn’t know if laughter was real any more.  She had heard the soldiers laughing, but it sounded mean somehow.

                Mama came back soon.  She looked battered, and stumbled as she walked.  She saw her crying, and tried to comfort her mother as best she knew how, with a hug, and kiss on the cheek, and telling her how much she loved her.  But the woman just hugged her, and said the same thing Leto had—just go to sleep.  She curled up beside her mother and slept.


	7. Escapists

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What the title of this chapter implies is anyone's guess...
> 
> Kudos to anyone who gets the somewhat obscure reference in the dialogue below though.

                Newlyn looked out at the captives, feeling sorrow entrench his heart, his soul crying out at the suffering he beheld, and was the cause of.

                When they got back to the main road, a smaller force would take the captives into a port city where they would be sent back to Tevinter.  Soldiers would draw lots to be able to escort them—and why not?  It was an easy task, one where they could rape women as they pleased, were not usually harried by attackers, and of course, rest at the city in the barracks was always welcome.  The original plan had been to commandeer any ships in the harbor and shackle the captives up like so much cargo and sail to port, but the docks had been set ablaze and the ships were only so much wreckage.

                Newlyn saw the pregnant woman, exhausted and trying to carry her son.  He looked about at the others.  They needed to stop.  They needed to rest more, or many would just drop dead from exhaustion.  Couldn’t they see?

                But he kept his tongue.  He was no officer whose words would make a difference.  He was no officer, no lord, or even a mage who had some influence.  Just a hedge knight with no land, nothing but a “Ser.”

                That evening, some spoke that it would rain on the morrow.  He was inclined to agree with that sentiment, and knew it made for miserable traveling in the best of conditions.  But with the captives, who had no shelter, and were on foot besides, many barefoot?  It was… cruel.  It was intolerable—there were _children_.

                They would get sick, and die…  He didn’t know what else to do.

                He heard the sound of rutting, and a girl sobbing, from the inside of a tent as he passed by.  He tried not to hear it.  He tried to pretend that it was nothing.  He wanted to pretend he hadn’t heard the sobbing—maybe it could have been a camp follower, after all.  Whores tended to be wherever the money was good, and military men had plenty of need.  Then there were the vultures—not the birds, but the sort that, once the army had picked over the dead, they would take whatever scraps might be valuable.  The slave boys that tended to the armor, horses, and carts.  The squires who dressed their knights.  There were so many people.  Newlyn didn’t have a squire—had no pay for one.  Just that same empty title.

                He tried to imagine these people if it were not a time of war.  Would they still rape and thieve?  Would they be as bloodthirsty as they are on the battlefield?  He almost didn’t care to think on it.

                He lay awake, listening to the sounds of camp at night, and wondered if there was truly nothing to be done.

                There was no justice in the world.

                He woke to the sounds of morning—the scent of cooking, and people stirring.  He dressed quickly, and clambered from his tent.  Everything he owned, he carried.  A slave would take care of the tent.  Why did things have to be this way?

                He supposed… if someone could get someone else to do something for them, and they didn’t have to pay for it—Well, there were a lot of lazy people in the world, a lot of greedy people, and sometimes those things coincided.

                But why should he make someone else do what he could do for himself?  He looked at the tent, and hesitated.  He would be mocked for doing it himself.  The thought of the ridicule made him shy away from it.  He took his armor, and his sword and shield, and stood in line for breakfast.  He couldn’t say he remembered what it was after he had eaten it, so occupied were his thoughts on the waiting day’s trials.

                It was raining before they had finished breaking camp, and he knew the road would soon turn to mud under the hooves of the horses, the wagon wheels, and the dogs.  He was so sick of Seheron, and its rainy weather, the everlasting fog that made everything difficult; he was so homesick, and wanted to go back to Qarinus.  Newlyn was instructed to take his bow instead of his sword and shield and go hunting.  He supposed it was his turn.

                He wasn’t necessarily hunting for game, though that was part of it; he was to also look for signs that they were being followed, or anything out of the ordinary.  He was stationed with two other men who were just as enthusiastic as he was about breaking away from the easy trail on horseback and trekking after game.  He left his heavier armor in a cart, and wore leather to hunt.  He had a warm cloak, and sturdy boots, and felt guilty about it when he looked over his shoulder at the miserable captives.

                It nagged at him all day as he stalked through the forest.  He thought about it when one of his fellows brought down an elk, and the four of them had to lug the big animal all the way back to camp.  And, he thought, at least they were eating decently, and had shelter at night, and cloaks.  The captives didn’t even eat well.

                He thought of the children amongst them, the pace the army was setting, and it just made him sick.  Too sick to eat that night.  He was a guard of the captives the day after that, and wondered when the first of them would begin to die.

                The thought gave him pause.  He just couldn’t bear this any longer.

                He looked up, and saw the pregnant elf.  She stumbled, and fell in the mud.  He pulled his horse to a stop in alarm.  The column kept walking, but she stayed.  He swung down from his horse.  It was a war horse, well trained, and he commanded it to stand.  It stayed in place, watching him as he moved amongst the captives.  They gave him a wide berth as he passed, and he came to the fallen woman.

                He knelt beside her, concern etched in his profile.  Her boy, the dark-haired child, was staring at him with that same look, like he measured his soul and found it wanting.  Newlyn looked back at the boy.  “Would you let me help her?” he asked, seeing how the child stood—back rigid, legs parallel to his shoulders, suspicion marked in his features.  The child seemed grudging, but he took a step back, but watched him with all the trust a deer had for a lion.

                The woman looked up at Newlyn, fearful as a doe.  He didn’t ask for her permission, for something told him that she was too proud to accept it.  Rather, he lifted her into his arms, not knowing what else to do.  He walked back to his waiting horse, who had strayed but a little.  The boy trailed behind him.  The horse was indignant— _I am a destrier, not a palfry--_ but when he set the woman down on it, it stayed steady.  She looked at him, fearful still—either of what he was doing, or of the animal, he couldn’t say.  He took the horse’s bit and led it.  He knew someone would report it, and he may even get into some kind of trouble for it, but…

                He couldn’t just leave it be.

                When the boy was struggling to get through the mud, he stopped and lifted him too, placing him beside his mother.  As he did, she finally spoke.  “You do a noble thing, ser,” she told him.

                He looked up at her, and felt his eyes threaten to water.  Noble—he?  No, and it even hurt to hear her say that, after everything he had done to her and her town and everyone she knew.  “No, my lady,” he whispered, and feared his voice may crack like an adolescent’s.  “It is not noble to do a good deed.”  He turned and began to lead the horse again.

                “Though it is noble to do a good deed when all else is wretched and others would condemn the deed,” she called to him.

                He glanced back at her once, and looked down, leading on.  They were wise words, words he should heed, but words nonetheless.  In the end, the words hung heavy over his heart.  He knew he should do more to truly be noble.  To truly be noble, he would help them.  To truly be noble, he would not falter, or hesitate in that path.  But he didn’t even pitch his own tent; a slave did that.  A slave whose name he didn’t even know.

                He was right; someone did confront him about letting her sit atop the horse, and sooner than he had thought.

                The mage rode up to him.  He was a red-faced man with a big beak of a nose that he had always rather compared to some kind of bird.  He was clearly angry, and he could tell that from his disposition from a distance, though he could only watch as he came closer, and drew up the reigns as he came beside him.  “What do you think you’re doing, Barker?” he squawked.

                Newlyn didn’t look away with some effort.  “Walking, as you can observe,” he answered testily, his anger at the entire situation with the captives for the first time truly beginning to surface.  How dare this man?  Couldn’t he just leave it be?  He was hurting no one, after all.

                The mage’s gaze flicked to the woman and her son.  The boy was peering around her curiously, though she looked very much like she would rather be nearly anywhere else.  “Letting the captives ride your horse while you walk is not something you were instructed to do, nor why you have a horse, Barker.”  He left unsaid how ashamed he should be of his actions, how it shamed the entire military force, undoubtedly.

                Newlyn pressed his lips shut into a thin line to keep from exploding in a mess of anger.  He let out a long breath through his nose before he answered.  “Look more closely.  The mud comes up to the boy’s knees, and his mother cannot carry him; she’s _pregnant_ ,” he insisted.

                The mage paused, looking at her swollen belly.  _Four months_ , he guessed.  “If she dies, she dies.”

                Newlyn had to approach this in some other way.  “You said we were to do the raid to capture slaves.  What good does it do us if half of them die and the rest are sick?” he demanded.

                The mage glanced out at the captives, as if seeing them for the first time, not as a mass, but as individuals.  The mass moved on, but the individuals fell, shivered, leaned against each other, carried their children.  They trudged at a pace they couldn’t hope to maintain, and were not making it in the high mud, the constant drivel of rain just making it worse.  The mage paused.  He wasn’t unreasonable, Newlyn decided.  Just pig-headed.  Or bird-brained.

                He glanced at the woman, who stared at him meekly.  “I’ll see what I can do,” he said, and turned, trotting his horse through the mud.  Newlyn sighed, and continued slogging.

                Later on, they called an early camp.  Some of the wagons were rearranged, and two empty ones were brought up.  Select captives were put in it—the weakest of them, and the pregnant woman, he noted.  Any child under ten summers.  They were packed close, but at least out of the mud and the wagons had tarp canopies that helped keep out the weather.

                Newlyn watched the goings-on, and thought, some good can be accomplished in the world.  It wasn’t nearly enough, but it was something.

                But as the day wore on, and the rain came down harder, he wondered if he couldn’t have done more somehow.  Maybe that was all that could be done.

                There was a storm that night, and he lay awake, shivering in his tent, cold.  He wondered how cold the captives must be, and his conscience bade him to rise, and so he did.  He took his cloak, and sought out the pregnant woman he felt so much guilt for.  They had made their camp just off the road in a field, which wasn’t so bad as the mud on the road.  The captives were watched constantly, but he could walk amongst them, and no one thought much of it.  He found her half-asleep, her back against a wagon wheel, her son in her lap.  He knelt beside her, and felt he should say something.  But what was there to say?  An apology, begging for forgiveness.

                He didn’t deserve forgiveness.

                He pulled his cloak from his shoulders and spread it over them both.  He could reclaim it in the morning before anyone saw that he didn’t have it any more.  He saw her eyes flicker open as he turned, and knew she watched him go.  He came back at first light, and she quickly gave it back to him without a word, but her eyes were wet with gratitude.

                As he turned to go, she caught his sleeve.  “No matter what you believe, you are a noble man amidst beasts,” she told him.

                He stared at her, and wished she could see that he was really a monster.  “No, I fear that I am a beast too.”

                She reached out a hand, and tenderly cupped his cheek, scratchy with stubble, grimy and unwashed.  She looked at him so sweetly that he found himself missing Kiersten all the more, for she would look at him like that sometimes as well, and tell him that she saw all the good in him.  Did this elven woman see what Kiersten seemed to see?  “That you fear it means you are not it,” she told him.

                He looked at her, not even knowing what to say or how to respond.  Why didn’t she see?  Why didn’t she understand that he was a monster?  “No—No, look what I’ve done to you,” he cried, voice soft.

                “It’s not what _you_ have done,” she told him.  “You were given an order, and you followed it.  _You_ are not the monster; it’s the one giving you orders.”

                He shook his head in disbelief.  “Ma’am, you are kind, but…”

                “It’s like a knife,” she said gently.  “A knife can kill someone, or slice vegetables, but its purpose is not up to the blade.  Or like mages, who have the option to be a more powerful maleficar, but that is still their _choice_ and not all of them do.”

                He felt like she must be delirious.  “Ma’am…” he began.

                She raised a finger for silence.  “It’s the same as you.  You have the _option_ to be a monster, but are you?”

                Newlyn felt his heart aching.  It wasn’t like that.  It wasn’t that easy.  It wasn’t nearly so black and white.  “I…”

                She didn’t wait for him to finish.  “You’re like a knife, Newlyn,” she said again, as she lovingly stroked her son’s hair.  A son who, he realized, was listening intently.  Whether he understood or not was a different matter.  “A knife can be used to cut bread, or stab someone in the heart.  But the knife isn’t evil.  It just _is_.  It’s just a tool—like a soldier following orders.”

                He searched her eyes for any sign that she might be being unkind, but found none.  “You are wise beyond your years, ma’am,” he said, and hurried away without a further word.  She was wise, he knew.  And he should listen to her.  The boy was fortunate to have a mother so wise.  Maybe he would grow up with half her wisdom.

                If he lived that long.  If something horrible didn’t happen to him, or to her.  If they weren’t separated and sold off.

                _If, if, if_!

                To Newlyn’s eyes, it just wasn’t possible that the child should live to adulthood under these circumstances.  What would be the odds that a child so young would survive without its parent?  Even if she didn’t die on the long trek to the city, she was pregnant.  What if she died during childbirth?  What if they were simply sold to different people?

                That child, and all the others, had such a frightening, uncertain future ahead of them, and he found himself praying for all of them.

                More days passed.  The weather lightened and the sun broke from the clouds again, but there were stirrings amongst the men.  They were getting indignant that their looting was going towards funding the war effort, and not lining their own pockets.  In Newlyn’s opinion, they were _soldiers_ not _reavers_ but that changed nothing.  People were greedy no matter what, and a few of them even sounded very convincing, even to his ears.

                He stopped and listened to one of them speak.  He spoke of how hard they worked, the pace they set, how they hadn’t been home in years and weren’t paid enough for the work and life and limb they risked (and cut down), and so deserved a fair share of the gold and jewels pillaged.

                When their words started making sense, Newlyn knew that it was time to move on, lest he start believing in them.  He had no need to report it; the officers knew, and tried to hush the speakers whenever they could—sometimes with warnings, sometimes with chores, and a couple times the aid of a whip, but it didn’t help.  Instead of shouting, they whispered, and that was the only real difference, and the officers attempt at silencing them only influenced them, and not in the direction intended.

                Newlyn suspected some kind of uprising soon, and indeed, one eve as the watch changed, he was right.

                The fighting didn’t start like a battle he was accustomed to.  It was suddenly everywhere—madness, the conspirators acting at what must have been a set time.  Apparently, someone had killed one of the mages by taking him by surprise.  The woman mage was protected by the time he stumbled out of his tent with his sword and joined the fray, half-dressed but determined to fulfill his duty, and earn his pay.

                It was the only time he had really felt very good about fighting.  Fighting Qunari was one thing, but he had seen little enough of that lately.  They were vicious, and treated mages—who, despite everything, he still viewed as people and souls first and foremost--worse than animals besides, even if they weren’t attacking them.  But fighting in an uprising was something else.

                Then, an idea occurred to him.  The fighting would be a perfect time…

                He broke away from the fight, stole between the wagons and wove around skirmishes, desperately hunting for the roped off area.  It wasn’t defended right now; there was too much going on.  He saw some of the slaves—mostly the young men and girls—were already fleeing, some in groups, some individually.  They may be cut down in the fighting, and many would simply be caught again or die in the elements.  Others were too frightened to try.

                He had to do this, or he would regret it forever.

                He remembered that boy’s eyes, his mother’s words.  Could he live with himself knowing he had had a hand in selling them into a lifetime of slavery and hardship?  Kiersten would be disgusted with him if she knew.  Maybe, before he had met her, he wouldn’t be doing this, but the girl had changed him—for the better, he hoped.

                He crept back to his tent, and donned his armor, listening to the chaos outside.  He snatched up his weapons and ran for the horses.  Many of them were already taken.  He whistled, high and shrill.  His horse’s head snapped up, ears pricking forward.  He whistled again, and she came at a brisk trot.  He kept whistling, running now.  She kept after him, to the place her tack was.  There was no boy to do it for him this time, and it was hard with the armor on.  Nearly impossible, more like; he had to take the gauntlets off, but he managed to get both saddle and the bridle on.  He slid his hands back in to the gauntlets, sliding his bow and quiver into their place on the saddle, and pulled himself into the stirrups.  He heard an unholy scream as someone was set ablaze.  The mages…

                He looked back, over his shoulder at the blaze.  It wasn’t wide, but it was high--a fiery beacon that could be seen for miles around, and people screamed, melting in its fury.  He could smell burning hair even from this distance.  His horse whickered nervously as others screamed, and there was no worse sound than a horse in pain.

                He wheeled her around, and kicked her into a gallop.  She vaulted forward, eager to be gone from the fire, and leaped the rope pen.  Her hooves skittered in the grass, and she charged forward.  He engaged as few as the rebel soldiers as possible on his mad dash for the captives.  Someone stumbled in front of him, with no time to turn.  The horse leapt, but her hooves crashed against his unarmored head.  He heard a sickening thud when bone broke.  She stumbled as she landed, but was running again in a moment.

                He had liked Bluebell since he had met her.  The horse always seemed to make better company than the men in the camp.  Not to mention that she not only tolerated his most recent of shenanigans, but seemed only too happy to oblige them.

                She dashed around a corner, barely slowing to accommodate the turn.  Her hooves slid over the earth, but the mud had dried days ago, or she might have fallen.  She slowed to make another turn, and took up speed again.  He leaned forward in the stirrups, knees tucked in as she leapt, over the other rope barrier.  She landed in the grass, and he pulled her reigns so she may slow to a trot.  He brought her up to the wagons the captives had hidden under.  He scanned them, looking for the pregnant woman.

                He didn’t even know her name.

                But the boy recognized him.  He saw a child partially crawl from the wagon, kneeling in the grass as he looked up at him.  Newlyn brought Bluebell to an impatient halt when he saw the ebony hair.

                “Where’s your mother?” he called to the child.

                The boy glanced back under the wagon, then back at him without speaking, but the glance was enough.  Newlyn sprang from the saddle as lithe as a cat, running to the wagon.  He saw her, and she looked up at him.  He held his hand out to her.

                “You have to run—this is your only chance!” he told her.

                She hesitated, looking around her, then took his hand.  He helped haul her out, then called to the other captives.  “All of you—this is your only chance to run!” he screamed as he grabbed the reigns to his horse.  “If you stay, you’ll be slaves, and your children will be slaves, and their children.”  He left unsaid that if they chose to run they may die.

                He set the woman in his saddle, and the boy in front of her.  Bluebell was strong enough for two passengers, but it would slow her down.  He swung up behind her, conscious that his armor would slow them down too.  He slid his feet into the stirrups, his arms encircling the two elves.  He kicked Bluebell into a canter.  The woman yelped in fright, the boy silent as the grave.  He couldn’t say if others followed, for he dare not look.

                The horse couldn’t jump the rope with passengers, so he rode up beside it and cut it in twain with his sword—an awkward blow with two passengers, but possible.

                They ran on.  Some saw him, others called out to him, told him to stop, but they had their own problems right now.

                He let Bluebell run free, giving the horse her head.  It didn’t matter _where_ they went, just that they _went_ , for the moment at least.

                But long-term?

                He would be worse than a deserter; he would be a traitor.  And his beloved Kiersten?  He would be lucky if he would ever see her again.  He hoped that she could one day learn the truth of what he had done, and not that he was simply a deserter and a traitor.  And a thief—the captives would be considered slaves after all, property.

                He hoped…  No, it didn’t matter any longer.  He had made his decision, though a part of him wondered if he would grow to regret it.

                As he rode, and the horse slowed, he came to realize what he had given up in a moment of rashness.  He had given up Kiersten.  He had given up his country and his home.  His life as a soldier.  He had given up… everything.  Everything he was, who he was.  And for what?  His conscience?  Some elves?  Was it worth it?  He didn’t know.  He could have just left it be.  He should have just left it be.

                He climbed off of the horse to lighten her load, and walked, leading her.  Walking in such armor for long periods of time and at night was troublesome, but there was nothing else for it.  All was silence—or rather, close to it, as they could still hear the remnants of the battle far behind them.  The forest swallowed much of the sound, but the wind did carry it.

                They came to a stream, and he helped the two down to drink.  He drank a bit himself, but only let Bluebell have a couple swallows before he pushed her away.  She didn’t need to drink too much yet, and shouldn’t.

                If he had been wise, he would have grabbed food, supplies—something.  But he hadn’t.  At least he had his bow; he could hunt.  And, he supposed, eat roast as there was no other way to cook anything.  Or carry it.  Or anything really.

                The woman washed her face, and her son’s—a bit against his will, and she made him wash his hands too.  He waited, and gave them some time.

                She approached him, and bowed her head.  “Thank you, serrah,” she told him, and looked up at him, grateful beyond words.  He didn’t deserve such a title.

                He glanced away, not knowing what to say.  “I…”  But he looked at her, saw the gratitude in her eyes.  He looked to the child, so full of hope for the first time since he had seen him.  Yes.  Yes, it had been worth it.  If he could only help two people… it would be worth it.  “It was the right thing to do.”

                “Yet so few people would have done it,” she told him, and smiled warmly.

                He glanced back the way they had come.  It would likely be past midnight before the camp was back in order.  Someone would have reported him running off, and he had no doubt that they would come looking for him.  He would be executed if he were caught.

                He needed to put as much distance between himself and the encampment as possible.  The woman put her son on the horse, but herself walked, saying that the poor beast needed a break, lest they break her wind between all the running and her heavy passengers.

                Newlyn led the horse, and a sort of comfortable silence fell over them.  It was several minutes longer before he realized that he still did not know their names.  He looked at her out of the corner of his eye, then back at the deer path they followed.  “I’m Newlyn Barker,” he told her, dropping his title.  It was a corrupted title.

                He saw her smile again, this time in satisfaction.  “Ah, it is good to know the name of our rescuer,” she mused.  She was silent for a moment, and he thought she would not return the courtesy at first.  “I’m Mieta.”

                “No last name?” he inquired, and wondered if it were rude.

                She laughed gently.  “I hardly think that matters any longer,” she told him.  She was right; it didn’t.  As a slave, she wouldn’t have one, and if they were to be free, they would have to join the Qun.

                He glanced back at the boy.  “What’s your name?” he asked him, trying to sound cheerful.

                The child regarded him with outright suspicion.  Under the circumstances, it was understandable, but it was troubling to see a child so jaded.  “…  Leto,” he answered curtly.

                “Were you named after someone?” he asked idly.  “I was named after my father.”

                Leto paused.  “My father’s dead,” he said, very matter-of-factly.

                He wondered if perhaps his father had died quite a long time ago, maybe before the child could remember, but that thought didn’t last long.  “He was executed.  Shortly after your army sacked Schavalis,” Mieta said, a hint of bitterness in her voice.

                There was nothing he could say to ease her sorrow--nothing.  He couldn’t apologize; it wasn’t his fault, and he had already tried anyway.  He could give her no comforting words; he was no priest or poet.  “Your husband died bravely.  They all did,” he whispered.

                “Dying bravely is hardly something I would wish for anyone, ser,” she said, her voice tart.  “I would rather have him alive and a coward.”

                There was nothing more he could say, so he fell to silence.  He told them the necessity of continuing on their path even after night had fallen.  He had thought the child would complain, but he did not.

                “Do you speak Tevene at all, ma’am?” he asked her.

                She frowned a little.  “Some.”  She was quiet a moment.  “I suppose it lost value when we started trading with the Qunari, and most people just speak the Trade tongue.”

                They would have to learn it if they were ever captured, he knew.  Drilled harshly into them, beaten for speaking in another dialect—probably the same way the ancient elves lost their language, come to think of it.

                They had to both be hungry, and weary, but they slogged onwards anyway.  The two adults took turns riding on the horse throughout the night, and he found a place that was at least easily defendable to lay up by day, at least for a little while.  He picketed Bluebell, and let the two elves sleep while he tended his armor and sword.

                He had thought the child was asleep when he started cleaning his sword with a handful of earth, but he was watching him intently.  Newlyn looked up at Leto, then back at the blade, continuing to scrub it clean.

                “What are you doing?” the elf asked.

                He debated over telling him to go to sleep, or just answering his questions, but he remembered being a curious child too, and also recalled what hell the boy had been through over the past few weeks.  It prompted him to a kindness he would have not otherwise offered.  “Cleaning the blade,” he answered.

                The boy sat down beside him, quite curious.  “With dirt?”

                Newlyn snorted a laugh.  “I don’t have anything else,” he explained.  “And ‘dirt’ works pretty well for getting blood off of a blade.”

                He frowned.  “Why?”

                The human almost regretted answering him the first time.  “Because it cleans the blade—see?”  He demonstrated, and the boy fell silent for a bit as he watched.

                “Why do you kill people?”

                He paused in his scrubbing, debating the answer to that question, then continued.  “Because I’m told to,” he said, flipping the blade over to get to the other side.

                Leto cocked his head to the side in thought.  “Why?”

                He felt like smacking his palm against his forehead, or shooing the boy away, but guilt kept him from either.  “Because some people think other people need to die, so have other people go kill them.”

                He could have asked the next question himself:  “Why?”

                Newlyn’s lips pressed together in a thin, mildly irritated line.  He was exhausted, and hungry, and really didn’t need this nonsense right now!  “Because some people are bastards,” he answered, glancing up at the child for a reaction.

                The boy’s nose wrinkled.  “What’s a ‘bastard’?”

                He glanced toward Mieta, who was fast asleep.  “A word you won’t repeat, got it?”

                “But what does it _mean_?” he pressed.

                Newlyn sighed to himself.  “Someone who’s mean, wicked—evil.”  He shrugged.  “A child can also be a bastard when their parents weren’t married when they were born.”

                Leto’s brow creased in thought, trying to make this new bit of information make sense.  “Why is someone evil when their parents weren’t married?”

                The soldier took a long breath through his nose, wishing a stop to this inane line of questioning.  “Here.”  He handed the boy his dagger.  In the child’s hands, it seemed a lot bigger.  The boy stared at it in silent wonder.  “Keep it, and go to sleep.  When you wake up, I’ll show you how to use it.”

                The knife would be more use to the boy than anything else he could think of.  He may be three, but Newlyn had been five when he held his first dulled blade, but he hadn’t faced the danger this boy did.  Mieta might not like that, but Newlyn didn’t want the child defenseless—or her for that matter.  No worries—he himself liked and collected knives.  He had two more, and he would give one to her as well.

                He shooed the kid off to sleep, and he actually trotted off this time, and _did_ go to sleep.

 

                He and Mieta changed shifts.  He put his armor on the ground regretfully and laid down with his cloak.  Newlyn could say that he dreamt, and knew his dreams were nightmare-memories of war.

                Battle was so terrible.  Severed limbs, blood covering the field, soaking the ground.  Scorched earth, dying men, dogs, and horses.  It was so terrible, he had once wondered how anyone could bear to do it again after having lived through it once.  He supposed because they had to, but he knew that some people actually liked it.

                He couldn’t for a moment imagine liking bringing death to others, but he remembered the first man he had killed.  It was a Qunari, actually—but that mattered little to him.  Did being a giant with horns make him less of a person?  No, not to Newlyn.  He had been sick over it, and when it was over, had vomited until there was simply nothing left.  He had lied and said it was the smell.  A senior soldier told him that he would get used to it.  In a way, he did, but he had had to learn to forgive—both the one he killed, and himself for doing it.

                It had been a hard lesson, but it helped.

                By the time he had woken, Mieta had found edible berries, a few nuts, and a couple mushrooms.  It wasn’t much, but they divided it as best they could.  The elf woman had curried the animal as best she could with her fingers, but she really needed a good comb if they were to keep saddling her.  If there was a rock, she could get a saddle sore, and they wouldn’t be able to ride her.

                They pressed on.  Neither had slept nearly enough as they would need, but it was time to go on anyway.  “Where are we going?” Leto asked after a long silence had passed, he and his mother on the horse and Newlyn leading.

                It was a good question, and the adults looked at each other in silent question for a moment.  “You know this land better than I,” he told her.

                She frowned in thought, and her lips drew into a thin line.  “Northward—toward the Qunari encampments; they will give us refuge.”  There were a few well-guarded ports along the northernmost shores of Seheron that the Qunari used to ferry troops and supplies from Par Vallen in the north.  They would find the Qunari to the north; she was certain of it.

                Newlyn looked up at the sun, and oriented himself that way.  Thankfully, they had gone north and west when they fled, rather than south.  South would lead them nowhere save the sea, and that was a dead end to them.

                They had to stop toward nightfall.  They had been foraging intermittently as they passed, but Bluebell needed to graze and drink.  Mieta took the work of gathering edible foods upon herself, and he trusted her to be light on her feet and nimble.  All elves were.

                Newlyn unsaddled Bluebell, and removed her bit so she could graze on the tall grasses.  He himself took out his knife and found a long green branch that he began fashioning into what his grandfather had called a “rabbit stick.”  It would do for hunting small game, and they needed all the help they could get.  Arrows were expensive, and could be ruined easily, and considering what they were doing, he’d rather carry the stick than a drawn bow for hours, even if he had one.

                He barely got to it though before he felt more than heard the boy lurking over his shoulder.  Why were elves so damned quiet?

                “Whatcha doin’?” he asked, peering over his shoulder curiously.

                Newlyn frowned, slicing off another twig.  “Making a rabbit stick,” he said casually.

                The boy watched him for a moment, then asked the inevitable question:  “What’s that?”

                “A stick.  For rabbits.”

                The boy mulled that thought over for a moment.  “For _killing_ rabbits?”

                “Do you like rabbit?” he asked him.

                He blinked.  “Uh-huh.”

                “Then sit down and be quiet so I can finish it,” he said.  The boy scowled, but did as bidden, crossing his arms.  It didn’t last long, but the silence was golden while it lasted, and he was about finished anyway.

                “You said you’d teach me how to use the knife,” he said, holding out the small blade in one hand.

                Newlyn scowled at him, in a friendly sort of way.  He ignored him until he finished, then set the stick away, and sheathed his hunting knife.  “No I didn’t,” he admonished him.  “I _said_ I’d teach you how to use the _dagger_.”

                “Oh,” the boy said, voice flat.

                He touched the small blade.  “That’s what this is.”  He turned toward him.  “First lesson—are you ready?”

                The child grinned anxiously, nodding.  “Uh-huh!”

                He would have been just as excited at his age.  “Good.  Keep it hidden—that’s the first rule.”

                The boy nodded, blinked when Newlyn didn’t go on, and then connected the dots in his mind.  He searched about himself for a moment, and Newlyn let him continue for a bit, then he helped him tuck it into the back of his pants, in his belt.  His tunic covered the small dagger.

                “Good—now draw it.”  And he let him practice drawing it.  He was awkward at first, but Newlyn was careful not to let him hurt himself, always reminding him that it was sharp.

                Mieta came back with a bit of the same stuff as last time, and they ate briskly, then hurried on throughout the night.

                Newlyn let the horse lead more than himself; it had better night sight.  He walked along beside it numbly, listening to the sounds of the forest, and trying not to trip over a root or something.

                Suddenly, Mieta jerked the horse’s reigns to a halt.  He stumbled in surprise, looking up at her.  “I hear dogs,” she whispered.

                Newlyn paused, straining to hear whatever she heard.  Leto said, “I hear them too.”

                He scowled.  He didn’t hear anything.  “I don’t,” he muttered darkly.

                She frowned.  “Of course _you_ don’t; you’re human,” she said matter-of-factly.  “We need to lose them.”

                “Do you hear water?”

                Leto pointed, off to the east, absolutely certain.  They turned, and Mieta got off of Bluebell, smiling warmly at him.  “Elves have better night vision than humans—you ride Bluebell, ser knight.” 

He scowled.  “How did you guess my knighthood, ma’am?”

He heard her kind of chuckle.  “How could I not, with the arrogant way you carry yourself, and your fancy suit of armor with its embellished crest?”  He dropped the matter, and let her walk while he road, as he saw no way around it.

What she said must have been true, for she stumbled less or not at all, and was more sure-footed than Bluebell was.  The stream was ankle deep, and he offered to let her ride the horse, but again she refrained, saying that he couldn’t let his armor rust.  It was true enough, and so they forded upstream.  The night was cool, and the water must have been cold, but she never complained, nor did she stumble, though occasionally picked and chose her path.  The thick mists helped to lose the trackers, but Newlyn worried about getting lost in it.

                They pressed on relentlessly, desperately.  Eventually, it grew too deep, and they had to get out of the water.  They climbed up on the east bank and Mieta covered their tracks by sweeping them with a pine bough.

                She smiled up at him with some pride.  “My husband was a scout,” she explained.

                Newlyn only nodded, the sick feeling in his gut making him cringe.  And it was his people’s fault he was dead now.

                The night wore on, and they were all tired by morning, but Mieta would not let them rest; the dogs worried her, and so they pressed ever onward.

                They stopped little or not at all, only picking up anything edible as they passed.  The horse was a strong, loyal creature, but little rations and fewer breaks were taking a toll on the poor beast.  Newlyn had to remove the bit and let her graze as they walked, or she might never have eaten enough to keep her going.  The longest they allowed themselves to rest was to make water, which was a necessity that could not be neglected, and unfortunate, because to a dog, it left a trail, so they stuck as close to streams as was convenient, both for the water source as well as waste.

                They just kept walking, legs weary and heavy, and so tired.  They let Leto stretch his legs on occasion, but mostly he rode, and shifted uncomfortably in the high seat, too small for the big animal really.  But despite their run, Newlyn felt that he couldn’t neglect teaching them about the knives they carried; knowing what to do, even a little, could be more advantageous than a bit of distance, when it came down to it, and the horse needed to rest, for she never got the same breaks they did.

                They hadn’t slept in days, except for occasionally drifting off in the saddle.  Leto was the only one who could sleep, with an adult holding on to him to keep him from sliding, though he did not sleep well, and from the faces he made, his dreams seemed troubled, though he made no mention of them; perhaps he didn’t remember them.

                Newlyn prayed that if they survived this that the boy wouldn’t remember this any more than the dreams.  Mieta had whispered to him while her son slept lightly that he had seen his father die.  No child deserved that, and it would haunt him if he didn’t forget.  He may be young enough to forget with time, not yet old enough to truly form memories in the way Newlyn knew them.  Did he remember being three?  No, not really.

                If the boy did forget, it would only be a blessing:  His father’s death, his home sacked, everyone he knew enslaved, the brutal march to the slave ships…  No, he didn’t deserve to remember it except perhaps as a story his mother may one day tell him.

                He prayed it would only be a story.  A brilliant story—of their escape from those that would enslave them to make her children’s eyes widen in wonder, and later smile in admiration of the bravery, wit, and vigor their mother had shown.

                He remembered that statue in the village square.  He had seen it before it had been pulled down and smashed, and he had thought it was subtlety, quietly, magnificent.  It was strength, and courage, and everything a man needed—not only of body, but also of spirit and mind.  That was the sort of thing he wanted for the child.

                Despite all their efforts, they eventually were forced to rest.  Bluebell suddenly stopped walking one late afternoon, digging in her feet, shivering, and refused to move.  Newlyn tried coaxing her, gently.  He pet her, and hand-fed her, cooing and caressing her, but still she would not move.

                He knew she had to be sore.  Leaving a horse in the saddle for so long was practically a crime, and she was tired besides, and hungry.  There was nothing for it but to let her rest.

                The passengers got off of her, and he was able to coax her into a bit of shelter.  Mieta stayed with the horse while he scouted for a likely campsite.  He found a small alcove—almost a cave, with a ditch on one side, ferns on the other two.  It was good enough, with plenty of cover if not so defensible.  He was able to lead Bluebell to it, and hobble her to a likely tree.  He unsaddled her, dropped it a distance away from her, and she seemed grateful to have it off.  She looked very much like she would like a good roll on the ground, so he sighed, and removed the rope from her holster.  She stretched, arching her neck.  Watching a horse roll was comical.  In any other situation, he may have laughed, but he only looked on in silent contemplation while she rolled on the earth, enjoying the feel of it against her back.  She finally climbed to her feet, suddenly more interested in the fresh green grasses.  While she munched, he hobbled her again, feeling a little less guilty about it now.  He scratched her cheek affectionately.  She had put up with a lot in the past few days, and she was tired.

                Newlyn took the first watch, and watched for rabbits as well as men and dogs.  He waited, and watched, and saw nothing through the Maker-blasted fog.  Then—A quick reaction on his part, a deft movement was all, and the stick flew through the air.  It buried itself in a young rabbit’s haunches, and he hurried after it.  It was still alive, so he quickly took his knife to the poor creature’s throat.  He pulled out the stick, and let it bleed out.  Now how could he cook it without anyone seeing that he was?  That was the biggest puzzle.

                He stared at the rabbit.  Maybe he should skin it for now, and think about it while he kept watch.  He paused frequently as he worked, listening and watching as the others rested, and wondered how they could cook it.

                If they were on the beach, he would wrap it in large leaves and mud, and bury it in the sand—it would become an oven, and cook over a long period of time, slowly, if it were a hot day.  But it was too cool in the forest and they didn’t have the time anyway.  The way he saw it, they really needed a fire, and a fire was just too risky; smoke could be seen for miles after all.  He strung it up anyway, hanging it in a tree to keep animals away from it.

                They didn’t have any salt either, to preserve its meat.  He wondered if the creature had died for nothing.  …Like so many other things, and people.


	8. Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Out of the frying pan and into the fire...

                The fighting had scared Lura, making her cling tightly to her mother’s skirts, and want desperately to be held, picked up, told that everything would be all right.  But no one said that, no one did that.  Her mother held on to her, but her grip was painful, and Lura was too scared to tell her so.

                She had seen Leto and his mother run at the first sight of the mage’s fire, seeking shelter.  Her mother, though, must have been braver.  A few others saw that the soldiers watching them had turned on one another, or were running to aid their comrades.  No one was watching them, and even Lura could see that.

                Her mother looked about her, and finally lifted Lura into her arms.  From her elevated position, the girl could see more of the smoking fires.  The very ground shook with the force of the mage’s might.  She could hear shrieks of pain, and it sounded familiar.  Just like back in Schavalis, when…  She dared not think of what had happened in Schavalis.  It gave her nightmares, and there was no comfort from them.  Most nights, she just pretended that it didn’t happen, that _that_ had all been a dream.

                They had been on the road for so long, she wondered if it might have been.  Walking was what felt like all she had ever known.  Maybe Schavalis _had_ been a dream.  It _felt_ like a dream.

                The stench of burning hair filled her nostrils, making her cover her nose.  Her mother was suddenly running.  The ground swept by them, and she clutched Mama tightly, eyes wide with fright.

                But as her mother ducked under the rope, and into the chaos, she quickly squeezed her eyes shut, but sometimes she opened them without meaning to.  Her mother continued to run, to duck, and weave, and she knew not what happened, but she could hear everything, and caught occasional glimpses.

                Images danced in her mind, of the blood she had seen.  A man with missing fingers, bloody at the stubs, screaming in rage.  A body, an arrow sticking out of his eye.  A horse lying in a pool of its own blood, its rider’s leg crushed under its bulk and pinned.

                She smelled a scent like slaughter day at a butcher’s, and imagined that it was people.  The thought made her sick, and very scared.

                Would she be dead too?  When she died, would she smell like that too?

                She could hear her mother’s heavy breathing, her panting.  She stumbled once, and Lura’s eyes snapped open, then immediately closed as a sword struck another man in the neck, creating a shower of blood.  Her mother kept running.  No one seemed to impede her.

                She ran madly, and for what felt forever, before she set Lura down on her own feet, and told her to run with her, as fast as she could.  Lura did her best to keep up with her mother, but she tired quickly, and her mother soon had to carry her again.  Before long, she too had to slow, and the two hurried along through the forest, well into the night.

                “I’m tired,” Lura complained, huffing and puffing to keep going.

                “Baby, you have to keep moving,” her mother urged her, and she did her best.  She really tried; she did.  She hurried, and panted, and scrambled.  She pushed herself, and her mother told her that if they didn’t hurry, they would be caught.  Lura wondered what was so bad about that, given that the alternative was the scary forest and wild animals.  What would they do in the forest anyway?  What would they eat?  Who would protect them from wolves?

                But they kept running anyway, stumbling, scrambling.

                Hours more passed.  In full dark, Lura fell, and tried to get up, but her shaking legs just wouldn’t hold her any more.  She had walked all day, and ran as best she could all night, and her legs wouldn’t go any more.

                She looked up hopelessly at her mother, who only scooped her up once more.  She carried her in her arms, then moved her to her back, hunting her way through the forest, determinedly.

                Lura’s little legs were aching with pain, and she made soft noises of hurt whenever something hit them, like a low-hanging branch, as they passed amidst the trees.  They splashed through a stream, and up a muddy bank.  Toward dawn, they didn’t even stop.

                Lura had once tried to stay up so late, but had fallen asleep far earlier than she had intended.  Now, it felt like no great accomplishment, but rather a terrible curse.  She wanted so badly to sleep.  She had a soft bed in Schavalis, if it were true and not a dream, with thick blankets, and a pillow.  She wanted so much to just curl up under the covers with Lady and fall asleep, to dream.

                She wanted to just lie down, just for a little while.  Walking hurt.  Riding on her mother’s back hurt, and stretched out her legs uncomfortably.  How had she ever thought this had been fun before?

                She walked, stumbling in exhaustion after her mother as long as she could before her mother picked her up again.  To herself, Sharall seemed strong and powerful.

                To one more learned, the woman would look desperate and mad with her desire to flee.

                “I’m hungry,” Lura complained toward noon, her voice a low whine of grievance.

                “Hush, baby—we have to keep running.”

                Lura looked about the forest.  There was deer clover, and that was edible—Leto had said so, and he had learned from his papa.  There should be berries too, and nuts, she bet—and roots.  She struggled to keep up with her mother, stumbling more and more often between her hunger, her fatigue, and her pain.

                Lura fell and scraped her hands once, and had to be comforted to keep going, but she sniffled in her pain.  She wanted a bandage, and water to clean it, but they had none.  She was so thirsty, when they came across another stream, they both stopped and drank deeply.  Lura washed her hands before they passed over it.

                The water only seemed to sharpen her hunger, and the water she had splashed on her face only seemed to remind her of how tired she was.

                She wished that she had stayed with Leto.  Or that he were with her.  She wondered if he were all right, and she certainly hoped so.  She wondered, too, if she would ever see him again.  The thought that she might not filled her eyes with a new set of tears.

                She felt that she had been crying intermittently all day, at every hurt, and because of how very sleepy she was.  She wanted so badly to go to bed.  Her bed.  It did exist, didn’t it?  The pretty memories of her own real bed, her toys, and her house—that couldn’t have been a dream, could it?

                She hoped not.

                Lura hurried uphill after Mama, who climbed with strong, sure, long legs.  Lura had to crawl like a bear to climb up the hill, her hands getting covered in soil.  Once, she put her hand on a worm, and cried out in fear and disgust.  Her mother had looked at her as if she had broken something valuable at her loud shout, and told her to be very quiet, in a kind of mean voice that made Lura afraid.

                As they fled, Sharall had to carry her daughter over a fallen log, and place her back down on the ground.  Her feet sank in the muddy soil, and she frowned miserably as she slogged after her mother, wanting to cry for all her sorrows and trouble.

                They came to a decline, and Sharall forded down it steadily.  Lura, however, tripped and fell with a sharp cry, tumbling down.  Sharall caught her, halting her descent.  Lura sniveled in fear, shaking, lower lip quivering in what felt like a brush with death to a three-year-old.

                Sharall placed her back on the path, and continued downwards.  Lura’s eyes watered.  It was unfair!  She was hurt, and scared, and wanted to be comforted and held.  She wanted her Mama to tell her it would be all right, to kiss her, and hug her, and tell her she loved her.  And she _wasn’t!_

                She sniffed, sad and angry.  She wished Leto were here.  He would help her.  He would hold her hand as she climbed, and he wouldn’t let her fall.  And if she did fall, he would help her up and smile encouragingly.  He would tell her to be careful, and brush off the dirt, and tell her not to cry.

                At one point, she had believed her mother would do the same.  But she felt betrayed; she wasn’t.  She questioned her mother’s love then, as children are wont to do when they feel neglected.  Distracted by her discouraging thoughts, she tripped and fell again, tumbling into the dirt for the umpteenth time.  This time, her mother did not come back to pick her up.  Rather, she looked back, and waited anxiously for her to pick herself up, and only made a motion for her to hurry to keep up.

                It felt like they had been going for an eternity by the time she collapsed again, in tears at her own weakness.  Her mother came back for her, lifting her into her arms.

                Then she froze.  Lura looked up, listening.  She heard… dogs?  It was the braying of hounds, and she saw her mother go ghost-white.

                She fled, carrying Lura in her arms, running as quickly as she could, desperately.  She tripped, and stumbled.  Branches seemed to pull them back, whipping at their faces, catching on their clothing.  Her dress ripped and tore, and she continued on.

                They raced.  Twigs snapped.  A rock tumbled down a slope, striking another rock.  The sound was so loud Lura felt that everyone could hear it.  The dogs certainly did, and it sounded like they were getting closer.  Their braying was getting clearer.

                Her mother ran on, her long legs pumping, her feet striking against the earth in a desperate, mad rush to get away, tears streaming down her cheeks as she strained against time, against the limits of her own body, with everything at stake.

                She stumbled, and fell.  Lura tumbled out of her arms.  She could see the hounds, just down the slope, and behind them, their handlers, the soldiers, on their mounts.  Her mother’s eyes widened, and she scrambled to her feet.  She stumbled, and rushed headlong down the slope.

                Lura stared after her in wide-eyed disbelief.

                She… had left her.  “Mama!” she cried out, as if in pain.  The tears streaked down her face as she watched her mother disappear under the trees.  Her lower lip quivered, and she sobbed.

                She was abandoned.  Mama didn’t love her.  Mama didn’t want her.  She had abandoned her!

                The dogs were upon her.  One was called to hold her, and one man dismounted; the others pressed on after her Mama.

                She sniveled, scared of the dog, and scared of the man, but heartbroken over what her mother had done.

                She heard the dogs, heard a woman she knew to be her mother screaming.  Abruptly, the scream cut off.  The soldiers and the dogs returned, but not with her mother.  One of the men was cleaning a bloody knife, and her eyes locked on the blade, an icy sensation of dread welling up in her stomach.  And she began to realize…

                “What happened?” the man who had been left behind inquired.

                “When the dogs got her, she tried hitting them with a stick, and then _fucking attacked me_!” the other scoffed.

                A third man, the one with the knife, chortled, “I slit her throat—the woman was mad.  We don’t need to deal with no madwoman right now.”  Lura heard a small noise escape her lips in something like a gasp, but the tears wouldn’t come.  Her eyes hurt from all the crying she had done throughout the day, and it was just like there was simply nothing left.  Her heart cried out in agony as she felt that she finally understood.  The cold rationality of what death truly was touched her young mind, and the result was not as enlightening as she had assumed.  The adults were right to not truly explain it to her.  Death was scary, and painful and bloody, and meant that you would never see the person that died again.  It meant you were alone, and somehow that her mother had abandoned her right before she died made it all the worse.

                She would never get to say goodbye.  Never get to kiss her mother’s cheek again, or be held in her arms.  She would never have her mother brush her hair again, or tell her stories, or sing songs.  She wouldn’t hold her hand, or stroke her cheek.  Papa was dead too.  No one was coming back.

                Lura was alone in the world, and no one cared about her.  No one loved her.

                “The whole story, now,” the man huffed the order.

                One of the men visibly rolled his eyes.  “We were about to overtake her, and she… _went mad._   Started yelling and throwing dirt and rocks, and got a hold of a tree limb.  She started swingin’ it, and we got it away from her, but she kept kicking and clawing.”  He shrugged.  “She was mad.”

                “A mad woman can still _sell_.  You don’t have to be _sane_ to work a field,” the other hissed, taking a swipe at the man’s head.  His gauntlet connected with his helmet.  He looked to the others.  “Who killed her?  Who gave the order?”  
                One person reluctantly stepped forward.  “I did, ser,” he said, bowing his head in shame.  Lura heard the words, but not _really_.  Like she saw the forest around her, but it was only trees.

                The person took a swing at him.  He saw it coming, but didn’t try to dodge, or even block it.  He took the gauntleted fist to the temple, and went down.  He coughed, rolling in the dirt, dizzy.  “I’ll deal with you later,” he growled, then looked to the others.  He sighed, glancing down at Lura.  “The child won’t keep up with the horses—you take her, Boris.”

                The third man grumbled, and snatched her by the wrist.  She cried out, and screamed in terror.  This was the man who had killed Mama.


	9. The Hounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the daring escape comes to a rather sad end.

                Four days.  Four days they had been living off naught but nuts and berries, and they were all bone-weary and hungry.  The rabbit had spoiled, unable to eat it, so they had left it for creatures with stronger stomachs than they; something would eat it, she assured Newlyn.

                The pace they needed was not something they could attain with one man, a pregnant woman, and a child, with but one horse between them, and little food.  And Newlyn was in plate mail, for a while.  By the third day, he just couldn’t manage it anymore.  The walking, sleepless nights, all of it—and it was simply too much to ask of the destrier to bear without fodder too.  He tried to manage walking in his heavy mail, but they both knew it was doing naught but slowing them down, and they needed to be lighter on their feet.  He kept the gauntlets, the bracers, the boots and leg armor, but the good breastplate with the family crest—all that remained of his family’s tarnished honor--he had to leave behind.  He hid it, but she feared that it was not well-hidden enough.  It would be like a flag to their pursuers, but what else could be done?  He looked strange to her, in his padded leathers he wore under the armor, but he moved much more quickly, more fluent.  Though, she wondered if he should not have abandoned it days ago so they may have put more distance between the Tevinters and themselves.  In time, maybe soon, he would need that breastplate.

                He was a very kind man, and nothing if not thoughtful.  She wasn’t sure she liked the lessons he was giving Leto, and only a few weeks ago, she would have insisted against it, but now…  He had given her a knife too, and had also been teaching her—“just in case,” he said.

                That “just in case” seemed to be always at their heels, driving them to flee ever farther at a rate that was approaching too much for them.  The poor horse had about had it—she was a war horse, after all; she was a ferocious thing for charges, a cavalry horse.  She could bear a man in full armor for a time, but run through the woods with limited breaks, little to eat, and no sleep was approaching too much for the girl.  Mieta feared the horse would soon stubbornly dig in her hooves and refuse to move.  She had heard that there were some horses that would run until they were dead, but Bluebell was the sort to stop moving when it became too much for her.  The poor thing desperately needed that saddle off, but they didn’t dare give her the break she needed, and leaving her saddled for so long was naught but cruelty.  What would they do when the horse wouldn’t move?  Leave her if they had to, she supposed.

                She had been listening to the dogs for nearly an hour now, and knew they were gaining on them.  Elves had sharper hearing than humans, and the dogs were anything but quiet, and they echoed.  And when she at first hadn’t heard the dogs themselves, she had heard signs of them—suddenly fleeing birds, the stillness of the forest, and how _wrong_ everything had felt when they were gaining on them.  The forest, to one with trained eyes, always gave signs of wrongness.

                She had no doubt in her mind that they were on their trail, knew they would catch them, and so saw no point in running their horses where they could break a leg just to catch them more quickly.  With the failing light, it was a good plan to move more slowly.  That almost made it worse.  She had no illusions that they didn’t know precisely where they were, and no illusions that they would outrun them.  Their only real hope lay in reaching the nearest Qunari encampment, or even a hunting party.  It was a slim chance, that.  But _possible_ , Mieta had to keep telling herself, or the despair would make her simply give up and submit to slavery.  If it were only herself, it would be something else.  But she had to keep going for her son’s sake, and for that of her unborn child.

                She looked down at Newlyn.  “They’ll be upon us soon,” she warned him.

                He nodded.  “Then we need to find a place to make a stand.”  He looked about him, and continued purposefully forward.  He led them up a winding path as if he knew this forest—maybe he had been through pieces of it when he had been hunting--up to a precipice that Bluebell liked not at all.  He gave the reigns to Leto after helping Mieta down, and insisted the boy stay on the horse, no matter what.  “She’ll protect you,” he told him.  His eyes were wide with fear, but he nodded bravely.  Mieta was proud of her son.

                For a child, he was proving incredibly steady, and cried a lot less than any other child his age might have.  Mieta saw Newlyn go to his knees, for a moment, hands clasped together in prayer.  Leto peered around the horse’s head, watching him with faint curiosity.

                Mieta went to her son.  She had no words to say to him, but hugged him nonetheless.  He hugged her back, dutifully, but she felt like something in him had changed since he had witnessed his father’s death.  She feared something about him was fundamentally cracked ever since that moment, though she prayed that wasn’t the case.

                “You’ve been very brave, darling,” she said to him.  “But I need you to be braver still.”

                He said nothing, but looked at her.  He could hear the dogs, too, after all.

                Newlyn rose to his feet, watching.  She looked back, over the ledge.  The dogs had appeared from under the trees, three of them—hunting hounds.  They brayed at the bottom of the ledge, looking up at them, their forms just barely visible through the mists clinging to the ground.  Their prey was cornered, and their job at least was done.

                The knight turned his head, only slightly, keeping his eyes below, and said, “Mieta.  If they catch you, remember this:  Slavery is not a state of being; it’s a state of mind.  Tell your children.”  He swallowed.  “Tell them every day, and let them never forget it.”

                She was too terrified, and tired, to puzzle through his words, but she remembered them.

                Their handlers came first, followed by the collection of soldiers.  Mieta paled when she saw the long pale blue robe.  They had sent one of the mages after them.  Newlyn grew pallid, and glanced over at the other side of the ledge.  Mieta followed his gaze.  The ledge continued, and there was even a narrow path.  It was too slender for a horse, and would have to be taken on foot, inching along sideways, and it disappeared around a bend.  There was no telling if it continued past that or not.

                But Newlyn, she knew, was no Templar that could hope to defeat a mage.  They were all nothing but a few drops of water to a raging fire.

                The soldier’s jaw set, and his eyes had gone hard.  Mieta knew what he meant to do, but she didn’t want to abandon the one who had risked so much to help them.  It just didn’t seem fair.

                He glanced back at her, once, as he watched the soldiers slowly make the ascent.  She even saw them joking and laughing.  The mage stayed back, as was appropriate, looking up at them from astride her horse, a slight smirk adorning her face.

                It just didn’t seem fair.  They had worked so hard to get away, risked so much, been through so much, and they were already upon them.  It just wasn’t fair.  After everything they had been through, they would only be captured again, and sold off as slaves, she assumed, or killed.

                “Run,” Newlyn hissed through gritted teeth.

                Mieta looked at the approaching soldiers, and the mage, nervously backing up toward the horse.  “I won’t abandon you to die,” she insisted.

                “I die either way.”

                “Come with us,” she insisted.

                He shook his head, firmly.  “Can’t.  There won’t be anyone to stall them while you escape.”  She looked up at her son.  She lifted him from the saddle, and placed him down on the ground, reluctantly.  “Could you take off Bluebell’s saddle?”

                She nodded, and unbuckled it.  She shoved it off and simply let it fall.  The big horse sidestepped away from it, her tail flicking, but she tossed her head appreciatively, chomping at the bit.  Newlyn picked up the saddle in one hand, which might have been impressive, once; it was heavy, but Newlyn was a pretty big man.  She wondered what he was planning on doing with it.  He shoved his sword, point-first, into the earth beside him, and took the saddle in both hands.  He looked down at the approaching soldiers, and they backed up upon seeing what he had planned.  He waited, and the mage yelled at them, so they reluctantly continued.  She realized he was intending to heave the heavy thing at them.  She wished him the best of luck at it, and hoped he knocked at least one of them off the slope.  There was no point in going for his bow; they were in armor, and had shields.  While an arrow could still cause some bruises against such things, it would be almost completely a wasted effort for all but a master archer, and Newlyn was not that.

                The horse seemed relieved to be out of the saddle at long last.  Mieta scratched the mare’s neck affectionately, and hesitated before she left.  She looked back at Newlyn, his brow drawn down seriously, and knew without a doubt that he was going to die.

                “I will remember you always,” she told him.

                He looked back over his shoulder, just a quick glance.  “As the man who failed you.”

                She shook her head a little.  “No.  As the man who risked everything for someone he didn’t know nor had any obligation to.  You are a noble man, Newlyn,” she told him.  She took Leto’s hand in hers, and led him across, slowly and carefully, over the narrow ledge.  Her back pressed against the wall, she breathed deeply, trying not to notice the huge gap between her feet and the ground below.  She tested each step before she took it.  Once, a bit of earth crumbled away, and her stomach tightened in fear.  She wondered if facing the soldiers would be better.

                That was when she heard the first clash of swords, the yelling.  She heard something heavy banging against something else, a sound of an animal in pain.  They were fighting, and Bluebell had joined her master in the fray.  She tried to hurry, as much as she dared.  They had just rounded the bend, and the path opened, when she heard the horse’s death scream.  She shuddered to herself, and she felt Leto’s hand tighten briefly.

                They could walk, while not side by side, at least a bit more comfortably now, though it was quite steep, and at times, it was easier to crawl.

                The earth suddenly seemed to quake, the ground shivering, making her hug the path as she crawled down, for fear of being shaken loose.  Something told her that this was no natural quake; this was the wrath of the mage.

                The fighting had stopped though.  That must mean that Newlyn was dying or dead.  She closed her eyes for a brief moment in his honor, and kept going.

                The path drifted down into a fog-ridden ravine, and there they could run, so they did.  They raced along the bottom of the ravine, eyes wide with fright, but dark with lack of sleep.  Newlyn had told her that the only reason they would pursue them for so many days could only be to bring himself to justice, and had assured her that, _maybe_ if she and her son could get far away enough should this ever happen, they may not feel inclined to give chase if she could only put enough distance between them.  After all, their primary concern was in dealing with the deserter, not two runaway captives.  He commented that chasing after only two of them, and having the entire army held up for a few runaways would cost them more than it would earn them.  He had also, late at night when Leto was asleep, cursed himself in a low whisper for not sending the pair on ahead with Bluebell, and leaving himself behind.  At the time, Mieta had had none of that nonsense.  Now, she only wondered if he had been right.

                With two captives being a meager prize, they still had a chance.  Maybe they would leave herself and her son now that Newlyn was dead.  She mourned his death; he was a good man.  But if his death could save her life, and her son’s, it was a sacrifice well-worth the cost.  One life for two, three if she counted the form growing in her womb.

                But she dared not wait to find out.  They had to flee, and get as far as possible.  They would know soon enough if they followed.

                The ravine gradually flattened until they were again winding amidst the trees.  She had thought, for one brief, shining moment, that they had done it, that Newlyn’s prediction had rung true.

                Then she heard the dogs.

                It was the dogs that ran them down, but they weren’t war hounds to tear out their throats, just hounds used to pin their quarry, but they still barked, and snapped, and snarled—ready to pounce if need be, but content to hold.  The soldiers came, and the handlers, the mage.  Mieta tried to keep running, but then they were all around her.

                Her hand went to her knife as a man in studded leather armor approached her.  He had a bit of blood on him—probably Newlyn’s blood; it was fresh—and seemed more bored than anything else.  “You’ve led us on a merry chase,” he said, quite annoyed.  “Time to head back to camp.  I’m sure you’re half-starved anyway, so it couldn’t be that bad.”

                Her eyes narrowed.  She’d rather be starving and exhausted than fed and captive.  She didn’t know how the knife came to be in her hand.  One moment, it wasn’t, and the next, the steel flashed through the air.  Her hand sailed, and six inches of steel plunged into the man’s unarmored neck.  He sputtered, gasping.  He slid off of the blade, slumping to the ground.  Blood pooled around him, soaking his shirt.  Her hand was bloody.  The knife dripped blood.

                Her eyes widened in horror.  Mieta had killed someone.  A man was dead, and it was her fault.  Not someone else’s—her own.  His life was gone, snuffed out for an eternity, because of one quick, unthinking motion.  The knife dropped from her trembling hand.  She was barely aware of her son beside her staring at the dead man.  She dimly heard another of the soldiers curse.

                They didn’t beat her for killing him, maybe because another soldier pointed out her obvious pregnancy.  The mage commented that she hadn’t liked him anyway, and bound Mieta’s wrists in a cord.  They put her on the dead man’s horse, and tied her to the saddle.  Leto they put in front of her, and didn’t bother tying him.  There wasn’t much point when the boy couldn’t even get down without help, after all.

                She tried not to look when they rode past the place Newlyn’s body should be, but she saw Leto’s head turn toward him.  She pushed his face away, whispering to him not to look.  He said nothing, but seemed annoyed that she wouldn’t let him see.

                A child didn’t need to see so much death.

                She wished she could take it back.  She wished that she could take back her decision to kill that man in front of her child.  He had just seen his mother kill someone.  Her hands had drying blood on them, from a dead man.  She shivered at the thought.  She wished…  There were a lot of things she wished, and all were unattainable.

                But, regardless, she did wish she could do better for her son.


	10. The Shadow of the Imperium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mieta tries to give hope to a crestfallen child on a voyage into a life of slavery, misery, and woe.

                Lura felt so numb.  Her eyes hurt, and she felt like there just weren’t any more tears left.  When they had gotten back to the camp, the men had beaten her with a long stick, and thrown her back in the mud.  She had cried, cried for days she thought, but it didn’t help.

                Lura was alone.  Mama and Papa were both dead and they were never coming back.  She would never see Lady either, or her home.  Even the people she recognized and knew by name seemed different enough to be strangers now.  They offered her no comfort, no salvation, no hope.

                She spoke not at all, and ate mechanically.  One time, a girl a few years older than she stole her food.  She only let it go.  If she didn’t eat, she would die too, she knew.  But Mama and Papa were dead.  So maybe…  Maybe it would be best if she were dead too.  If she were dead, she wouldn’t be so alone, would she?

                She sat, and watched.  Eventually, the wagons began to move again, but even more slowly than last time; there were injured soldiers, and the mages healed where they could, but apparently serious wounds took a long time to heal, and animals had been killed in the fighting as well, so a lot more people had to walk.  The camp followers had suffered as well, and they lagged behind even further.

                By the third day of traveling since the in-fighting (the sixth since Mama died), she saw Leto again.  He walked, sullen, tired, and dirty beside his mother, who faired no better.  She noticed that they didn’t beat her, but seemed to want to.  That didn’t stop them from beating her son though, and it seemed like that was far worse for her to Lura.

                She cried out as if it were herself, and begged to be hurt in his stead.  Lura watched on, feeling cold, and numb.  They had done the same thing to her, after all.  She knew what that stick felt like.  She imagined that it might be the same one too.  Her back still had welts.  A woman said that it might even scar.  Leto was bloodied by the end of it, and shaking, just like she had been, his voice having abandoned him.  She had stopped screaming too.  It was like her voice had just given out, like floorboards rotted away beneath her feet.  The tears hadn’t stopped though.

                But at the end of it, his mother picked him up, cradling him against herself, and he held on to her tightly.  Lura’s fingers curled tighter, hugging her legs to her chest.  She begrudged him that.  His mother was alive to hold him afterwards.  No one had held her.  People had tried not to see her hurt and in pain, and stole her food.  Mieta had gotten some water from a puddle and did what she could to strain the dirt from the water as she washed off her son’s back of the blood.  No one had helped Lura.

                As Mieta walked to the wagon on staggering feet, she saw Lura sitting on the grass alone.  She went to her, and knelt beside her, still holding her child.  Leto looked back at her over his shoulder.  His eyes were wet, and red.  “Lura, darling, you look terrible,” Mieta cooed, and opened one arm in an inviting hug.  Lura had thought she couldn’t cry any more.  Had thought she had cried all her lifetime’s tears already, but she found there were still some left.  Wetness tracked down her cheeks as she flung herself against the woman’s chest, and sobbed into her shoulder, her tiny fists clutching her blouse.

                It felt so good to be held.  Just to have someone who noticed, who cared.  Why couldn’t Mama still be alive?  She had felt so… so wicked.  She had been angry, angry that Mieta was still alive when Mama was dead.  It hadn’t felt _fair_ , but that was wicked to think.  She _couldn’t_ think like that—it was _wrong_ to think like that.  She couldn’t say _why_ exactly, but it felt _evil_ to think that way.  Surely it wasn’t someone else’s fault that their mama was alive when hers was dead?  Besides… her mama had abandoned her and tried to run away without her.  She just couldn’t make it make any sense.

                “Mama…  Mama!” Lura screamed into Leto’s mother’s chest.  Mieta, a mother herself, understood the child’s desperate cries, and held her more tightly for her loss.  Lura wept for all the things wrong in the world, even the things she didn’t understand, or couldn’t know.  She cried for her hurt, for Leto’s hurt, for Mieta’s hurt, and all the other people still alive, and dead, and who would die.  She cried, and wondered why this war was so important.  She wondered why this could happen, why would anyone let it happen?

                When the two children finally let go of her, she held them both out at arms reach, and gently wiped away their tears.  Lura reached out, and took Leto’s hand.  He glanced back at her.  He didn’t smile, not even a little, but he did squeeze back her hand, and she felt, even just a little bit, better.

                Mieta’s smile looked forced even to Lura, and it faded quickly.  “You’re both so brave,” she told them.  Lura didn’t feel brave.  She felt cowardly, and miserable, and wretched.  She felt filthy and hungry, and so tired.  But she didn’t voice her thoughts; it was nice to hear someone praise her.  “You know the spirits of those who have died can still hear you?” she told them.

                Lura’s eyes grew wide with wonder.  “They can?” she asked, wanting to believe.  She wanted to believe that Mama and Papa could still hear her.

                Mieta nodded seriously.  “Yes, and they’re watching over you too,” she said, and touched Lura gently on the nose.  She tousled her son’s hair as she was wont to do.  “So remember that always.”  She sat back, straightening her back.

                “But if they can hear us, why don’t they say anything?” Lura asked.

                But the woman only smiled at the child’s innocence.  “They do,” she insisted.

                Lura frowned.  She had prayed, and cried, and even screamed for Mama and Papa, but it certainly felt like no one ever heard her, much less answered her.  Maybe Mieta was only making it up after all.  She felt her heart fall.  “But…”

                “Darling.”  The woman cupped her cheek gently, lifting her head to see into her eyes.  “You have to listen, and be very quiet, or you won’t hear them.”

                And Lura felt the tears begin to well again.  “But…  But I’ve been talking to them, and they don’t answer!” she heard herself sob.

                “Were you very quiet?” Mieta asked her, her voice dropping down to a whisper.  The two children listened intently.  “You have to be very quiet, because they have very soft voices, because it’s coming from far away.”

                Lura’s lower lip quivered, and her stomach twisted in knots.  Had she missed their messages?  Had they been speaking all this time and she had missed it?  Had she been too loud?  “But…  But…  What if I missed it?” she asked, her eyes welling with fresh tears.  She wondered at her ability to produce tears.

                “Don’t worry.  They’ll always try again, but you must listen,” Mieta told her.

                Lura paused, and nodded.  “I’ll listen,” she promised.  Mieta hugged them both again.

 

                Lura whispered her prayers at night, and told her Mama and Papa how frightened she was, how much she missed them.  She lay awake at night straining the darkness for their answer.  She often drifted to sleep before she heard them, though felt she heard their voices sometimes as sleep claimed her.

                The road was long, and the wagon was cramped, but walking was hard.  If she walked, and some days, she had to, her feet were sore and she was so tired at the end of the day that she didn’t want to move.  But riding in the wagon meant that her legs were cramped, and she couldn’t stretch all day, and she had to squirm and try to hold her bladder until it stopped in the afternoon, or all the way until dinner.  Either way, she hated it, but it soon passed into a terrible routine and became all she knew.

                She took some solace in Leto, though he had changed a bit.  He didn’t speak very often, but he let her curl up against him at night for warmth, and Mieta held them both as best she could.  She was glad of Leto’s mother.  No one stole her food with her around, and Mieta sometimes carried her when they had to walk, so that made it better.

                Lura felt like everything in the world had been taken from her.  Her family, her home—everything.  She didn’t feel like Lura anymore—she felt like someone else.

                The soldiers seemed excited about something, and she wondered what it could be, and continued wondering until afternoon the day after, and she finally saw the city.  There were big walls, just like in Schavalis, with high turrets, and towers.  Men patrolled the walls.  It was a city by the sea, and standing on the hill as they were, she could even see the ships in the harbor.  They stopped early, and were given food.  The adults were tied together with rope, and everyone was marched into the city.  Lura stayed close to Leto and Mieta.  She wanted to ask questions, but something kept her silent.

                A smaller division of soldiers marched along with them, leaving the main body behind.  She was tired and footsore by the time they had made it to the city.  Mieta couldn’t carry her with her wrists bound.  She looked up at the rope around the woman’s neck.  She couldn’t say what she thought of it; she didn’t understand it.  Why would someone do that?  She just… didn’t understand.

                There were people who came and spoke with the soldiers, and then they were ushered along by a different, less scruffy but no less menacing, group of men.  The few remaining older male captives were separated and brought elsewhere—all those from about eleven summers and up, she judged.  What she didn’t know was that they would be briefly trained, and then sent to fight against the Qunari.

                The others were brought to a different place, and put in another warehouse, with cages.  Lura was grateful when they put her in the same cage as Leto and his mother, and unbound Mieta’s wrists.        They were promptly ignored.  Mieta told them stories to pass the time, and she saw other people listening to her stories as well.  Sometimes, another adult would tell a story, and Lura strained to hear.  They fed them a bit more now, but they were there for days and it quickly stunk.  Lura and Leto were not the only children there, and all of them, including Lura, asked what was going on frequently, but none of the parents were inclined to answer.  The questions, though, as many children as there were—over a dozen—never seemed to cease, from one to the other.  One day, one of the teenage girls yelled in a vicious voice, “They’re taking us to Tevinter, you stupid child!  We’re going to be sold and auctioned as _slaves_!”  The venom in her voice had made even the boldest of the children hush, before the inevitable questions continued, and the girl was only too happy to sadistically explain what “slavery” meant in scathing tones, even as the other adults tried to make her stop.

                “Some of you will work in fields in chains for the rest of your life,” she said with the cruelest smile Lura had ever seen.

                “Please stop…”  An older woman.

                “You stop, old hag—What good will _you_ be for?  Nothing, that’s what.  You’ll be fortunate if they send you into the coliseum, and you’ll be consumed by lions,” she hissed, then cackled somewhat madly before she continued on her rant.  “And _some_ of you will be sold to brothels—and wouldn’t you all like to know what _that_ means.”  She laughed again.

                “Stop it, please…  Rhinesse, stop,” another teenage girl who seemed to know her pleaded.

                The girl, Rhinesse hissed a laugh at the other girl’s expense.  “You.”  She sneered.  “I bet _you_ get sold to some magister and you’ll be scrubbing floors the rest of your life.”

                The other girl stared at her as if hurt.  “Rhinesse, you can’t…”

                Rhinesse laughed again.  “Oh, and all of you will have to call someone ‘Master’ for the rest of your _pathetic_ lives.  And don’t even get me started on the _breeding_ process for slaves—have fun with that.”

                “What do you mean?” a six-year old inquired.

                “Don’t listen to her,” his mother said.

                “But what does she _mean_?”

                Rhinesse sneered.  “And you better hold onto your mommies while you can.  Most of you will be sold to different masters, and you’ll never see your ‘mommy’ again.”

                This made the youngest and most sensitive begin to cry.  Leto was eerily silent on the matter, and stared straight forward as if he were not listening.  Lura was quiet, as both her parents were dead.  “Stop it—look what you’ve done!” one of the mothers snapped at the girl.  “What right do you have to do this?  You’re acting like a spoiled child.”

                Rhinesse gave her a malicious grin, as if she were actually enjoying tormenting all of the youngsters like this.  “What would you know?  A wrinkled thing like _you_ didn’t get used by the soldiers every night.  What do you know?”  And she crossed her arms angrily, and glared at all the children.  “It’ll happen to most of you, you know.  Even the boys, I bet.  One day, a man is going to force you down and—“

                Mieta had finally had enough of her, and being that they were in the same cage, stalked over to her and slapped her across the face.  “Shut up,” she whispered, her voice low and dangerous.  “Just shut up.  No one wants to hear it.  I’m sorry about what happened to you, but what we need right now isn’t horror stories—it’s keeping these children calm, and you are _not helping so be quiet.”_

                With that, she went back to Lura and Leto, and sat down as if nothing at all had happened.  Rhinesse fell silent, nursing her cheek where Mieta had slapped her.

                Later the next day, they were marched back out, down to the harbor.

                Lura stared down at the tiled streets in quiet wonder.  They were mosaics!  There was one in the market square too, but this was just an ordinary street!  She wished she could stay and figure out the picture, but they just kept going.  She stared around the city.  It seemed strange.  There were so many humans here.  She had seen humans of course, but there were many elves in Schavalis, and their numbers had been about equal with the humans that had lived there.  She guessed that humans had lived in this place.

                Brightly coloured flags whipped at the top of buildings, the sun beat down on them, the ocean breeze carried the scent of salt and fish.  People went about their business and didn’t even give her a second glance.  Seeing all the people in their fine, clean clothing only reminded Lura that she had been in the same dress for weeks now, and it was dirty and travel-worn, ripped and tattered.  It wouldn’t last much longer, she thought.  She felt gross, and dirty, and scratchy.  She wondered if there were fleas and lice on her, the way she kept itching.

                The docks were a busy place, and somehow felt open, and lonely, even with all the people and the towering buildings, the ships, and the cargo stacked all around.  They were put in what she heard someone call “the hold,” which was a large open space, but inside cages with straw piled on the bottom of them.  She was put in a cage with Mieta, Leto, and one other elf, an older girl who stared out at the world as if she were already dead.

                The tossing of the boat out at sea made her sick at first, but she ate so little, she didn’t throw up.  She laid with her head in Mieta’s lap, and the woman stroked her hair gently, and she felt better.  She heard people crying at night, and sometimes, she heard herself crying at night, though couldn’t always name why.  Someone screamed over a rat before someone else made the screamer shut up.

                Sometimes, a couple of the sailors would come down with the keys and take someone out.  They always brought the girls back, though.  Lura wondered what they could be doing to them.  Once, it happened with the quiet girl in the cage with them.  She went quietly.  Rhinesse always screamed and fought when they did it—some of them did.  They always came back beaten and bruised.

                Lura knew what that was like.  Her own beating had only just healed, and she knew it had scarred, though she couldn’t see all the marks on her back.  Leto hadn’t scarred, and she was almost angry about that.

                The girl was brought back and shoved into the cage.  She fell on her knees, and Lura watched her quietly.  The girl was shaking, and crying.

                Mieta tried to comfort her, but the girl shoved the woman angrily away, and slunk in her corner.  Lura thought of it as being the girl’s corner anyway—she rarely moved from it, except to go to the other corner, to make water or something.

                They tried to keep their waste confined to one area in the hay, but with the ship’s rocking, it just wasn’t possible to do it completely.  It stank at first, but Lura became accustomed to it after a while.  There was little choice but to accept it.

                She also became accustomed to the little amount of light, the creaks and groans of the ship, the way it moved.  She became accustomed to the sounds the others made, and knew them by voice if not by name.

                A man came down, and took the girl again.  She sobbed when she was led away.  Oddly, that time, she didn’t return, but she heard two sailors, as they came down into the hold for something in one of the cargo boxes, talking about how “one of the slaves jumped overboard and drowned”.  Did they mean that girl?  Had she jumped overboard and drowned?

                Lura had nearly drowned once—she remembered.  She had slipped and fallen into the deep end of the pond, and Papa hadn’t realized in time.  He had dove in after her, but not before she had swallowed a lungful of water, and it had hurt—bad.  The memory was hazy, but she remembered the pain of breathing the water.  Was it like that to die from it too?  Or was it worse?  Was drowning better than what was happening to her, to them all?  It must be, if she had truly jumped.  But what was happening that that pain and then death was better?  The idea that pain and death was better than wherever they were going was terrifying.

                Lura couldn’t say for certain, but the girl never came back all the same.

                It was nighttime when the ship docked again, and the adults were brought out one by one, and tied together.  Lura stayed close to Mieta, afraid again.  They were brought above deck, and her first glimpse of starlight after so long in the meager light seemed blinding.

                She kept a hold of Mieta, and walked with her.  As they were led down off the ship, and through the docks, she looked up at the city, and gasped.

                The first thing she saw was that it was enormous.  There were bigger buildings than she had imagined were possible—not just towers, but big soaring buildings with windows, but were long like a house could be, and bigger.  And they were painted, and there were statues, and carvings—not just in a few places, but everywhere.  The street they were led on was paved, and clean.  The air smelled like incense.  They were given a few buckets of water, and told to strip and wash with a harsh lye soap, to help with the vermin.  Mieta helped both children first.  Leto was more independent and refused assistance with anything.  They were dressed in their rags again shortly, shivering and damp.

                They were put in another warehouse, in other cages.  At least these ones had clean straw, and chamber pots.

                She wondered what this place was, but remained silent until the men had gone, and Mieta rubbed her previously bound wrists.

                “Where are we?” Leto asked before Lura could.

                Mieta seemed reluctant to answer, and at first Lura wondered if she had heard him at all.  “This is Minrathous,” she whispered, and something about the tone of her voice made the children fall silent.  “The capital of the Tevinter Imperium.”

                Lura had heard about this place, of course, but had never imagined to see it.  Naturally, she knew next to nothing about it.  She supposed… she had plenty of time to learn.


	11. The Flash of a Blade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Leto begins to write his own fate...

                Raith trailed after his master dutifully, but to be honest, was bored out of his mind.  He understood that a magister had to do these errands sometimes, but he really didn’t like walking.  _Why_ did they have to _walk_ anyway?  Couldn’t the slaves carry a litter?  Or a carriage even?

                The apprentice slogged along, to all looking unhappy to be out in the sunshine of the day.  He would rather be studying, or doing something _useful_.  He reprimanded himself immediately:  Of course this was useful.  There were certain investments with the ship captains, certain investments with the slave traders, certain bribes to be made, and Raith had to learn them _all_ if he were really going to be a decent apprentice, let alone magister one day.

                Still…

                Surely this could be done from the sanctity of an office room at the manor, maybe while sipping a cool glass of gin?  That would be nice.

                And fitting—making the _lesser creatures_ scurry to _him_ to do business.  But his master _had_ said that if he didn’t physically _see_ these things, at least _sometimes,_ they could lie and cheat him.  Don’t even trust spies and never trust friends for a magister had none, he had told him—that was how one stayed alive in a world governed by politics and magic.  And the backstabbing, assassinations, and duels were just another facet of it, and not even something he should consume too much energy worrying about at that!  The political backstabbing was the worst of it.

                Frankly, sometimes Raith wondered if it was a life he wanted at all.  As a child, it was a dream-come-true.  As a teenager, though…  Well, he really wanted to go meet a girl or something sometimes, and he was under such strict rules and regulations, had certain protocols to adhere to…  He wasn’t even allowed to get _drunk_ lest it tarnish his most esteemed master’s name.  And the one time he _had_ decided to ignore that particular rule, his master had… not been happy, to say the least—and neither had Raith by the end of it.

                He had been twelve at the time when he started apprenticing.  He hadn’t even been at an age where he truly knew what he was doing—just that it meant a better life.  Money, power—what more could a man want?  _Sometimes,_ he thought ruefully, _a man just wants to get drunk at a cheap bar and go to bed with a whore._

                Surely, _that_ wasn’t such a bad thing?

                His master was brilliant, in every meaning of the word, and frequently made him feel inferior, despite their scant difference in age—not even ten years.  Part of his master’s brilliance, after all, lay in that he was one of the youngest magisters in history, as far back as the Storm Age, due to a series of unfortunate familial events as well as passing all the tests ahead of time, and assumed the title at a mere twenty winters.  He, though, had grown up with the idea, been trained for its inevitability, though he could have made it by apprenticing as well—and would have; he was talented.  That alone made his mark, even if it were a small scar along the path of history.  But he wasn’t content for that; he was striving to achieve greatness, something to be remembered for.  Raith just wondered if he ever rested.  He wondered if his master ever just… well, did anything for the sake of the action, and not a plan.  He wondered what he had been like as a child.  Just as serious?

                Most of the business of the day had already been attended to, though, so they really should have been leaving back to the manor soon, but were taking a severe detour through the slave market.  Danarius was always looking for something new.

                He trained slaves to fight in the coliseum, not personally of course—that would be silly—but he had his own team.  There was good coin in it, if they won, and it certainly won the crowd’s approval when a much-liked champion won, and they had a higher resale value when he inevitably sold them to the army additionally.  In short, it kept the commons happy, while getting them to like their magisters as well.  Entertainment did that.  Raith saw some point in that, but, frankly, disliked the coliseums overall.  They were noisy places, outside.  Why would anyone want to watch a bunch of half-naked, oiled slaves hack each other’s limbs off anyway?  Coin, he supposed—but the commons came.  They made bets too, though, but they certainly did cheer at the sight of blood.

                _Blood_.  Great power came from blood—that was one of his lessons, and why it was important that he remember the point of the coliseums.  Blood can not only be used to amplify his own power, but it can be used to control others.  Blood could heal grievous wounds and revive failed crops—it was one of the reasons for his country’s success.  And, not only just through magic.  He remembered the roar of the crowds, the way they went wild at the sight of first blood, like there was something truly mystical about it.  There wasn’t, but that didn’t stop them.  The coliseums slaked a person’s bloodlust too, and it proved a decent way to get rid of criminals.

                Raith’s lips curled into a tired frown when Danarius had stopped, and was looking at a group of slaves.  The merchant was boasting about how they came from Seheron.  Raith rolled his eyes.  That wasn’t a _boast_ —that meant they were half-wild and not to be trusted!  Still, they were always useful to throw into the coliseum; it wasn’t always about false battles and fighting; sometimes it was just about dying:  Bears, tigers, lions, wolves—the slaves were thrown in to them naked, and the crowd would place bets on the outcomes…  Which would be eaten first?  How long would they last?  Would they scream?

                He glanced at the “half-wild” wares.  _Well, they certainly_ look _cowed and subservient_ , he thought disdainfully.  Danarius was looking with some interest at a pregnant woman toward the back of the cage.  Elves could be difficult to breed sometimes, even with herbs to help with the process.

                “Have her step forward,” he commanded.  His tone was one that was used to being obeyed—instantly and without question, and woe to the one who was not quick about it.  The little merchant scurried around to the side.  He used a long cane to prod her in the thigh.

                “You—get forward,” he snapped.  She jumped, and hesitantly stepped closer, head down, and frightened.  Two children clung to either of her hands.  All elves looked alike to Raith, but neither really looked like her own children to him.  The boy (was it a boy?  It was so hard to tell at their age!) had a shade of blue-black hair he had never seen before, and sage green eyes, and looked little like the woman.  The girl was doe-eyed with what promised to be curly reddish brown hair if it were washed and brushed.  The pregnant woman had straight nearly black hair and frightened hazel eyes, more green than brown or blue.  He wondered if the two children hadn’t simply clung to the first person around them, but by her stance, she seemed protective of the two.  Raith noticed that she leaned more in front of the boy though.  If either was her real child, it was the boy.

                Elven children had all the beauty of the adults, with the natural charm of the young of any species.  Pleasant enough to look at or observe, but overall useless really.

                Danarius looked down at the boy, who stared up at him blankly, before his eyebrows drew down in, not fright, but a suspicious glare.  The man was amused, if nothing else.  He looked back at the woman.  “Does she have any skills?”

                The merchant fumbled, and removed a roster.  He ran through it briefly, stuttering a bit as he did so.  But Danarius looked back at her.  “Do you?” he addressed her instead.

                She swallowed, and looked down without saying anything.  The merchant jabbed her immediately with the cane, in the back this time.  She made a small sound of pain, but otherwise didn’t move.  “Answer him, bitch!”

                She blinked, and continued staring downwards.  “I was… a… tailor… serrah.  I’m very good at embroidery… and hats,” she added, voice so soft that Raith had to strain to hear it. Her poor accent suggested that, while she did speak some Tevene, it was not a tongue she often used, which may have been the reason for her long delay in speaking.

                Danarius was looking at the child beside her.  “Is he yours?” the magister inquired, switching to the Trade tongue with relative ease.

                The boy stared up at him, defiantly, but still was pressed close to his mother’s leg.  “Yes, serrah,” she squeaked.  The little girl was all but hiding behind her.

                “The girl?”

                A pause, then, “No, serrah.”

                His eyes strayed back to her pregnant belly.  Raith judged her to be… five months along, give or take.  Considering they were caught in war, he was surprised that she hadn’t miscarried.  The child would be strong, he assumed, considering all it had been through without even having been born.  And for an elf to have two children so close in age… It wasn’t unheard of, just unlikely; they reproduced slowly.  That had been a problem for slave-owners for generations, though, and a frustration.  But it _was_ why there were still plenty of human slaves available.  If she were fertile enough for that, it could prove worthwhile.

                He looked back at the elf-child with the black hair, who had only continued to glare up at him.  Raith wanted nothing more than to smack the child across the face, and teach him some manners, but Danarius…  Danarius was just amused as ever that the child would _dare_.

                He turned back to the merchant.  “How much—for the pair?” he said, gesturing to the mother and child.  The girl held on closer to her surrogate.  The boy reached toward the girl, comfortingly.  The pregnant woman was shaking, and starting to cry.  Pathetic, really—but typical.  He wondered what his master could possibly want with a three-year old and a pregnant tailor.  He supposed there was always tailoring work to be done, though.  And the boy… the boy might be rather pretty when he was older, he supposed.  His master owned several brothels—he could put him in one of those; he would probably fetch a decent price too in a few years.

                The haggling began, and the woman shivered.  The boy looked up at her, and back at the magister.  Raith saw the connection being made, but thought nothing of it.

                It happened so fast; no one saw it coming.  No one knew.

                One moment, all was normal.  The next…

                The boy’s arm flashed.  Raith caught a glimpse of steel in the sunlight, but at first couldn’t make his mind understand it.  He thought he must have been seeing things, because it wasn’t possible that…

                Then there was blood, a gasp of pain.

                The boy jumped back, away from the cage bars, stumbling backwards.  Danarius cried out in obvious pain, and fell.  The small knife was buried to the hilt, deep in his thigh.  He could bleed out from that.  Raith knelt beside him, magic tingling around his fingers already.  He dared not remove the blade yet—it could be the only thing slowing the bleeding.  He worked quickly, and he heard men yelling and calling for help around them.  There was no need; Raith was fair at healing for his age; apprenticing under a magister for nearly two years and he had learned much.

                He sought the core of magic within him, merged himself with it.  It wasn’t so much like drawing water from a well as releasing a floodgate, a restraint on the magic all mages learned to have.  But it wasn’t as simple as dumping a bucket of water into a glass to fill it.  He had to let it trickle, gently, lest it overflow or lest he spill.  His magic raced along the other’s body, seeking out the trouble, the ills, the pain.  Only when he was confident that the bleeding had been sufficiently halted did his fingers wrap around the hilt of the blade.  He gently drew it out, and dropped it beside him, away from the cage.  Flesh knitted, muscle wove back together.  But one thing had changed—there was a pale, thin scar across the place, for which he felt a pang of unease.

                He felt like he wasn’t good enough to be his apprentice.  A _good_ mage could heal anything without a scar.  He had been told, of course, that only the most skilled healer could do that, especially for a mortal wound, but he felt like he had to be that.  He felt like he had to be the most skilled at everything.

                The robe was ripped, and stained—possibly ruined.  Raith glared over his shoulder at the boy.  The mother had her arms around him, but the boy didn’t even seem to see her.  He was watching them with wide eyes, as if he hadn’t really grasped what he had been doing, and only now realized the implications.

                He had expected Danarius to react with anger, rage—kill the boy.  Raith wanted him to.  In fact, the words flew out of his mouth before he could reign them in.  He glared at the merchant, and pointed at the child.  “Kill him,” he hissed.

                But Danarius rose, slowly, and putting most of his weight on the other leg, to his feet.  “No,” he said.  Raith blinked.  _No?_

                He rose, quickly and full of anger.  He gestured to the bloodied dagger at their feet.  “But that brat could have killed you,” he found himself arguing.

                The mage didn’t answer, but looked at the pair cowering in the cage.  The mother looked so terrified for her son’s life.  The merchant was completely pale, stricken.  The magister could have him killed, after all.  “I—I’ll give him to you, and the woman,” he added quickly.  “Just…  P-please…”

                “Have them sent to my manor,” the magister said, dismissing him in the same breath.  He turned, not even limping as he moved on, back to his manor.

                The merchant shouted to his own apprentices, taking out his anger on them.  Raith picked up the small blade, and quickly followed after his master.

                What was he _thinking_?  Or maybe he just wanted to kill the boy more slowly?  Or use his life in a spell?  At least some _good_ would come out of the brat’s worthless hide!

                If Danarius had died…  If he hadn’t gotten there in time…  A person could die from a wound to the leg.  They could bleed to death in mere minutes.  If he had died, Raith’s life might as well be over.  He would be a dead magister’s apprentice.  He couldn’t amount to much like that.  He didn’t know what he would have done.


	12. Reality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mieta despairs, and Leto has a much-delayed breakdown.

                She had never realized that he still had the blade.  Why hadn’t she seen it?  Why hadn’t she thought to take it from him?

                But the answers whispered themselves to her, in her own voice no less—she knew the answers.  _Because Newlyn had told him the importance of keeping it hidden._

                Why had he acted?  Why had he stabbed that man?  She couldn’t make herself understand why her son would do that.  The man had frightened her, yes, but others had as well.  But something about the man made Leto glare at him where he hadn’t others.  Something had made him act.  Why?

                Then that other man had performed magic, and she realized—that man was a magister.  A mage—maybe a blood mage, like the Qunari spoke of so gravely (were any of their words not grave?).  Children, she knew, often sensed things others could not, or dared not.  He had sensed something, something about the man that he felt needed to die.  He hadn’t acted with anyone else—even men who had hurt him, or hurt her, or those around them.  But he had acted with this man.

                And now…  Now that same man who Leto had tried to _kill_ was their master.  She trembled at their fate.  They were slaves to a magister—a man who could kill them, use their blood in spells, and now had a reason to, out of more than a simple need for blood:  Vengeance.

                She feared for her son’s life.                             

                They were brought to a manor, but she scarcely saw the path there in her fear.  She remembered the terrified look on Lura’s face when they were led out.  The way her little hands clutched the bars, and she had cried at being left alone again.  The way she had screamed when Leto let go of her hand, and she had ran after them, stopping just short of the cage door by a menacing glare from the merchant.  The poor child was all alone now, and who knew what would become of her—the poor thing?  But what could Mieta do?

                Once they arrived, three women left the manor and took them, and brought them around the back of the manor.  They were brought into a wide stone building outside of it, and made to strip out of their tattered, stained, stinking clothing.  It was disposed of—the last few shreds of her life, the pair were made to wash in tepid water with a harsh soap.  They were toweled off, and Mieta was given a plain undyed shift to wear, her son the same.  The material was coarse, and uncomfortable.

                The women discussed amongst themselves things Mieta wasn’t listening to.  She was too distraught with worry for her son.  What had he gotten them into?  What was going to happen?  She prayed, no matter what, that her son would live.

                The slave compound was behind the manor, past what she recognized as a training ground, with men in armor hitting each other with dulled blades in an enclosed area—the sound of the steel on steel was loud.  They were marched past an orchard on her right, and she heard a babbling brook somewhere within it.  The compound was walled, and there were high walls all around the estate as well.  She wondered if it was so much to keep trespassers out, or the slaves in.

                They told her to report to a woman named Sadie in the morning, who would be outside the servant quarters, by the garden gate.  Mieta had seen it on the way in, and thought she knew where it was.  Just after the sun was risen, they told her—and don’t be late.  They told her that no one could be bothered to watch after her child, so he could either watch himself, or she could leave him in the courtyard, which was near where she would be working anyway.

                Later on, she would find that this wasn’t _entirely_ true.  There was one old elven slave woman, too old for any practical work, who was kept for the sole purpose of watching the youngsters.

                The compound was clean at least—a man of… her master’s… stature would have it no other way.  Anything less was an offense to the eye, she assumed.  There was a series of small wooden huts, identical, and orderly.  One of the women pointed to the longhouse at the end of the short dirt path.  She informed her that it was the dining hall, and if she missed a meal, it was her own problem.

                Mieta was brought to a small hut by the gate to the compound, and one of the three women opened the door, giving a cursory glance to what was inside.  She seemed satisfied, and they left her standing there.  Mieta felt… lost.

                She heard Leto walk bravely into the little hut, but she herself stayed rooted to the spot.  Her knees buckled, and she fell in the dirt.  She stared down at the path.

                _Will I have to walk up this path every day of the rest of my life?  Will I have to call a man “Master” for the rest of my life, just like that girl said?  Will my children be slaves for the rest of their lives?_

That last thought was worse than all the others somehow.  It hurt more, and somehow it felt like it was all her fault.  They could never escape—not now.  They were trapped… forever.

                Had her ancestors felt this same despair centuries ago?

                “Mama?” she heard her son call from the doorway.

                She turned, realizing her eyes had grown wet.  She blinked it away before she let her eyes rest on him.  He was standing with the door open, one hand against the doorframe.  He was staring at her inquisitively.  “Yes, baby?” she asked him.

                He made a face at the term, but made no mention of it.  In the past, he had complained.  He seemed so sad, so forlorn.  Like he was alone, and lost.  He looked how she _felt_.  “I’m sorry, Mama,” he said, and looked down.

                He was in her arms in seconds, and he hugged her back fiercely.  “I’m so sorry!” he cried again.

                “Hush,” she told him.

                “It’s my fault!” he cried, as if in pain.

                She didn’t know what to say for a moment.  But saying nothing would only confirm it for him in his mind.  “No, baby.  It’s not your fault,” she told him, her fingers burying in his thick jet hair.

                He shook his head against her shoulder.  “No—it’s my fault!” he screamed into her shoulder.  “I’m so sorry—so so s-sorry!”  Finally, _finally_ her child broke down in tears, the last words ending in a strangled sob.

                “Shh,” she whispered.  “Hush now; it’s not your fault.”

                He shook his head miserably.  “It’s my fault,” he continued to sob.  “I… I thought…  You were so scared…  A-and…  I…”

                “It’s all right,” she told him.  “I’ve got you.  It’s all right.”

                He sobbed again—once, but it was a pitiful, heart wrenching sound.  It was the sound of a heart not only breaking, but being shattered.  It didn’t matter what she said; he still thought it was his fault.  But, no, the end result could only be the same, she imagined.  Either way… they’d be slaves.  It wouldn’t matter _who_ their master was exactly, only that such a person existed.

                And, more importantly, they weren’t sold off _separately_ , but were given _together_.  It could have easily been so much worse, she knew.  In that light, maybe it was the best thing that could have happened.  Maybe they weren’t totally forsaken by the divine.

                She lifted her son, conscious that someone might be watching, and carried him into the little house with its hard-packed dirt floor.  It reminded her of her grandparent’s farm actually.  As a child, she had liked to play there, and they had had a dirt floor in a small room, quite similar to this one but more like a real home.  She took no time to look about.  Rather, she closed the door, and knelt, setting Leto down.  She held him by the shoulders at arm’s length, looking at him seriously, until he raised his head to look at her.

                “I want you to remember something, all right?  Promise me that you’ll remember,” she said.

                He blinked up at her, perhaps grasping the seriousness of what she said.  Unlike most children, he considered, and nodded once after his consideration.  “I promise,” he said confidently.

                She wiped away the remaining wetness on his cheeks.  “You may feel like you don’t have a choice, or any say in your life anymore,” she said, her voice gentle.  She cupped his cheek in one hand.  “But you do.  You _always_ have a choice.  Even if that choice is death, you _always_ have a choice, and it’s _always_ your decision to make, not someone else’s.  Do you understand, darling?”

                He paused, as if mulling over her words in his head, then nodded again.  “Yes, Mama.”

                She forced a smile.  “Good.”  Though there was no way to tell if he really understood, but she prayed that he would in time.

                Whoever had been in this place last had been unnecessarily tidy.  Seeing it so empty sort of bothered her at first.  Someone had obviously lived here, for at least a little while, a few someones.  There were actually four cots here, and a small clothespress, as well as a precious few other amenities in a haphazard cabinet.  What bothered her the most, though, was that there was clothing in the drawers.  Not a lot, but for a couple different people.

                A creeping feeling trailed up her spine.

                What had happened to them?

                She shivered at the implications, and decided it might be best not to know.  She heard Leto yawn, despite the early hour.  She picked him up off the floor, and set him in the bed by the one window, the shutters open to let in the light.

                Real beds at least.  For that, and that alone, she was almost _grateful_ for this.  She hadn’t slept in a real bed in so long…  The stories said that slaves slept on the floor.  She supposed that was either exaggerated, or this man was so incredibly wealthy that his slaves got beds.  She supposed it was, in reality, an investment:  A person worked better when they were healthy and rested.

                “Tell me a story,” he said, staring up at her through half-lidded eyes.

                Mieta sat on the edge of the bed, pulling the blanket up to his shoulders, knowing he would just push them down to his chest.  He shifted, rolling onto his side as he listened to her voice.  She told him a story she knew, about a boy, and a wyrm.  She told him about how the wyrm was plaguing a village, and the warrior-boy came to slay the wyrm.  She told him about their battle, and when the wyrm’s head was cut off, a beautiful princess spilled from its corpse, for she had been set upon with a terrible curse.

                “Is magic really like that?” he asked dubiously, already half-asleep.

                She shook her head.  “No, darling.  It’s not.”  Even she knew that.

                “Then why do we have stories like that?” he wondered.

                She kissed his brow affectionately.  “Because they’re stories—it’s just something someone made up about people who never existed, and things that never existed.”

                “But why?”

                She laughed again.  “Go to sleep, darling.  Sweet dreams.”

                “But…”  His eyes slid closed.  He was exhausted, she knew.  True, they had done very little of anything sitting in that cage, but somehow it had been a trial.  At least… it was over.  She hoped to never again be on the inside of a cage.  But she still felt trapped in one—in the cage of reality.

                She looked around her.  This was reality.  It was her reality, her children’s reality.  She shook her head.  She had seen a well on the walk here, and imagined there must be a privy somewhere near too.  Mieta hesitated, then snuck out of the door to find it, and learn where things were here.

                It was eerily devoid of life, and it made her not at all comfortable.  Everyone must be elsewhere—working, she imagined.  She found what she had set out to find, and came back.  She closed the door quietly behind her.  She sat on the edge of one of the beds, finger-combing her hair as best she could manage.  She supposed she would never see a proper comb again.  Maybe she should cut it if she was able to do so.

                She decided to take a nap too, but she fell asleep, not weeping, but with a heart so full of sorrow that she feared that she might. 


	13. Life and Love in Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Leto becomes a big brother.

                In the months that followed, Mieta developed a sort of routine, and in routine, she found some amount of solace.  Still… to no longer have any say in her life, or her child’s life…  Her spirit felt shattered, and the shards seemed to lodge themselves in her mind.  Call it dramatic, but she felt very much like she was bleeding out her soul.

                Leto was young enough to be excused from doing any kind of work, because he was little enough to really only get in the way.  From the look of things, they didn’t really begin to do any kind of work until they were a couple of years older.  That may be for the best.  When she had time, she tried to keep up with his lessons, despite everything—in secret, in the quiet, but it was hard, and she was so tired at night that oftentimes the lessons were skipped.

                Slaves weren’t allowed to learn much of anything anyway—which was why it was secret.  They had never asked her if she could read except that once, but she had found out very quickly that it wasn’t allowed.  It was easy to pretend, though, and a lot of people couldn’t read in Schavalis, as they were all descendents of slaves, so of course no one thought anything of it, but her father had been a shopkeeper, and she had helped out often enough that it was important to at least write out a receipt. 

                As it happened, people talked over her a lot, as if she weren’t there.  At first, it bothered her.  Later, it only amused her, and some of it was even useful to her—the better to avoid her master mostly, and keep her son away from him.  She didn’t like the way he looked at her—or at Leto.  He viewed them both as nothing so much as…

                She wasn’t sure.  She wasn’t even sure that there was really a term for it.  Blood?  Nothing but a fresh source of blood?  After four months, she was suspect that he was a blood mage, but only suspect, and that mostly from comments made and a few odd things she saw here and there.  Mages should be collared, like the Qunari said.  This is what happened otherwise.  One person, and so much power?  No wonder they were all mad.

                One evening, Mieta noticed fresh bruises on Leto.  His arms, and one on his cheek.  His knuckles were scraped too, and she suspected why almost immediately.  She inspected his knuckles.  He looked away as she did.  “You’ve been fighting,” she admonished him, in the language she knew, and not the one she was being forced to learn.  She was hit when she spoke anything else, but she struggled for the words and she had trouble learning the new ones.  Leto did not have the same problem; he was eager to learn the new language, frequently talking in it so quickly she could barely follow.

                His lips drew down in a pout, and he stared up at her with very serious but oh-so large pretty eyes.  She thought they were so deep that someone could drown in them.  Once upon a time, she had thought that when he grew up, he’d break several hearts with those pretty sage eyes.  “They make fun of me,” he said grudgingly, and glanced away again.

                He was getting bad at making eye contact, she noticed.  Four months of slavery, weeks of captivity, and he no longer met a person’s eyes for very long before he looked away.  She supposed… it was… proper… for a slave; he wasn’t supposed to meet the eyes of his betters—ever.  Her heart ached seeing the habit begin to form already.  She hoped this was easier for him than for herself, because it felt like it was killing her in the most painful way, and she did not want that for her son.  “Why?  Who?” she asked, cupping his bruised cheek gently.  He flinched, and she withdrew her hand.  It must be tender.  She had better try to get him cleaned up.  She had since acquired a small bucket, and her neighbor helped her carry the cold water to the hut every night, since she was so pregnant.  She went to it now, and found a clean cloth—relatively clean anyway, but good enough.  She dunked it, wetting it.  She rung it out, and noticed that her son had yet to answer her.  It was hard rising back to her feet.  She put her hand against her stomach, letting out a long breath through her nose.  The growing babe was so heavy.  She was eager to give birth again.  Leto had been an easy labor, she had been told.  Four hours, and with no complications.  She imagined that this child, too, would be much the same.

                She blinked, feeling a small pang as the babe kicked.  She put her hand where its foot pressed against her.

                “Mama—is she kicking?” Leto asked anxiously, blinking up at her swollen belly.

                He had been so interested in how her stomach had swelled so quickly with her pregnancy.  She smiled down at him.  “How do you know it’s a girl?  What if it’s your brother?” she teased him, ruffling his hair with one hand, and wiping at his dirtied face with the other.  He scowled, but didn’t try to run away.  He put his hands up against her stomach, laughing with delight when the child kicked again.

                “Is not!” he insisted.  His father had always said her baby was a girl too—saying that they already had a boy and he didn’t know what they would do with _two_ boys that would no doubt fight.  Which is likely where Leto got the idea from.

                Mieta took the opportunity to clean his knuckles of the grit he had neglected.  He made a face while she did it.  “We’ll see,” she told him.  “Now, tell me, who did this?”

                His jaw set tight, unwilling.

                “Leto,” she warned him.  When he got like this, she used to always threaten to tell his father, and despite that the man was very warm and inviting, and rarely if ever punished the boy, that always seemed to work.  She thought that her son just had a fear of disappointing his father.  But… she couldn’t do that any longer.

                He sighed, and crossed his arms, defeated but angry.  His temper had… become much worse since they arrived here.  His entire attitude had changed in degrees.  She wondered, sometimes, how much different he would be if none of this had ever happened.  She hoped…  Well, it didn’t matter what she hoped, did it?  “The other boys,” he said reluctantly.

                “ _Which_ other boys?” she said crossly.  There was a few other slave boys about his age—three actually, all older than he was though.  She knew that for a newcomer, that was often bad.

                “All of them,” he grumbled.

                “Hey,” she said, tapping him roughly on the shoulder.  “Don’t mumble.”

                He snorted, “Hmph.”  He glowered.

                She frowned.  “Why did they do that?” she pried.

                “Because they’re stupid,” he answered.

                She swatted his behind as she walked by him.  He jumped, and turned around, scowling.  “That’s not an answer,” she reprimanded him.

                “But it’s true!”

                She swatted at him again, but he jerked away.  She caught him by his shirt, and hauled him backwards.  She gave him another swat, and set her rag down.  She turned back to him, arms folded over her belly, jaw set.  “Leto,” she warned.

                He kicked at the packed earthen floor, making bits of it come up.  Before she reprimanded him, he pushed it back in place with his bare feet as he spoke.  “They make fun of me, ‘cuz I’m from Seheron,  And they say that… Papa was a Qunari…” he said in halting fragments.

                Her eyes narrowed.  “And?  When did they hurt you?”

                And he fell silent again, which was really the only confirmation she needed.  “If I go ask their mothers, what will they say, Leto?” she went on.

                His arms crossed, and he fumed for a moment.  “I…  I hit Erron.  And…”

                She raised an eyebrow.  “So _you_ started the fight?”

                His arms fisted at his sides, angry suddenly.  “No!  I did not!” he insisted with all the righteous faith of a child.

                She sat down on one of the beds.  It was trying to stand for a long time with it being so close to her time, and she was tired besides.  “You threw the first blow, my son.”

                He tried to argue for a moment, sputtered, and then went back to silently fuming.  “They… they were making fun of Papa,” he said, and looked up at her again, his eyes mournful this time instead of angry.  “And… they said bad things about you…”

                She wanted to punish him.  She knew it would be the right thing to do, but…  She opened her arms instead, inviting him.  He ran up to her, climbing onto the bed, and threw his arms around her neck.  He didn’t cry.  She hadn’t been expecting him to, but she knew he was in pain nonetheless.  Not the bruises, nor the scrapes.  She held him until he squirmed away.

                He sat beside her, staring down at his feet.  He had a look on his face like he was thinking of something dark.  She put an arm around him.  “They better have more bruises than you do,” she told him, kissing his temple.

                He laughed, a child so easily pulled from his thoughts and distracted.  “Mm-hm!  They’re bigger than me, but I’m faster.”  He looked at her, all sadness seemingly forgotten or at least pushed aside.  “I got a stick, and used it like Papa and Newlyn showed me.  I hit Erron _really_ hard and he fell!”

                She wanted to tell him not to fight.  She knew it was the right thing to do, to tell him that picking fights wasn’t the way to resolve their differences.  But at the same time…  She tickled his ribs until he squirmed away in a fit of giggles, slithering to the floor and running away, because he knew she couldn’t chase him.

                Sadly, it didn’t get much better with the other boys.  They avoided him for a little while, but only came back with rocks and sticks of their own.  She wondered how it was that Leto didn’t come home more bruised than he did, and she did have a word with the boy’s parents, who were more than kind to her, and promised they would try to do something about it, but she knew that boys would be boys.

                Weeks later, her labor came in the morning—later than expected--before she had actually begun her work.  She had been told that she would have a midwife of sorts and a couple of the slaves to assist with the birthing, and that was true enough.  Another small truth was that the labor lasted for about four hours, then her washed bundle was presented to her.

                The women cleaned up the mess, took the bedding away too.  Her neighbor, Marlance, assured her that, because their master was so very wealthy, they had it a lot better than other slaves.  In most places, she wouldn’t have had such luxuries.  But no one ever made any mention, or even spoke about, the ones who had disappeared before she had been brought here.  Maybe they had simply been sold away?  No one ever talked about it though.

                Mieta requested that Leto come inside.  Marlance went to get him, and the women left them alone.  Leto climbed onto the bed to better see.  “Is it a girl?” he asked, peering at the newborn.

                Mieta smiled lovingly at her son.  “You were right, Leto,” she told him.  “Meet your baby sister.”

                He looked at his mother then, and back at his sister.  “What’s her name?”

                She paused, feeling pained.  Not like a sharp, stabbing pain, but more an ache of an old wound.  Calias had never had any desire to discuss names with her.  He just went with whatever she said about names, and she, unfortunately, wasn’t very creative about such names, which was why they ended up named after other relatives.  _Calias…_   “Varania.”

                He blinked.  “Var…” he started to say, then stopped.

                She laughed a little.  “Var…a…nia.”

                “Var… a… nia,” he echoed, then looked back at her.  “You’ll never be able to say your name, will you, sister?”

                She had half a mind to shove him off the bed, but was too weak to do it.  “You brat,” she said instead.

                It was hard with the babe at first.  She got fussy a lot, and was very whiny compared to how Leto had been.  He was a help as much as a child could be, she supposed, but she still had to work, and she couldn’t leave Varania with someone else.  So, the child came with her.  Mieta’s work was slower going than before, and she was scolded for it, but there was little she could do when the babe needed nursing.  As a result, she had to quit as soon as Varania could start eating mashed foods.

                Leto liked to play with her.  He liked the idea of being a big brother, and he could watch her more when she was old enough to crawl, which was a help, though he was really too young to do very much.

                Mieta liked to watch them when she could manage, from the window.  Leto helping her learn how to talk, and holding her hands as she walked with his assistance.  She was missing her children’s lives.  Missed Varania’s first steps, her first word.  Leto had that, and it pained her unimaginably.

He commented often on how fast she was growing, but to Mieta’s eyes, he was growing up quickly too.


	14. Stories in the Sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just some cutesy sibling love.

                Varania giggled, dashing over the lawn.  Her copper braids flew back as she ran, caressed by the wind.  Her sun-kissed cherubic cheeks dimpled as she laughed.

                “Can’t catch me!” she called back to her older brother, who loped after her with all the intent of a wolf that knows its prey can’t outrun it.

                The girl might be faster, even at a young age, but he could run for a long time without tiring, at a slower pace.  She darted around the big magnolia tree, gaining a temporary reprieve.  She bent, her palms against her knees as she panted to catch her breath, her heart thumping in her chest.  She jumped when she heard a twig snap, and bolted like a rabbit before he caught her.

                Her brother was nearly four years older than she, so she felt like she had a lot to prove to him.  She liked it when he praised her, when he told her that she could run really fast, or that she was good at skipping rocks.  She had never shied from dirt like some other girls.  She adored her older brother, and had doggedly trailed after him since she was able to—exploring rubbish, and climbing in trees, scraping her knees in the dirt, and catching frogs of course.

                Mother disliked that last one most of all—for she had snuck one into the hut before.  She had received a scolding for that, but Leto had laughed (he also got in trouble though).  They had since been forbidden from catching frogs, but they did it anyway—they just let them go quickly.  Leto spent as much time with Varania as he could, but as he was getting older, more and more chores were assigned to him—things like fetching items, delivering things around the manor, and other such simple tasks, as well as a few exercises he never really talked about.  For example, he was made to stand for sometimes hours at a time, unmoving, and if he dropped the heavy stave he held, or wavered, he was given a beating, same as a couple of the other boys.  But he was still a child, and underfoot and not as strong as the adults, so he still didn’t work the entire day.  She liked the days when they dismissed him early the best—days like today.

                Varania rounded a bend, and felt a sharp, painful tug on her braid, hauling her backwards.  She teetered, and fell back with a yelp of pain.  She landed hard on her rump, and opened her mouth to complain, both about the fall and about him pulling her hair, but the complaint died on her tongue.  She stared up, with wide, anxious eyes at the magister.  She sensed more than saw her brother standing behind her, and she imagined that he wasn’t so slack-jawed as she.  Her mouth snapped closed, and she scooted back, and bowed her head respectfully.

                But the human man didn’t move on.  She counted another set of feet too—that must be Raith, his apprentice.  She had never actually been this close to either of them, and she had little enough experience with humans too.  Her heart hammered now for a reason other than physical exertion.  Were they in trouble?

                “Leto, is it?” he asked.  Varania’s eyes flicked upwards, then she looked back at her brother for his response.

                “Y-yes, Master,” he answered, still staring downward, at the dirt path.

                “How old are you, boy?”

                Varania started to look at her master, then averted her eyes back to her big brother, wondering what was going on.  “Seven, Master,” he answered.

                “Has it been that long?” he mused to himself, and Varania felt his eyes shift to her for a moment.  The magister looked back at Raith.  Varania risked a glance upward, but neither of them were looking at the two children; they might as well have disappeared for all the notice they gave them.  “See to it that the boy starts training for the coliseum tomorrow, Raith,” he instructed him.

                “Done,” Raith said as the two resumed their walk.  The two children were quiet until long after the mages had passed, and Varania looked up at Leto.

                “What does he mean?” she asked him.

                His eyes were wide with disbelief.  His expression was a blend of confusion, fear, shock, and even… excitement?  “I am… to fight in the games,” he said, voice tinged with wonder.

                Varania blinked.  “What does that mean?” she asked, her nose wrinkling.  She rubbed at the back of her head where he had pulled on her braid.  She would complain about it, but it had kept her from running right into the magister—that would’ve been bad!

                He looked down at her.  “I’m going to learn to fight,” he said, as if he could barely believe it.  Then he grinned suddenly.  “I knew it!”  He laughed aloud, a hand covering his grin.  “I _knew_ it!”

                Varania frowned.  “Knew what?”

                He helped her to her feet.  “Remember the coliseums?  I told you about it.”

                She tried to remember.  Had he told her?  She couldn’t…  “Oh!” she said, the memory finally awakening, but not well.  “Something about… people watching people fight?”

                His mouth twisted into a frown, then he shrugged.  “Close enough,” he said.  “But I’m going to get to _fight_.”

                Though Varania didn’t exactly understand, it meant that instead of a life of cleaning, cooking, and doing chores, he would fight in tournaments, winning prize money for his master, or losing and dying.  The latter of which was exactly why when Leto mentioned it to their mother that evening, she began to shake with terror.

                “No…” she quaked.

                “Mama?” Varania wondered, afraid.  She had never seen her mother like this.  It frightened her to see her so scared.

                Mieta hugged her son close to her.  “No…  You…  You can’t!” she cried.

                Varania saw her brother roll his eyes, and she found herself reassured by his attitude.  “Mama, I’ll be fine.”

                “You could be killed!” she insisted, shaking her head, and not letting go of him.

                He snorted.  “I won’t be fighting for almost ten more years, Mama!” he told her.  He made a face.  “I have to learn _how_ first.”

                “You don’t think you can be hurt with a blunted weapon?” she demanded of him, angrily.  Varania clutched her arms in her hands, as if it were cold.  Seeing Mama like this bothered her.  “And do you know what happens when they decide you’re too old for the coliseum?”  She shivered in horror.  “They’ll send you to fight the Qunari.  That’s what they _do_.”  Ironic, really, if one thought about it:  Taken from the Qunari and trained to fight, then set against them.  How tragic, how terrible—and what little choice they really had.

                He seemed terribly annoyed as he disentangled himself from her embrace.  He crossed his arms stubbornly.  “It’s better than… than any other kind of work.”  He glared down at the floor.  “At least it sounds _fun_.”

                “Some things are more important than having _fun_ , Leto—“

                He glared up at her.  “Nothing is _fun_ here!  And it’s your fault we’re here!  You should’ve killed me!  You should’ve killed me before you let them take me!” he yelled.  Mieta was stricken to silence, her jaw dropping in open astonishment that such words could leave her son’s mouth, that he could even think such things.

                Leto’s eyes filled with unshed tears, and he turned on his heel, and ran.  He left the door open, swinging.  Before Mieta could tell her not to, Varania was running after him, as fast as she could.  He was already halfway down the path though, and was showing no signs of stopping.  “Leto!” she shouted to him.  He didn’t stop, or even slow.  He didn’t even _look_!  “Leto!”

                He just kept running.

                Varania heard her mother calling out to her from the doorstep, to both of them, but her children just kept running.  Her hand reached out to them.  To Mieta, it felt like her children were slipping farther and farther away from her.

                Due to her life as a slave, she hadn’t been able to devote the time she should have to her children, and the two had grown up with an absent parent, with only one another.  It had created a deep bond between the two, but undermined their mother’s role.  To Varania, it seemed normal, but Leto resented Mieta for it.

                Varania’s legs pumped, her feet pounding against the packed earth.  Leto had disappeared around the bend.  She slowed.  She knew where he was going now.

                She heard him clamber onto the roof of the shed before she saw his head appear over the top of it.  Twilight glistened, the sky darkening into night.  The first stars were already out, and the moon.

                “Leto,” she called up to him, climbing onto the wood pile, weary of splinters on her bare feet.  Dutiful as ever, a hand reached down from the top of the shed, and he helped pull her onto the roof.  The two climbed to the highest point, and sat, watching the light fade.

                Varania unbraided her hair, putting her ribbons in her lap.  She finger-combed her hair, enjoying the way it felt unbound.  The ribbons were one of the few pleasant commodities of having their mother be a tailor; she often ended up with scraps that Sadie would have just thrown away.  “What did you mean—when you said Mama should’ve killed you?” she asked.  “Who took you?”

                His jaw set, angry.  His legs pulled up against his chest, his arms wrapped around his legs.  “The Tevinters,” he said dully.

                “You mean… when Master bought you?” she wondered innocently.

                He shook his head, his fingers clenching.  “No,” he said, but offered no more than that.

                She paused, wondering if he would go on.  She waited, and he seemed like he would sit there forever without telling her any more.  “What _did_ you mean?”

                He looked up at the moon.  “Mama and I weren’t born slaves, ‘Nia,” he said.

                She blinked at him in wonder.  She had never known that!  “You weren’t?” she echoed.

                He shook his head.  “No.  We’re from Seheron.”

                “What’s that?”

                His eyebrows drew down, his lips curling into a frown, as if struggling to remember.  “A country.  We were from a town by the sea…”  He shook his head slightly.  “There was a battle, and the Tevinters took the town, and enslaved us.  They killed…”  His voice choked for a moment, and he cleared his throat.  He continued, but his voice was so low she had to strain to hear it, even though she was sitting right next to him.  “They killed Papa.”

                She blinked.  “I—we—have a father?”

                “No,” he said, angry again.  “He’s _dead_.”

                Varania frowned.  “But we still _have_ one,” she said.

                He glared at her, and for a moment, she was afraid that he might strike her.  Then he calmed.  “They beheaded him, and left his body to rot,” he said bitterly.

                Varania stared at him, and her lower lip began to tremble in terror.  “But… why?” she sobbed.

                His glare was petty.  “Because he was a guard.”

                But then the girl had a thought.  “But you’re going to be a…a…”

                “Gladiator,” he said glumly.

                She nodded, glad that he had supplied the word for her.  “That’s the closest a slave can get, right?  So that’s good,” she said, trying to make him feel better.  “What was Papa like?”

                His chin sunk between his knees.  “It’s not ‘good.’  If Mama had been smart enough to run away before the Tevinters came, we wouldn’t be here,” he said angrily.

                Varania felt frustrated that he wasn’t answering her.  “But what was Papa like?”

                He stared up at the moon, the sky, the stars.  “He was strong, and kind, and I wanted to be just like him.”

                The girl considered this.  “Did he have black hair too?” she asked.

                He snorted in disdain.  “No.  He had reddish brown hair.”

                She looked up, at what her brother was looking at, and wondered.  What would it have been like, to be born free?  What would it be like to have a father?  And grandparents?  Would she have had toys?  And pretty dresses?  “What was your house like?”

                He struggled to remember.  “There was a garden by the front door, and the house was blue, and we had a basement, and a second floor.  We had our own kitchen, and a yard.  Mama had a room that she sewed in, and I had my own room…”

                She stared at him as if he had just said that he used to know how to fly.  “Are you sure you aren’t just imagining it?” she asked him.

                He shoved her playfully.  “Oh, shut up,” he told her.

                She stuck her tongue out at him.  “Bully,” she said.

                “Oh yeah?”  He turned and tickled her, pinning her down, and tickling her sides until she felt like she was going to wet herself.  She told him so between fits of giggles, kicking and trying to squirm away, but unable to do so.  This only seemed to emphasize the name she had called him, though.  He let her go, and looked back up at the stars. 

                Varania looked up too, panting as she caught her breath.  She pointed to a cluster of them.  “That one looks like a bunny—see?”

                He turned his head, trying to see what she saw, then blinked when he saw it.  “Oh, yeah.  Look, that one’s a lion!”  The two made a game of it.  He said that his lion was going to eat her rabbit.  She told him that the rabbit was much too fast and clever to be caught by a big lion, but there were other animals in the sky too.  A duck, a mouse, and even a dragon.  Leto told her that people were up there too, and they looked for faces.

                He said that the stars told stories, but she couldn’t hear them.

                “They do not,” she said, scowling at him for lying.

                “Do too,” he said, and pointed at a particular group.  “Mama told me once, when you were a baby, that this is a knight, and he’s going to slay a dragon—see?”

                She frowned, trying to see a knight.  “I think you’re making that up.”

                He glared at her.  “Am not.  Look, there’s the knight, and a spear, his horse.”  He outlined it, then pointed to another group of stars nearby it.  “See, that’s the dragon’s neck, poking out of a cave.”

                Varania stared at it.  “But that’s not a story—that’s a picture!”

                He sighed, as if she were daft.  “That _is_ the story.  A knight going off to slay a dragon.”

                “Tell me?” she said.  He sighed, and told her, as best he remembered, the story of the knight and the dragon.  What he couldn’t remember exactly, he made up to the best of his ability.

                When Varania had started yawning, tired, Leto helped her down and he held her hand on the way back to the one-roomed hut they shared.

                Mieta was still awake, but didn’t know what to say to her two children when they came back.  Varania hugged her, as if nothing in the world was wrong, and Mieta put them both to bed.  Varania requested a story, of course, despite that her brother had already told her one, which he pointed out helpfully.  When Mieta had fallen asleep, and Varania lay awake, she climbed out of bed, and prodded her brother gently in the arm.  He rolled over, looking at her in the dark.

                “What?” he asked, his voice a hushed whisper.

                “Can I sleep with you?” she asked him, her chin resting on the top of the bed.

                He made a face, but scooted over.  “If you wet the bed, I’m sleeping in your bed,” he warned her.

                She glared at him.  “I do not wet the bed,” she scolded him under her breath.

                “You did too,” he told her as he helped her climb up.

                “I was a baby,” she shot back, wriggling into the blankets.

                “You’re still a baby,” he muttered, eyes closing again.

                “Am not,” she insisted, yawning.  She felt herself drift off to sleep before she heard his retaliation.

 

                The next day was boring for Varania.  With her brother gone training, she had no one to play with.  She stayed in the courtyard, but it was tedious all by herself.  There was one other girl about her age, but she stayed with the old woman who watched the other children in the compound, and she never seemed to want to leave.  Leto had always tried to avoid the other children, and thus had little do with the woman.  Varania supposed that she could go make friends with the girl, and have someone to play with.  Maybe she would ask Mama if she could do that tomorrow.  She would see the girl tonight at supper, so maybe that would be a good idea.

                She drew pictures in the dirt with a stick, thinking on the things Leto had told her yesterday.  She had a father!  And they once had a home too, a real one.  And they were born free…  She drew a picture of what she imagined the house would look like.  She drew a fence, and a garden with flowers.  A door, and windows.  She imagined that it was sunny, and thought that if she had a house like that, she would want a cat or a dog—maybe both?  She was feeling whimsical—why not both?

                She drew the animals, and drew stick figures beside everything for her family.  She drew herself first, with her braids and in a dress, and imagined that it was the sort of dresses she had glimpsed on the wealthy women who came to the manor—with lace and bows.  She drew that too, and then drew Leto beside her.  What would he be wearing?  She giggled to herself, and drew him in nice clothing too.  She drew Mama next, imagined her in something pretty, with her hair done up fancy.  Maybe they hadn’t been _rich,_ but it was nice to pretend.  She wondered what Papa had looked like.  Leto said he was a guard or something, so she gave him a sword.

                She was so caught up in her stick drawing that she didn’t notice someone walk up to her.

                “Nice drawing,” a voice said behind her.

                She jumped, whirling around.  With despair, she realized that she had destroyed the garden and part of the house when she jumped.  She looked up, and recognized Raith.  She blinked, and averted her eyes, like she had seen the other slaves do when they spoke to anyone of any higher station—which was nearly everyone.  “Thank you, Master Raith,” she said, bowing her head slightly.

                Raith looked back at the drawing.  He seemed very interested in it for some reason.  She wondered why.  It wasn’t _that_ good…  “Carry on, child.”

                He moved away.  She watched him go, wondering what was going on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wanted to get the point across that Leto and Varania were quite close growing up. I think this gives you a pretty good idea.


	15. Mages and Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pieces are beginning to fall into place, but not every piece is there yet.

                “Come down!” Varania cried helplessly from the ground as she watched her brother climb.  “Just leave the cat alone, and come down…  Please?”

                But Leto just kept climbing, muttering to himself.  She thought she heard the name “Lura” a couple times, but she wasn’t certain.  The little white ball of fluff had climbed pretty high up the big magnolia tree in the courtyard.  How Leto had even gotten to the branches still seemed almost magical to Varania.

                “You’re going to fall!” she said, biting her lower lip with her worry.

                He looked down at her, scowling.  “Thanks,” he shot back at her.

                “I don’t want you to get hurt—just leave the cat alone!” she begged him, but he wouldn’t listen to her.  They had listened to the cat crying all day today, and all day the day before; it was stuck and starving to death.  Stupid thing.  Varania was worried that her brother could break his legs, or his back or something if he fell.  The thought filled her with dread.

                But Leto just kept climbing.  He reached out toward the cat, but was still just a little shy of where he needed to be, so he climbed up higher.

                She saw him reach for the cat, and it was too tired to move, and the cat knew him anyway.  The siblings had been there shortly after the kitten had been born—they had heard the mewling in the courtyard, and gone to investigate.  What should they find but newborn kittens?

                The white one was Varania’s favourite, but it was still just a kitten.  It wasn’t worth Leto getting _hurt_ over.  But he had been so confident that he would be _just fine_.  She didn’t really believe him though.  Something about it scared her something fierce.

                He snatched the kitten, and stuffed it into his tunic, and began to make the climb down.  Varania held her breath, praying to a god she didn’t know for his safe return to the ground.

                He was almost out of the tree when he slipped.  Varania screamed when he lost his balance, and fell through the branches.  Something fell in the grass, but Leto had grabbed onto a branch, and dangled.  He strained, and, gasping, pulled himself up.  He took a deep breath, and continued his steady descent.

                Varania heard a buzzing sound, and dismissed it just as quickly; her eyes were on her older brother.  She didn’t think she would rest easy until he was safely back on the ground.

                He dropped the last couple of feet, in the grass.

                The buzzing was getting louder, and something stung her arm.  She swatted, and looked about her.  Her eyes bulged.  “Bees!” she shrieked, and with that, forgot her brother and the cat entirely, and ran.

                She shrieked, and they stung, and she sensed her brother running near her too, yelling at her not to scream, because it attracted their attention.

                Later, they sat in the compound, Old Lolette putting mud on their stings to ease the swelling and the pain.  It felt better that way, but it was a tell-tale for their mother.  She scarcely scolded the two, but did inquire as to their adventures.  Mieta agreed with Varania that Leto had been reckless.

                “But I saved the cat,” he argued.

                “She would have climbed down when she got hungry enough,” Mieta said.  “I told you that yesterday.”

                He made a face.  “I did it, didn’t I?  And I’m fine.”

                Mieta pursed her lips.  “You stay out of that tree from now on, Leto.  Varania, you tell me if he tries to climb it again,” she told her daughter.

                Varania nodded, pleased.  “I will,” she promised treacherously.  Leto shot her a scowl.

 

                “That slave girl from the other day is a mage,” he said bluntly to his master.

                Danarius looked at him, raising an eyebrow.  His face gave away nothing of what he was thinking, save the single eyebrow, and that could mean anything.  A good trait of a magister was a good poker face, after all.  “What makes you say that?” he inquired.

                Raith neither hesitated, nor questioned himself, for which he was rather proud.  In this, he was certain.  “She was drawing in the dirt, and I watched her for a moment…”

                “Many children do that,” he said, beginning to dismiss his apprentice.

                Raith shook his head, insistent.  “She held a stick, and I don’t think she realizes it, but she’s not drawing with the stick—she was drawing with magic.”

                “Is the child so talented that it seems like magic to you, Raith?” he said, his tone bordering on mocking.

                Raith disregarded it; he had to make him see.  It was frustrating sometimes.  He knew that he had blundered before, and he was eager to make up for it, but didn’t want to make a fool of himself to do it.  “It’s simple earth-based magic, and she’s using it to shape the drawings.”

                Danarius paused.  “Are you certain?”

                Raith nodded, and felt he was never more certain.  His own parents had discovered that he was a mage under similar enough circumstances—just small things that they had noticed now and again, just like that.  “Absolutely, Master.”

                The magister frowned in thought.  “Let’s watch her for a while, to be certain.  Maybe later, we’ll devise a test for her.”

                Raith’s lips turned into a frown.  “A… test?”

                He waved a hand dismissively.  “An impossible task—something infuriating, like filling a tub with holes in its bottom, or something.  Something to make her angry enough to use magic.”

                “I’ll devise a way, Master.  Shall I instruct the servants to watch her?”

                He shook his head.  “No—the girl will notice and fear can drive the ability inward as quickly as out.  Leave her be.  If you see her again, simply pay attention to what she does.”

                Raith gave a slight nod of his head.  “As you say, Master.”

                A stab to the leg, and he had received a free seamstress, a boy that would grow into a gladiator (a good one at that; Raith had observed the boy hold off three older boys with a stick in the past, and had reports of it happening on more than one occasion), and a mage on top of it.  A most… skilled family, he would have to say.

                Still, the girl had better be damned grateful she was born a slave instead of in the Qunari territory (for that matter, they should _all_ be grateful—the Qunari were barbaric).  He shuddered at the thought of what Qunari did to mages.  Stitch their mouths shut, cut out their tongues, bind them.  He imagined that they must castrate them too—the barbarians.  It was why winning this long war was so important.  The very nature of the Qun would drive the Qunari to keep attacking, even should Tevinter relinquish its hold on Seheron.

                Raith couldn’t imagine which was worse—being Tranquil, or being a Qunari mage.  He imagined the latter.  If he were Tranquil, he at least wouldn’t care.  Though, his gift and his personality being burned from his mind were horrifying in itself.

                As a child, when he first heard of what the Qunari did to mages, he had had terrible nightmares.  Nightmares of having his mouth stitched shut, of his tongue cut from his mouth with a knife, or his hands cut off.  A mage without hands was useless.

                If the boy did as well in his training as Raith suspected he would, that would be quite profitable.  The games were an important part of their culture, after all.  It gave the populace something to think about besides the war, and the fact that sometimes… people disappeared—a neighbor, a friend, a family member.  The war needed so many bodies, after all, to fight, to fletch arrows, sharpen swords, any number of menial tasks, but also for blood.  Blood was the essence of life—the games honored that small truth, in a way.  There was great power to be had in blood.

                Not to mention that it was a good way to make coin if one had a skilled team.  The gladiators, of course, were all a collection of slaves, captives, and sometimes a few criminals—mostly for execution of the latter two.  It was all good sport, he supposed, but watching sweaty men try to kill each other grew quite dull after a while.  He reminded himself that there were women too, of course, but far more men than women.  Not to mention that, oftentimes, the gladiators were practically naked—he’d much rather watch oiled, athletic _women_ running around in the sands naked and killing each other than men, but never mind that.

                When he was a magister, he planned on investing less in the tournaments, and more in… brothels perhaps.  Brothels didn’t sink, didn’t go out of fashion, didn’t die or lose and humiliate him.  Not to mention they had a few other uses…

                  Raith had been instructed to go see how that elf was doing with a wooden sword sometime today.  He gave his master a report of what he had seen, which was just that the boy seemed to be doing _well_.  He had no idea why he would be so interested in a slave, but he supposed that Danarius did have a tendency to sink quite a bit of money in the tournaments, so of course he would be interested in the boy’s development.

                The apprentice still thought he should have just killed the boy, maybe used his life’s blood to fuel a spell, and be done with it.  It was no less than the little brat _deserved_ , but maybe he could make up for that scar in the tournaments.  Raith snorted to himself.  More likely, die in the first bout!

                Of course, there were knights who competed in more upscale tournaments.  Those were only to the yield, and it included more than just fighting and swordplay, but jousting as well.  Still, those were rare with the war going on and most of the knights away, so they made do with the gladiators.

                He might like to see that little brat get cut down in his prime.  He almost snickered at the thought.  Hamstrung—that would be delightful.  Crippled for life, however long that might be.  He’d be worthless at that rate, and then he’d likely just be bait for the lions, like he should have been years ago.

                Oh, or perhaps sell the boy to a brothel?  All elves were pretty enough for that, of course, but the child had such rare hair, they’d probably get a good price on him, even if he did end up crippled so long as nothing happened to his face…

                Well, no matter; it wasn’t his decision yet.  _Yet_.

                Raith still felt like the boy had nearly cost him everything.  Everything he had worked for, everything he had earned, and his fears had nearly caught up to him.  The fears that he wasn’t good enough, that he would never be good enough to be a magister.  All those years of hard study, the people he had stepped on, and betrayed to get into this position—all gone to waste because of some elf-brat with a knife.  Where would he be now if Danarius had died?

                He shuddered to think of it, and frankly, preferred to avoid the thoughts.  To say he was contemptuous was to say that water was wet—when it came to that brat at least.

                Wouldn’t anyone be angry with someone if they had nearly, unthinkingly, shattered their hopes and dreams, their lives?  Wouldn’t that person bear a grudge of hatred towards the one who had nearly cost them everything?  Wouldn’t you never forget it?

                Raith didn’t.

                He continued the experiments Danarius had assigned to him.  It was important, a breakthrough if they succeeded.  It would guarantee not just a place in the histories of the magi, but a hallmark of their ability.  It was a privilege that he, Raith, was allowed to study it, let alone perform the experiments.

                One of the most trying parts of the experiments were the riddles.  It was using pieces of knowledge that had been lost, testing theories, testing limits.  One of the most trying riddles was—what was the true _center_ of the body?  Was it physical?  Metaphorical?  Spiritual?  Was it mental?  Was it all of these?  None of them?  It had to branch from that, start from that.  It needed a beginning point.  Every arc, every curve, every small line, was not just art, it was science; it had exacts, and it had to be done exactly, at exact times.  One second off, and all would go to ruin no matter the precautions.

It was dangerous work, and he had to be careful.  So far, the subjects they had used died, or they went mad.  In the best of cases, one subject simply acted as if they had gone through a lobotomy.  It needed more testing still.  Sentient subjects were used only when absolutely necessary for testing, when more of a reaction was needed.  Animal subjects substituted far more frequently, but acted oddly after the point.  They were trying to get just the right ritual, just the right steps, to retain a person’s mind, at least mostly intact, or be capable of picking and choosing what was lost.

Lyrium was known to make a person quite… addled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand, that concludes Part One.


	16. Shackled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Leto makes a new friend, Varania is training as a mage, and the siblings are growing up.

**Part Two**

 

                Varania ran.  She ran as fast as her legs could carry her, but no matter how fast she ran, she couldn’t outrun them.  A lot of the stones missed, but many others did not.  Tears streaked unchecked down her face, making lines in the dirt from when she had fallen.

                It was worse when she fell.  When she fell, it gave them opportunity to catch her.  She dare not let them catch her.

                She heard yelling behind her, but not the cruel taunts and jibes she had heard before.  She chanced a glance back, and slowed to a stop, turning.

                Her heart soared with joy, and she even smiled through the tears, despite herself.  She was so tired, and felt all the little bruises from where the stones had hit her, but she felt triumphant suddenly.  Her brother had caught up to the children chasing her.

                He was outnumbered, that much was plain.  There were the usual three boys that taunted the siblings, but this cruel children’s game of stone-throwing was something different; others had joined.  It was because she was a mage, a mage and strictly forbidden from hurting people with her magic, and didn’t know enough to shield herself from the stones.  And nothing could shield her from their pitiless words.

                Even the girls would join in, but only one of them gave chase today with the boys to continue throwing stones and mud at her, but she ran away when Leto showed up—likely to get an adult.  That made Varania angry; the girl would lie, and she knew it.

                Leto grabbed onto one of the boys by his collar, and swung his fist with the other.  It connected with the side of his face, but didn’t have the force behind it to do any serious damage as another boy tried to pull him back as he did it.  Leto whirled on the other boy, but the one he had punched hit him in the shoulder.  The third kicked him.  A fourth boy, younger and desperate to prove himself to his elders, joined in the fray.

                The boys cursed, and yelled at one another, except for Leto who wasted no such effort.  All of his concentration was on coming to Varania’s rescue.

                “Go after the _mage_ ,” one of the older boys yelled to the youngest, shoving him rudely away.

                The younger looked to Varania, and ran after her, ready to hit her, a rock clenched tight in his fist.  She yelped in fright, and started to go.  But just at that moment, Leto broke from the other boys, and tackled the youngest, who let out a pig-like squeal of terror.

                The two boys fell to the ground in a heap, skidding knees and palms on the hard fall.  The younger boy let go of the rock in the tumble.  Leto managed to hit the youngest boy once before the others hauled him off of him.  Varania’s eyes went wide in horror when she realized that two of them had a hold of Leto’s arms, and, try as he might, he couldn’t free himself.

                The third boy smirked, and hauled back his fist.

                Varania couldn’t let this happen.  He had come to rescue _her_.  She couldn’t let them hurt him!  She would never let someone hurt him, no matter what!

                Her hands balled into fists.  She had just barely learned to control the magic, even a little, but she could save her brother!  Her gift flared to life in her, greeted by her anger and her fear.  She felt heat around her palm as the fire sprang to life, but oddly, as ever, no pain from the flames.  A mage did not hurt themselves with their own magic—that was one of the first lessons she had been taught.

                She was about to attack before the boys hurt Leto, but an adult voice cried out for them to stop.  Her fist lowered, the fire extinguished.  She hoped no one had noticed what she had been about to do.

                The boy who had been about to hit Leto suddenly looked alarmed, and put his hands behind his back automatically.  The other two still held onto his arms, stricken at what they had been caught at.  The fourth boy still lay in a crumpled heap on the ground.  To Varania, her brother only looked angry.

                “What’s going on here?” the woman demanded.  Varania recognized her as Lolette, a woman too old to do any practical work any longer, but she did tend the slave quarters, and she looked after the smallest of the children, which was useful to the adults.

                “I—we—that is—“ the girl stammered.

                The woman rounded on the child.  “Raenya, you said Leto was ‘beating up your brother and his friends.’”  The woman raised an eyebrow at the goings-on.  The two boys holding on to Leto abruptly dropped his arms, as if he were suddenly burning.  “Were you lying?”

                “I was… no!” she insisted, and pointed to the gang of boys.  “See—he hurt them.  See?”

                It seemed that all the boys were talking at once, about their bruises, the scrapes, all trying to tell the story from their own point of view.  Varania only looked down.  No one would believe her.  She was a mage, after all.  No one would even ask her what happened.

                Lolette quieted them down, and had each tell his story in turn.  She listened patiently, and then, much to the five’s chagrin, asked Leto for his version of the story, which was met with complaints from the others.

                Varania looked up to listen.  “They were throwing rocks at Varania, and she tried to run away, so they chased her,” he began.  “And I came to help her.”

                “He’s lying,” two of the boys blurted simultaneously, lying themselves.

                The woman frowned sternly, but ignored the other two, all her attention on Varania’s big brother.  “By getting in a fight?”

                Abashed, he looked down.  “There…  There wasn’t any other way.”

                “There is always another way, Leto.  All of you—you should be ashamed of yourselves.”  She let the silence fall over the seven gathered children like a mantle of shame.  “I’ll be letting all of your parents know, and in the meantime, I think it’s high time the walls in the longhouse were washed.”  For some of them, it was an empty threat—they might have a foster parent, as it were, but some had been purchased and hadn’t seen their true families since they were toddlers.  “All of you, get to it, and don’t fight.”  She shooed them off.  Varania trailed along behind, or rather, tried to, but Lolette caught on to her, and ushered for Leto to go on ahead.  He did, reluctantly.

                The old elf looked sternly down at Varania.  The young mage imagined that Lolette was the oldest woman she had ever known, simply too stubborn to die.  She imagined her already old at the dawn of the world, scowling at the sun as if to say “About time you showed up.”  “And you, young lady, were about to use magic.  You know you’re not supposed to,” she said once the others were well out of earshot.

                Varania’s brows drew up, outlining her consternation.  “But…  But I can’t _fight_ , and Leto was about to get hurt…”  Her words died out.  She knew it was wrong.  She looked down miserably.  “I… I’m sorry—I was just scared…”

                “You bet you’d be sorry, if you’d hurt or killed one of those boys.  They can hurt each other with those fists, even kill one another given time, but you can kill easily and by accident,” she warned her.  Varania looked away, fidgeting uncomfortably through the scolding.  “Now, hurry after your brother—you have to scrub the walls too.”

                “Yes, ma’am,” she sighed, and turned on her heel to trot after the others.

 

                Mieta knelt on the floor in front of her son, a bucket of water at one side.  Varania leaned against the bed, watching with rapt attention.

                Her son had come home with more than just bruises today; they had given the boys sharpened weapons for the first time, something Mieta personally feared, and this was why.  They were not practicing with them yet.  Their instructor was teaching them proper respect for the weapons first—cleaning and care, mostly.  In short, that meant an entire day of sharpening and polishing all the weapons and armor in the armory—a process that Leto described as “maddening and tedious” (words he had learned from paying too much attention to what the adults around him would say) but that was the life of a slave.  Leto had slipped while sharpening a blade and sliced open his hand, and it had just gotten dirty throughout the day.  The fighting afterwards certainly hadn’t helped the matter.  True, Lolette had cleaned all the children’s bruises and scrapes, but the truth of it was that after the punishment, the others had only cornered Leto and Varania again.  Leto had cleared a path for her, and she had run, but he had to fall behind to keep them away from her, and ended up with just more bruises and scrapes.

                “Didn’t Master Bruce attend this at all?” Mieta demanded.

                Leto squirmed uncomfortably as she scrubbed at the grit that had built up in the cut with a bristle brush she had borrowed from the storage shed; the lock on it had broken last winter in a storm, and no one had bothered to replace it—and the slaves certainly didn’t mind that so much.  “He… did,” he said, reluctantly.

                Mieta raised an eyebrow, tapping his open palm with the brush, watching him wince every time it hit the open wound.  “That so,” she said.

                “Oh, all right!” he cried, and she stopped, and went back to scrubbing.  He hissed sharply in pain.  “He treated it—with a salve, and wrapped it.  But Erron and his friends…”

                Mieta sighed.  “It’s _always_ ‘Erron this’ and ‘Erron that.’  Can’t you two get along?”

                His dark brows drew down in a scowl.  “No.  I hate him,” he said, very matter-of-factly, the same way he might say that grass was green and trees were wooden.

                Varania butted in, “He’s a jerk.”

                Mieta looked to her two children in dismay.  “You two certainly don’t make it easy on yourselves, do you?”

                The girl made a face.  “Erron makes fun of me, and throws stones at me—‘cuz I’m a mage.”  She blinked, trying to think of what to say.  “So Leto protects me.”

                “It’s true,” the older brother insisted.

                “Erron’s mother tells that you two attacked _him_ ,” Mieta said.

                “He’s lying!” Varania cried.

                Mieta knew the truth of that, sadly enough.  She just shook her head and didn’t press the point.  “Was this on a two-handed sword?” she asked her son.

                He hesitated.  “Yes,” he admitted.  “We are to care for which weapons we want to wield.”

                Their mother sighed.  She felt like she sighed a lot lately, like there was nothing for it but to sigh.  She couldn’t control her children, didn’t have a say in their lives.  “Why do you insist on those big weapons?” she wondered, setting the brush down and dabbing at the cut with a cloth.

                “I like them,” he muttered darkly.

                “You’ll hurt yourself,” she told him, voice gentle.  “Elves are lithe and dexterous—we’re faster than humans.  The great sword will just slow you down.”

                “I can wield it!” he cried stubbornly.

                She looked up at her son, her incredibly gifted son.  She didn’t doubt it.  He was stubborn enough to do whatever he set his mind to, more stubborn than smart.  “Some of those blades are bigger than you are.”

                “I’ll get taller,” he countered.

                “Elves don’t get as tall as humans,” she told him.

                His mouth twisted into a frown.  “You said Grandfather wielded a two-handed sword,” he snapped.

                She rolled her eyes.  She had hoped he had forgotten about that.  Apparently not.  “He was… tall for an elf.”

                “I could be,” he said.  She gave him three years before she was looking up at him, though, all the same.

                “Keep dreaming, kid,” she said, as she began to wrap the bandage around his hand.  “Why don’t you pick a different weapon?  Bows and knives have always worked well for the elven.”

                He made a face.  “And look where that got us,” he said, his expression grave for a twelve-year old.  She didn’t know what to say to that. 

                “Lighter weapons are better suited to a lighter body,” she told him, and poked him on the tip of his nose.  He made a face.  “You’re quicker than a human, and more dexterous.  You should use it.”

                He huffed.  “I can be stronger than a human, not just quicker,” he said, with all the seriousness and determination—or plain stupid stubbornness—that he could muster.  Mieta gave up on the matter.

                An angry scream ripped through the air, from somewhere outside—a young girl’s scream.  Varania looked toward the door.  “What was that?” she wondered, voicing what everyone else was thinking.  Leto rose, and stepped toward the door.

 

                The girl kicked, and screamed, and fought, and if her legs were not chained together, she would have ran.  She had to be carried, slung over the shoulder of a big man, who looked like he might be able to snap her tiny frame in two.

                She continued to scream, thrashing, using her manacled wrists to bash against his back.  It resounded off the plate armor, and she wasn’t even sure he felt it, but she kept at it anyway.  She had bitten someone already, and broken someone else’s fingers when they bathed her.  They had beaten her too—a pretty severe lashing, but that hadn’t done much to dampen her spirit; it had only made her angry.  Her temper was as fiery as her hair.

                Despite her kicking and screaming, she was actually paying very careful attention to the details of the place, and especially to the city outside the manor.  All these things she would need if she were to make her escape.  It was evenfall, and people were looking out their windows carefully, to see the commotion that was going on inside the slave compound.

                The big man suddenly dropped her.  She landed hard, on her rump.  She flinched, and grumbled a curse in the old tongue—something they hit her for doing.  Her cheek stung, but she didn’t regret it.

                “There’s a lot of fight in this one,” the man said, kicking her onto her back, his armored boot pressed down on her stomach.  She coughed, sputtering.  “I think the games would do well for her; we should use that temper.”

                “I agree,” the mage Raith said, looking down at the girl as if from a great distance.  “Girl, you are to report to the training ground in the morning.  Is that clear?”

                He should have known better by now.  She coughed, as if she couldn’t breathe.  The big man eased up on her stomach, precisely as she wanted him to.  She spat.  Her older male cousins had taught her to spit one afternoon, years ago.  She had a terrific aim, and could get some decent distance.  Unfortunately, she couldn’t work any snot into it, but the spit landed well enough on Raith’s robe, on the emblem of his station.  She smiled triumphantly, not at all caring what they might do to her.

                If she died, good; they had wasted money buying her, and then she wouldn’t have to live as a slave.  She would rather die.  She just… didn’t want to do it herself.

                Raith kicked her, hard enough to drive the wind from her lungs.  She tried to curl up, to cradle the blow, but with the man’s foot on her chest, she couldn’t.  He kicked her again, and again until she felt her side bruising.  She gritted her teeth and refused to give him the satisfaction of hearing her cry out.  The man knelt and took the chain out from her wrists, but not the manacles themselves.  The two men left, talking heatedly.  She sat up, slowly, in the dirt path, watching the gate clang shut ominously.  She heard people hurrying back inside, away from the wild girl.

                All except one.

                A boy came, slowly, out of one of the small huts.  She watched him come, and he knelt beside her.  His hair was the blackest she had ever seen on a person, so dark there were shades of blue in it, when the light caught it just right.  “Are you all right?” he asked, in fluent Tevene.  She blinked, and stared at him, not understanding what he had said.  He realized that she didn’t understand the tongue, so struggled, but only briefly, and repeated the words in the King’s Speech, hoping she knew that one.

                She considered that for a moment, once she understood his words.  “No,” she said bluntly.  “Would you be if your clan was beset by slavers after the Templars took away your Keeper?”  She paused, miserable.  “They wouldn’t even let us plant trees for the dead.”

                He blinked, cocking his head to the side.  “I don’t…”

                She sighed deeply.  “Flat-ear,” she called him in her thick brogue.

                He frowned at her.  “Well, you talk funny,” he said.

                She stuck her tongue out at him.  “You look funny,” she countered.

                Surprisingly, he laughed.  She blinked at him, and judged him to be maybe a year older than she—so about twelve perhaps.  “I heard Raith talking.  In the morning, you can come with me to train.”

                She frowned at him.  “Train to do what?  To talk like a damned Imperial?”

                He scowled.  “To be a gladiator,” he reprimanded her.  “It’ll beat scrubbing floors.”  He stood up, holding a hand out to her.  She stared at it as if it might turn into a snake, and bite her.  He raised his eyebrows.  “Come on.  We have an extra bed—you can come with me.”

                Hesitantly, she took his hand, and was almost surprised when it _didn’t_ bite her.  He helped haul her to her feet, and blessedly said nothing at all about the chain between her ankles.

                His name was Leto, and she was nothing if not grateful to _him_ , but his mother and sister were a different matter.  Mieta was a kind woman, but she disliked her once she learned that the woman had been born a city-elf and free, and never even _tried_ to escape, which was a concept she grasped simply by talking to her—the woman was too crestfallen to have been born a slave and not know any different.  How could one live in slavery and never take the chance to run?  She supposed that Mieta had two children—but surely she could have managed?

                And Varania was a sweet girl, but the Dalish found herself resenting her somehow too.  Maybe because the girl was clearly a mage, and _still_ showed no signs of desiring any kind of freedom.  Worse still, Varania barely knew the common tongue, only speaking a few words at all because both her mother and brother did.

                “What’s your name?” Mieta asked her when she had seen to her many small hurts.  Mieta spoke the Trade tongue better than Leto did.

                The Dalish made a face, her lips pressed tightly together.  She looked away.  “It doesn’t matter anymore.  That person might as well be dead.”

                Mieta blinked in surprise, then her eyes softened in sadness.  “I understand.”

                The girl’s jaw set.  “How can you _say_ that?” she practically shrieked.  “How can you _say_ that you understand?  No one understands!  How can _anyone_ understand?”  She shoved her away, and ran, as fast as she could with the chain, out the door.  Leto was quick at her heels, and caught her before she had ran too far from the house.  “Let me go!”

                He shook his head, keeping the small girl off her feet, so she couldn’t run, and her arms pinned so she couldn’t flail.  “No,” he insisted.

                “Put me down _now_!  I hate you!” she cried, as if in pain, and kicked, biting, thrashing, and… crying.  When she began to sob, her body going slack with her grief, he eased her onto her feet, and her knees when her legs gave out.  He knelt with her when she cried for her loss.

                “What’s it like to be Dalish?” he asked her after she had begun to still, perhaps just to get her talking.

                She looked up, her eyes still glistening.  She wiped at her tears, suddenly embarrassed to be seen crying in front of a boy.  “I was happy,” she confessed.  She told him about the clan, how everyone was a big family, and how they rode on halla, and about their land ships.  Talking helped, helped her sort her thoughts, helped her regain herself.  She missed her clan, and taking care of the deer-like halla, and traveling.

                “What can I call you?” he asked her, gently this time.

                She jerked her head away, angry again.  “Make something up,” she told him.

                “Odd-eyes,” he decided.

                She hit him—hard.  He knocked backwards, laughing.  She threw herself at him, throwing her fists towards his face.  He blocked, still laughing.  She was quite sensitive about her mismatched eyes, thank-you-very-much.  One brown, one green, and forever marking her as different from everyone else, not to mention her red hair on top of that!  And, as if all of that wasn’t bad enough, she was so covered in freckles that she could never count them all.  The Creators had not favored her, she knew.  “Don’t you _dare_!” she said, hitting him one final time, and that one landed on his shoulder.  She pulled off of him, fuming.

                “What about ‘Ginger’?” he asked her.

                “Really imaginative, aren’t you?” she snorted, then found herself smiling.  “I guess I can learn to respond to ‘Ginger.’”  She extended her hand, helping him to his feet.

                His lips curved into a small smile.  “You tired?”

                She sighed, and nodded once.  “Yeah.  I’m… Will your mama forgive me?”

                He shrugged as he began to lead her away.  “Ask her yourself.”  She hesitated, and followed after him like a lost puppy.  She came back in the same way, with her metaphorical tail between her legs.  She looked up at Mieta.

                “I’m… sorry, ma’am,” she told her.

                Mieta smiled, and it seemed kind of sad to her.  “It’s all right.”  The extra bed was next to Leto’s.  She slept with her back to him, and woke before dawn.  She crept outside, and found the privy pit, and by the time she had come back, they were all getting up.

                Varania had tons of questions for her about the Dalish, which she asked in her broken Trade tongue, and her eyes shone with wonder when she talked about it, especially the Keepers.  Ginger hoped that it instilled some kind of will into the girl, but wondered if that were possible.  If she had been a slave all her life…  Well, it would be nearly impossible to be anything more.

                She walked sullenly with Leto to the training grounds.  Everyone else was a boy, and seemed to think that because she was so much younger, and a girl besides, that she would be easy to beat up.  Well, no one could hurt you if they couldn’t touch you, and that was what she prided herself on—speed and agility.

                But Leto hit her.  He wasn’t cruel about it, but he did land bruises on her, despite the protective armor.  Fact of the matter, she was rather astonished at his fighting skills.  He would be such an asset to the Dalish…

                But there was really nothing she could do with these shackles on.

                However, rather than blame the shackles, she grinned at him.  “You’d make a great Dalish warrior,” she declared.

                He rolled his eyes.  “Don’t they tattoo their faces?” he asked, making a face at the idea.

                “It’s a right of passage—a mark of adulthood.”  She frowned.  “But, really:  If you were Dalish, you’d be greatly honoured.”

                But he didn’t seem to take the hint.  He only snorted and continued on, totally missing the fact that she had just offered him a place in her clan, when she finally ran away.

                As the days passed, she grew more and more disheartened, but was determined not to give up.  Giving up would make her a slave, for real.  Giving up was to admit defeat, and it meant she would never be free again.  So she did her best to remember and at least think in the old tongue, and even taught Leto and Varania a few words here and there.  She remembered her training to become a Dalish warrior, and used that when she fought on the training grounds, more than what the instructor taught.

                She would be hit when she spoke in the King’s Speech, and especially if she spoke any of the elven tongue, but she reasoned that learning Tevinter— _Tevene_ they called it—wasn’t by itself a _bad_ thing.  _Knowledge_ of any kind was never inherently _bad_ , no matter the sad reasons for gaining it.

                Varania asked, and Ginger told her about the places she had seen, the animals, the countries she had passed through.  But the one she was most excited to hear about was a place in Orlais, a big lake hidden in a lush forest, between cliffs, twin waterfalls pouring into it, a natural bridge of earth and stone forming over one of its tributaries.

                “Wow,” Varania said, eyes wide as she listened to Ginger elaborate.  “I wish I could see that.”

                Leto rolled his eyes.  “Keep dreaming,” he muttered.

                His sister shot him a glare.  “Why couldn’t I ever see it?” she demanded.

                He shook his head, but didn’t answer.  Ginger crossed her arms, knowing perfectly well what he had on his mind.  “You could go,” she told Varania.  She inclined her head toward Leto.  “He’d like it too; he should take you there.”

                “Really?” she said.

                Ginger nodded, pleased.  “Mhm.  It’s really beautiful.”

                He seemed annoyed.  “That’s impossible,” he insisted.

                “Is not,” Varania countered.

                Leto’s lips curled into a dissatisfied frown.  “It is; we’re slaves,” he said with finality.

                “Ginger!” Varania cried.

                Ginger’s fingers curled into a fist and she punched Leto in the arm—aiming expertly at a pressure point.  He staggered, and she was quick to hit again, and she kicked him in the knee.  He rubbed his arm where she hit him, sulking.  “Keep that up, and you’ll be a slave long after you’re free.”

                “What does that mean?” he demanded.

                It made her kind of sad to realize that her friend really didn’t get it.  “Slavery is a mentality, Leto.  Not a state of being,” she said.  Mieta had told her that, when the woman had seen how saddened the Dalish had become.  It had become a mantra for her, and she believed it, fervently and with all her heart.  She wasn’t a slave; she was a captive.  But this wasn’t the first time she had repeated it to Leto, and he had yet to take it to heart.  He didn’t understand it.  She hoped that he would one day, or her prediction would be only too true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ginger was a character that I originally had no intention of making, but she forced her way into the story, and now I could not bear to remove her. Her story needs to be told, of how it intertwines with Leto's and molds the person he becomes. She became a favourite of mine against my will when I originally did not want her included; she inspires those around her to be the best they can be, she believes in her friends and most of all herself, and I admire her. She turned out to be exactly what Leto needed, and what this story needed: A friend.
> 
> Which is why writing her story became so difficult toward the end...


	17. All Wrong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The kids are growing up, and barely realize what it means for them, or for their future.

                Varania kicked a rock, upset for reasons she didn’t entirely understand.  Raith and her master were the only other mages at the compound (aside from one servant), and Danarius had deemed it appropriate that she apprentice under Raith.  Raith hated it (and herself), and made no secret of it to Varania.  It made learning from him a torture, and he was unspeakably cruel about it.

                He mocked her when she couldn’t get a spell right, or when she burned herself once the fire was no longer “hers.”  He hit her when she couldn’t recite something completely accurately, or didn’t draw something correctly.  It was humiliating, and hard.

                She was later coming home than usual tonight too—Raith had kept her late, because the lesson had apparently ran late, but she wondered if it wasn’t so she would miss the meal and go to bed hungry.  She sighed, looking over at the orchard with its green apples in the early fall.  Surely no one would miss… but they would.

                Her stomach growled, and she sighed to herself.  Well, maybe she would fall asleep quickly; she was tired too.  Casting magic wore her out, and some spells gave her headaches.

                “Sis!” a voice called up ahead, and she looked up.  She found herself smiling, and waved back at her brother.  She started running to meet him, and skidded to a halt.  “Mother sent me to look for you.”

                She cocked her head to the side.  “When’d you start calling her ‘Mother,’ Leto?” she teased.  “Is it ‘cuz of Ginger?”

                His face heated, arms crossing.  “Is not,” he denied.

                She giggled.  “She’s pretty,” she told him, walking beside him now.  But Ginger, truth be told, was more attractive because of her personality than her looks.  She sighed wistfully.  It sure would be nice to fall in love…  But why would anyone ever love a mage?  An _elven_ mage, that was a _slave_?  Sometimes, she just wanted to cry.  She looked up at the twilit sky.  “I wish I weren’t a mage.”

                Leto stopped, and looked at her.  She glanced back at him, pausing.  “Why?” he asked her.

                She looked down, scuffing the earth with a bare foot.  “Why wouldn’t I?” she insisted, and crossed her arms.  “I heard from Mama—the city we’re—you and Mama’re—from might have held out ‘til help arrived, under a siege, if it weren’t for mages.  And our master is a mage.  A-and…”  And her eyes began to glisten with unshed tears.  “And I have a phylactery, and they’ll always know where I am, and… and…”  And Raith was so mean, and the spells were too hard!  “And I hate being a mage!”

                She wiped at her eyes, trying not to cry.  She was too old to cry!  Only _babies_ cried like this, so why was _she_ crying?  She felt his arms wrap around her, pulling her close to him.  She sobbed against her brother’s chest, her tiny fingers wrapping in his shirt as she continued to cry.  The embrace only made it worse.  She really did hate being a mage.  She hated being something that caused so much sorrow.  It felt like she were betraying her family in every way, and could not make it stop.  She had tried so hard to make it stop too.  She had fought it, tried to hide it, and tried so hard to make it go away.  She had prayed every night for the Maker—for anyone--to take the magic away.  The Maker never heard her prayers.  No one did.

                “But you can use it to help people,” Leto’s voice soothed her.

                She sniffed, peering up at him through thick lashes.  “How?” she mumbled.

                “You heal mine and Ginger’s bruises, and when Mother has trouble with her hands.”

                She sighed, hiding her face in his shirt again.  “I hate it, and I’m not even good at it,” she insisted.  “All I can do is hurt people.”  Before she had begun her lessons, she had hurt _Leto_ of all people!  They had been fighting.  He had pulled her hair, she had called him names, and she had been so angry…  She shivered, thinking of what might have been if he had not reacted so quickly.  Varania was grateful that her brother's hair had only been singed and nothing more.

                “I just said you can _heal_ , sis,” he reiterated.  “And then, you can do something that only you can do, right?”

                She sighed, not knowing what to say.  He had known for years how much she wanted to be special, how she wanted to be something special, like how he was good at fighting.  She wished that she could be good at fighting too.  She wished she could do that instead of be a mage.  “No,” she muttered under her breath.  “Lots of other mages can.”

                “You’re the best mage I know,” he told her.  “And you’re still my little sister.”

                She wiped at her drying tears.  “Really?”

                He hugged her tighter for a moment.  “Really.”

                She smiled again, as if everything in the world was finally _right_.  “I love you, big brother,” she told him, meaning every word of it.

                “I love you too, sis.  C’mon,” he said, and ended the hug, but he took her hand, as he had when they were much younger, and led her back to the compound.

 

                Her lessons were cancelled the next morning, for reasons she would likely never know--and did not honestly care.  She went down to help mother as best she could (something she was instructed she should do whenever that happened).  Therefore, she picked up scraps, and tidied the room, but her stitches were not very straight, so she did not help with the sewing yet.  Rather, she was made to practice on the scraps, something she especially hated.  She stabbed herself with needles, and worked hard at sewing a pattern onto the fabric, but she was not even very good at using the embroidery hoop.

                Eventually, Mistress Lana just sent her away when there was nothing left for her to do but practice.  So she put her things away, and Mistress Lana criticized her stitches, as usual, and sent her out.  She sighed to herself, feeling miserable as ever.  Everything she ever seemed to do was wrong.  Spells went awry, and stitches were not straight.  Everything was just… all wrong.

                _I’m a failure as a mage, and a tailor.  Can’t I do anything right?_

                She looked down at her hands.  The tips hurt from where the needle had lanced them by accident.  Sometimes, they shook from all the spell work she had to practice.  Was it that she had clumsy hands?  She sighed miserably.  People were always looking down on her.  She was never _good enough_.  Her mother was a great tailor, and could sew so quickly too!  Moreover, Leto was good at swords, and running, and climbing too.  Ginger was quick, and witty, and she could scale walls that Varania had thought impossible to climb.

                She went into the courtyard, and sat beneath the magnolia tree.  Her knees tucked under her chin, she wrapped her arms around her legs.  She wondered if she would ever find anything she was _good_ at.  She did not even need to be the _best_ at something—just to be _good_ at something!  She liked to draw, but she knew she was no good at that either.

                Varania liked stories too, but Ginger was much better at making up stories than she was.  She seemed to have a new story every day, for that matter.

                The Dalish had been here for three months, and they had removed the chain on her legs, but not the manacles, of course.  And while Varania would never _tell_ that she had overheard, she _had_ overheard Leto and she talking.  It had been late one night, and Varania had been coming back from the privy.  The two were behind the house, talking in hushed voices.  She was as quiet as she knew how to be, and crept up close enough to hear what they were saying.

                “…  I know how to get out of the city—come with me!” she was pleading to him.

                Varania had been frightened.  Was Leto going to leave?  He was going to leave, and she would be all alone with Mama?  “Ginger, they’ll catch us,” he was saying instead, and Varania felt relieved to hear him say it.

                “They will not,” she said, but suddenly seemed doubtful at the sure tone of his voice.

                “You really think the city guards won’t notice two elven children—one of them in _manacles_ running through the city streets?” he hissed.  “They’ll catch us, and do you _know_ what they do to runaway slaves?”

                Ginger was silent for a moment.  “No,” she admitted reluctantly.  “Not exactly, anyway.  That bastard Danarius said—“

                Varania heard the sound of someone being slapped—a harsh slapping of a hand against a cheek.  It made her jump, and for a moment, she feared that their silence was because they had heard her.  _What’s a “bastard”?_ Varania wondered, and filed the word away to inquire upon later.  “Don’t ever say things like that about the magisters,” he growled.  “They’ll _know_.”

                Ginger was silent for a moment, as if weighing the weight of his words.  Whether she believed in them or not, she corrected herself, “Anyway, _he_ said that they cut off their foot.”

                “The left one,” Leto clarified.

                “That’s… terrible,” she gasped.

                Varania actually heard her brother chuckle.  “ _Then_ you’ll _definitely_ be scrubbing floors.”  Ginger laughed at that, as if it were some private joke between the two.

                And that was the end of _that_ discussion.  Varania pretended as if she had just walked over to them, and asked what they were doing.  They brought her back to bed, and whispered to each other again before also going to bed.  Ginger, Varania knew, would run once escape looked promising.  Right now, to her, not having the chain looked promising.  Thankfully, Leto was there to talk her out of it.  Varania would hate to see her with only one foot; she would be so depressed.

                But she worried for the day Ginger left.  Would Leto leave with her?  The thought made her sad; she would not be able to go.  They would catch all of them if she were to go with them.  She looked at her hands, remembering the cut they had made to get the blood for her phylactery—blood that would always lead her pursuers to her, no matter where she went.

                Suddenly, the girl sprang to her feet, and trotted out to the empty expanse the gladiators trained.  There were a few roped-in practice rings, but the one she was most interested in was the third one—the one for those who hadn’t actually been in the arena yet.  She followed the sound of the blunted swords, and sat at a fair distance in the grass, watching.  Her brother was not fighting, but Ginger was—a boy she knew by the name of Erron.  He was older, and bigger, but she was so small and quick, he just couldn’t seem to hit her.

                Varania liked to watch.  She wished she could do things like that too.  And Ginger was so self-confident, and graceful.  She would grow up to be really pretty, odd eyes, freckles, and crooked smile and all, she bet.  Well, if she did not end up horrifically scarred fighting, anyway.  She laughed to herself.  _Maybe_ Leto and she would get married some day.  Oh, she would _love_ to have a big sister—that would be wonderful!

                Slaves were not _officially_ married, of course, but the act was observed all the same, false titles of husband and wife still given, amongst themselves if no one else.  She knew nothing else.

                “What are you doing?” someone asked, casting a shadow down over her.

                She looked up, and grinned at her older brother.  “Watching,” she said.  “They told me to leave, ‘cuz I was in the way.”

                He glanced back at the ring, watching Ginger duck and weave, rolling around on the ground on occasion.  She had a fighting style like none Varania had ever seen.  He sat down beside her.  “You’re _always_ in the way,” he agreed.

                She hit him in the shoulder.  “You’re such a jerk,” she pouted.  He just laughed, and sat in silence, occasionally commenting on the fighter’s forms.  When Ginger landed a solid kick to Erron’s chest, knocking him back, she drove her weapon to a “kill,” which drew the blunted blade close to his neck.  Their training master called the fight to her, and Leto got to his feet, and ran back to the circle in time for his match.

                When Ginger spotted Varania, she waved to her.  Varania waved back enthusiastically.  Ginger took a long drink of cool water, and went to sit with her in her brother’s place.

                “What’re you doing?” Ginger asked her politely, running her fingers through her short-cropped ginger-colored hair.  Long, it was stringy, and the Dalish claimed it looked like nothing so much as an old broom, so she kept it short.  Ginger said that Varania’s red hair was prettier than her own, but the mage thought she was just being polite; it was so straight it had no body at all, and so fine and thick that it tangled if she did not keep it braided.

                She smiled up at the older girl.  “Watching Leto,” she said, looking back at the fight.  “My big brother is _amazing_ —don’t you think?”

                The redhead laughed gently.  “He’s something.  Not sure what, but something,” she said with a slight nod.

                Varania frowned, not quite sure that she had understood, but let it go.  “When you’re older, will you and he get married?” she asked innocently.

                A wry grin broke out of Ginger’s face, and the girl laughed so hard she fell over, clutching her sides and kicking as if Varania had said something _really_ funny.  The young mage felt like she was being made fun of somehow.  Her lips curled into a dissatisfied frown, and when it continued for what seemed quite a while, she felt most indignant.  She crossed her arms, fuming silently.  What was so funny?  Was she really stupid, to say something like that?  Raith was always saying that she was stupid.  Was it true?  Was it a clumsy thing to say?

                Ginger gasped for air, clawing her way to a sitting position.  She chuckled again, the grin looking like it had become painful plastered to her face, but she was so mirthful that she could not shed it.  “I sure hope not!” she cried, finally answering the girl.

                Varania pouted.  “Why not?” she asked her.

                Ginger looked at Varania, cocking her head to the side.  “Well, for one, Leto’s a _boy_.”

                The mage blinked, not understanding, and it showed by the confusion on her face.  “But…”  But didn’t girls marry boys?  Wasn’t that how it worked?

                The Dalish giggled again.  “He’s kinda pretty for a boy, but he’s still a boy,” she said, shrugging one shoulder dismissively.

                Varania felt horribly lost.  She didn’t understand what the other was saying at all, though she tried.  Her head hurt thinking about it.  She wished she knew what she _meant_.  She tried so hard to impress Ginger, after all.  Now she felt as if she had gone and made a fool of herself, and it was even worse for not understanding.  “Please, Ginger, what do you mean?”

                She just shook her head, and muffed Varania’s coppery hair affectionately.  “You’ll understand some day, kid,” she told her.

                She batted her arm off her head.  “You’re not that much older than me!” she exclaimed defensively.

                “Old enough,” she said with a grin.

                Varania still did not understand, though she spent all day trying.  She finally gave up on it and disregarded the whole matter in the way only a child can do.  She supposed that it wasn’t important anyway.

 

                Ginger had acquired a small carving knife—Mieta couldn’t gripe at her about it, because she had technically found it in the rubbish heap, and she had saved it.  It just need to be reset was all, and the blade sharpened.  The tip was pretty far gone, and it wasn’t pretty, but it worked pretty well otherwise.

                She fixed it and sharpened it, and Varania found her a thick stick to whittle at—nice, buttery walnut, actually.  She had spent hours watching the clan craftsmen carve intricate figures into pieces of wood.  They had told her that it was not they shaping the wood—they simply cut away what had no place there.

                So she thought about Leto, and carved.  It took her a full turn of the moon, as she had little time to work on it, but she managed to finally carve out the little wolf.  Varania’s carving had been her first one—a halla, but it wasn’t very good and one of the horns fell off.  Varania had laughed and said that the halla had been in an accident.  Ginger had agreed with her, and said it gave it character.  The wolf was better, but it had been easier.

                Ginger had seen a wolf once.  She had wandered away from camp, and been running back, and it had been on the path.  She was alone, and had never been so scared.  The wolf had only looked at her, and she had realized in that moment that the animal didn’t care if it killed her, or if she went on.  It just didn’t care.  She had heard a howl behind her, and when she looked, she had seen a big black wolf, standing on the hill, looking down at them with dark eyes.  The brown wolf loped after the other, ignoring Ginger.

                She had had a different name then, a different life.  She hoped to reclaim it all again one day.

                … But that dark wolf in the forest—that was what she wanted for Leto:  Freedom and beauty, and all the things he had never had.  She wanted him to look out at his surroundings, with no worry in the world—wild and free with no master, no tragedy… just the heat of the moment and the rapture of the wild world.

                She gave him her little carving—small enough to fit in the palm of his hand.  When he was grown, his hand would totally eclipse it, but she had poured her heart and all her passion into it, and he had smiled and thanked her all the same.

               

                Ginger woke to the crash of the lightning.  She felt her heart quicken, her eyes open in the darkness, but it was not fear that made her wake.  She slid from bed, and wriggled into her trousers under her shift.  She belted it, and thought about just running out like this, but changed into her tunic too—Mieta would scold her if the shift got dirty, after all.

                The hard-packed earthen floor was damp.  In the right season, it would flood, which was awful.

                She tiptoed, barefoot, out of the hut, and shut the door as quietly as possible.  She gleefully rushed out in the rain, looking up at the night sky, and the rain dripped down on her, cleansing her, washing away her sorrow, her fear, and her hate.  The mud sunk up to her ankles in places, and she actually enjoyed the way it felt, the way it thickened and squished between her toes, reminding her of the earth and its blessings.

                She loved the rain.  Always had, especially storms.  She found herself smiling as she waded through the mud, and her legs were so tense, and she felt she just had to run—she could barely contain herself, barely restrain herself to a walk.

                She heard footsteps behind her, more careful ones--ones that might not like the mud so much as she did.  She turned, the rain already dripping from her short hair.

                It was Leto, of course—suspicious of what she was doing.

                “I wasn’t going to try to run—honest,” she said, and it was only half a lie.  She did not have a mind to run _right then_ —mud left tracks, after all—but eventually, sure.

                He raised an eyebrow, arms crossed and shivering in the rain.  “Let’s go back inside—before we get sick,” he said insistently.

                She huffed.  “I won’t get sick,” she told him, absolutely certain.  “You only get sick because you believe it will make you sick.  So _you_ go back inside.”  With that, she spun on her heel and raced off through the mud.  She didn’t slow as she approached the gate.  The lock had been broken for the better part of the year—something about the key getting stuck, and it was just more convenient for everyone not to fix it.  All the same, she sped up, digging in her toes, pushing forward, and leaped.  Her fingers gripped the lip of the stone wall.  She kicked against the side, finding purchase on the stone and climbed upwards.

                She stood on the slender wall, and felt a desperate need to climb higher.  She looked up, listening to the distant thunder, expectantly waiting for the lightning—the roll of the drum and the clash of the symbol.  She felt that she had to get closer to it; she had to embrace the storm.

                Leto stood at the bottom, stubbornly.  She looked down at him with a frown.  “Go back inside, flat-ear,” she told him, and leaped to the other side.  She heard the gate groan open—no one would hear it over the wind now, and when she was running again, she heard him behind her.  She ran.  No one would stop her.  No one was out here to see.  She ran, to the westernmost wing of the manor, the servant’s quarters where no one would notice.  She ran, leaped, delighted in the landing, and the wind whipping at her hair, the rain pounding against her skin and soaking her to the bone.  She felt like she could run faster, leap higher and farther.  She felt invincible in the storm.  Her mother had told her, once, that she had the spirit of the storm--and how she loved it.

                She did not hesitate.  She found handholds in the stone, and climbed, leaving Leto at the bottom.  She heard him call out to her, and thought he called her “stupid” or something along those lines, but she didn’t pay him any heed.  She just kept going.  Climbing ever upward, without hesitation or thought.  If she fell, she died, her journey in this life ended, and a new one would begin.  By the Dread Wolf, she wasn’t sure if she wanted that or not.  She knew that, if she had to live all her life as a slave, she would rather throw herself from the tower.  But at the same time, suicide frightened her.

                But if she fell, that choice was removed.  And she did not mind dying on the night of a storm, with the lightning to ferry her soul to the Beyond.

                So she climbed, utterly relishing the feel of her muscles working to keep her clinging to the tower like a squirrel, finding handholds, straining, working her entire body to keep going.

                She only stopped when she shimmied onto the roof, and stood, balancing precariously, on the tile.  She looked up at the storm, defiant and welcoming.  This was the highest place she could get to, the highest peak.  She couldn’t get any closer to the storm, feasibly.  And it was so beautiful.

                The city stretched out below her like a squat beetle in refuse, but the bay stretched ever farther, dark with the night and the storm.  The sky was alight with the lightning strikes in the distance, booming with the rolling thunder.  And all around, the rain—the beautiful, glorious, life-giving, essential rain.

                She let it wash over her, ecstatic and free.  She felt, for the first time since she came here, that she was _free_ and nothing in the world could take this moment from her.  It was freeing, and beautiful, and divine, and she opened her arms to embrace it, as if she could seize all of it, all there was.  The storm was all for her and no one could ever take that away from her—not the Imperium, not the slavers, not even the magisters.

                She was cold, dripping wet and soaked through, her hair stuck to her skin, and she had manacles on her ankles, but still she smiled.  The thunder boomed.  Lightning arced across the sky, illuminating the clouds and she shouted back to it in something akin to glee and kinship.  She felt like her soul was soaring amidst the clouds and the lightning, like she belonged in the storm.

                By the time she climbed down, Leto had retreated to the partial sanctity of the trees, and was leaning against the big magnolia tree in the courtyard.  He walked beside her.  She was breathless and tired now.

                “What were you _doing_?” he demanded, a little angry with her.

                She was smiling, though, like she could never stop.  She felt light, and clean, and like nothing in the world could ever be wrong.  “Experiencing the storm,” she said, unsure of how to properly convey how she felt about it.

                He stared at her, clearly annoyed and as though he thought she were daft.  “You’re an idiot.  We could still get sick, or you could have fell…  Maker, you’re a fool.”

                She rolled her eyes as they walked back to the compound.  “I never asked you to come.”

                “And let the old gardener get a heart attack when he finds your cold corpse in the flower bed?  No, I don’t think so,” he said matter-of-factly.

                “I’m alive, aren’t I?” she huffed.

                “In a manner of speaking.”

                She kicked him in the back of the leg.  “What does that mean?” she demanded.

                He rolled his eyes.  “Sometimes, I think you _want_ to die.”

                His tone was not sarcastic, or playful.  Despite the situation, he was being completely serious.  She looked away.  “It’s better than being _here_.”

                He shook his head.  “’Where there’s life, there’s hope,’” he quoted, half-sarcastically.

                She frowned to herself.  It did not sound like his words.  “Is that why our ancestors surrendered?” she muttered darkly.  “Who told you that?”

                “I don’t remember any more,” he said.  “My mother, probably.”

                Ginger nodded sagely.  “Your mama is actually very wise, I think.”

                He sighed, and didn’t say anything.  They walked in a comfortable silence back, broken only by the quaking thunder, but that was fading away as the storm passed.  The dawn would come, and the sea would be calm again.

                That was how life worked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess it's really only sad to think about when you realize that Varania and Leto don't know how awful their lives really are. I like Ginger for that--it's a nice point of comparison. 
> 
> This is also one of the chapters where I most sympathize with Varania. Haven't we all felt like there was nothing in our lives we could ever do right? And haven't we all needed someone we cared about to tell us that we were special, and we could do things "only we could do," and were the best kind of person they knew?


	18. Wine's Lashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leto and Ginger get into some trouble.

                Ginger stared up at the moon, thinking.  _Been here for_ two years!  _Two fucking years!_ Soon to be three, at that.

                And each time she had wanted to run, Leto had seemed to intuitively guess what she was up to, and convince her that it was a bad decision.  But screw him—he was just a stupid boy anyway.  She thought of him like a brother, and admired him as such, but he was still a stupid boy.

                “What are you _doing_ in here, Ginger?” Raenya demanded.  She was alone in the kitchen, rolling bread at this early hour.  Ginger had always prided herself on her ability to wake up repulsively early.

                “I came to see you, of course,” she said, batting her eyelashes prettily at the girl.  Too bad her eyelashes were thin and stubby.

                Her flirting did not even seem to register with her though—unfortunate.  “Well, go away; I’m busy,” she insisted.  She was elbow-deep in flour and wrist-deep in dough.

                “Gimme one of those,” she said, nodding toward the tray of pastries.  She had picked up some of the slang the slaves use, slurring her words together.  Combined with her stubborn accent, sometimes the others didn’t even understand what she said if she spoke too quickly.

                Raenya glared venom at her.  “Those aren’t for you,” she snapped.

                “There are three dozen here!  No one will eat that many anyway!” she insisted.

                The slave girl kept kneading her dough.  “Don’t even think about it, Ginger,” she admonished her.  “And I’ll know who took them if any of them are gone.”

                Ginger rolled her eyes.  “Are you really happy doing this?” she asked, as innocent and sweet as she could make her voice.

                It was not a question you really asked a slave.  Happiness was not a concept they understood, she knew.  Leto did not even grasp what it meant, not really.  She wondered sometimes if it were worse that he was born free; he had been just old enough to know the difference.  Ginger never thought of herself as a slave; she was a _captive_ and was certainly forced to do things, but that did not make her a slave.  Not to her anyway.  “It beats shoveling manure.”

                Ginger thought differently.  If _she_ could work in the stables, she might be able to steal a horse and get away on the animal.  Couldn’t be that different from riding a halla.  She had seen people using reigns; she could figure it out, she was certain.  “Smells better,” she agreed.  Raenya barked at her to leave again.  Ginger laughed, and left, two scones safely tucked in her tunic.

                She had been stealing from the kitchens for ages (among other things).  She never took anything that would be missed, and kept her little stash buried near the wall in the compound.  Not _inside_ the compound, but around it.  She thought that Leto at least suspected it, but he had never said anything if he did.

                She met him early by the well.  No one was around, so she pulled out the two scones.  She offered him one, already biting into hers.  It was hot, the crust was flaky, and it was filled with fresh peaches.  Her eyes rolled in obvious delight.  “If you don’t want it, I’ll eat it,” she threatened him playfully.

                He glanced at it.  He had taken to talking as little as possible while his voice was cracking.  She thought it was quite adorable when it did crack all the same.  It made her sad to think of it, though.  Her red flower had bloomed in captivity, and she missed her mother horribly that week.  However, there must be something wrong with her; she had gone an entire year without another one.  If things were right with the world, she could have gone to her Keeper and asked for advice if her mother had none.  Mieta said that sometimes things like that happened, and she should not be afraid.  Ginger wasn’t certain.  It was just one more thing she hated about this.

“This is why the Dalish are known as thieves, in case you were wondering,” he said, enunciating everything very carefully, to keep his voice from getting away from him, no doubt.

                “It’s _good_ ,” she taunted him, waving it just under his nose.  He finally accepted the bait, and snatched it from her hand.  She of course shared most of her thefts of food with her friend.  Before she had come along, he had never had anything like the tasty scone—at least not since he was three, he said.  The first time she had come cheerfully over to him and presented him with a stolen treat, it had been a small sugar cake.  He had stared at it incredulously, and said, “Do you know how much trouble you’ll be in if you’re caught?”

                She had grinned at him.  “Nope, and please don’t tell me—you’ll ruin it.  Here.”  She had shoved it into his hand, wrapping his fingers around it so he had to hold it.  He stared down at it as if it was something dangerous.  Maybe, in a way, it was.  “Don’t just stare at it; eat it.”

                “Ginger…” he had said, his tone a thin warning.

                She had made a face.  “Don’t question it; just enjoy it.”  Eventually, she had gotten him to eat it, and he had mostly given up trying to convince her that theft would get her in trouble one day.

                She waited until they had finished the pastries before she told him the rest of her news.  She licked her fingers.  “They’re hosting a feast tonight.”

                She saw him sigh in some kind of inward pain.  Since he turned fourteen, people had thought he was becoming quite handsome.  _Sometimes_ he was drafted to help with serving food—which meant oils that made his skin glisten, and a rather scanty outfit she had done nothing but make fun of, and talk about how great his ass looked, of course, though seeing the front of him made her feel awkward.

                She poked him in his stomach, something that hurt her finger more than him; his abs were _hard_.  Sometimes, she wished he were a girl…!  Maybe Varania would grow up like this…  “Hey, I think you look good enough to _eat_ in that little silk thing they have you wear,” she teased.

                “You wouldn’t,” he said, self-satisfied.

                She laughed, nodding in agreement.  “Oh, definitely not—women are much better looking than men.  Still, you look _nice_.”

                He made a face, and looked off at the manor.  He seemed somewhat pale to her under his dark tan that nicely complimented his hair.  “I…  Sometimes… my master looks at me that way,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

                She frowned, wondering if she had heard him correctly.  “Leto?” she asked him, but he did not seem to hear her.  “Looks at you… like what?”

                He blinked, as if being pulled from dark thoughts.  “Like he wants to… eat me,” he said, and shivered, holding his arms as if it were cold.  It wasn’t cold.  It was almost never cold in Minrathous at this time of year.

                Ginger decided to tease him; maybe _that_ would drive him out of this mood he was in.  “You _know_ , if I like girls, you know that means _some_ men like other _men_ , Leto,” she drawled.

                He took the distraction, and a swing at her.  She ducked just in time for the blow to sail over her head.  She kicked him in the shin, and darted around him.  He whirled after her, and his hand missed her by a scant inch.  She ran back down the path, and he chased after her.  The others were just coming out, to go eat in the longhouse.  She ducked behind Mieta.

                The woman jumped out from between them, chuckling at their mischief.  “I want nothing to do with this,” she said, marching briskly onward.

                Ginger wove around, behind Varania instead, who looked at the two inquiringly.  Ginger laughed at her friend.  “Does that bother you?  Getting all oiled up and looking pretty?” she teased.  Varania darted from between them, knowing better than to involve herself.  Leto grabbed on to Ginger’s wrist, hauling her backwards.  He glared at her.  She grinned back at him, and whispered in his ear, “Lubrication increases penetration.”

                His face went bright red.  She twisted her arm, making him break his hold on her.  She skipped off after Varania, and knew he was going to give her a big nasty bruise sometime today, but seeing his face get so red was definitely worth it!

                Well, she didn’t think so _after_ the bruise was administered, anyway.  She limped after him from the training ground.  Practice was cancelled early, because a lot of them had duties elsewhere.  Leto ended up being drafted to chop firewood, instead of serving, which made him happier anyway.  Ginger herself ended up in the kitchen.  She was kind of pretty in a freckled sort of way, but with her mismatched eyes, not something to present.

                They had taken off the manacles a year ago, but sometimes she felt like they were still there.  Elbow-deep in scalding water and soap, she was grateful they were not; they would rust.  Dish after dish, pan after pan.  She felt like her work would never end.

                As the night wore on, she managed to slip away.  She stole a mostly full bottle of wine from a neglected cart, and hid it in her tunic...  There was a lot of room in her tunic, something the boys and especially other girls mocked her about endlessly.  Until she and Leto beat them up.  She walked briskly out, and found Leto outside, stacking firewood.

                She helped him finish the task—he was nearly done anyway--and showed him the bottle with a big grin.  “Come on—we’re getting drunk tonight,” she told him, grabbing on to his sleeve.

                “Are you sure that’s wise?” he asked, and clamped his hand over his mouth when his voice cracked on the last word.

                She snickered.  “Nope,” she answered.  “Live a little, will you?  C’mon.”  She led him into the darker corners of the orchard—a place no one ever went at this time of day.  No one would miss the pair anyway—they were much too busy to notice a whole lot, and the people who were _paid_ to work could do whatever needed doing anyway, and that was what they were for.  The thing about being a slave—captive, in her case--she had learned, was that no one ever noticed you, and if you were gone, people had a tendency to assume that you had been drafted to work elsewhere so long as she made sure no one saw her at all.

                She pulled the bottle out of her tunic, and glanced at the label in the moonlight.  She couldn’t read—not well anyway--but she recognized the bottle anyway.  “Agreggio pavali,” she said, prying off the stopper.  “Cheers.”  She put it to her lips and took a long swallow.  She handed him the bottle, already feeling dizzy.  She wished she had thought to snag a few pastries or something too--that would have been nice!

                He stared at the bottle for a moment, as if in some kind of indecision, and then put it to his lips, tilting his head back.  She felt like cheering for him.  She did clap when he swallowed, pulling the bottle away.  He blinked several times, suddenly dizzy.  Neither had ever drunk before.  Well, Ginger had—a few sips as a child, but that was all.  This should be fun.

                “Why would anyone drink this?” he wondered, handing it back to her, holding his head.  “Ugh.”

                Ginger was feeling giggly.  She took another swallow of the wine.  “It’s good,” she insisted, handing it back to him.

                He glanced at the label, recognizing the seal on it if not the letters.  He looked at the stream, watched the water roll over the rocks.  He looked like he was contemplating dumping it out—likely on her head.  She thought that would be a terrific waste, not just of her pilfering ability, but of the effort it had taken from the slaves who made the wine.  Instead, he took a long, long swallow, and handed it back to her wordlessly.  She felt horribly dizzy, and it took her a moment to realize how much of the bottle was gone.  She stared at the meager contents left to it.  “You drank half the bottle!” she exclaimed.

                “So did you,” he countered.

                She made a face, and tried to think of something witty to say in return, but nothing came to mind.  She let it drop, and finished off the bottle.  She let the empty bottle sit beside them.  She leaned her head against his shoulder.

                “When I leave, I’m going to tell my clan about you,” she promised him.  “We’ll find a way to get you out of here; I promise.”

                He sighed, and said nothing for a long moment.  “To what purpose?”

                She heard herself laugh, and she struggled to sit up, but only fell into his lap.  He stared lazily down at her.  She grinned up at him, giggling again at her own lack of coordination.  She decided to stay like this; it seemed easier than moving.  “I think you’d make a great Dalish warrior,” she told him.

                “I don’t know about that,” he admitted.

                She climbed into his lap, trying to get him to see her point of view.  She sat facing him.  “No, really.  See—“  She burst out laughing as she tilted, falling backwards.  He grabbed onto her shirt, yanking her forward, to keep her from falling into the stream.  He lost his balance and they both fell.  She landed not entirely on him, but beside him, one leg thrown around his mid-section.  She sat partway up.  He rolled his head to look at her.  A long silence passed between them.

                “I’ve never kissed anyone,” she admitted.

                He cocked his head to the side.  “Neither have I,” he said.

                She leaned down, and her lips covered his.  It was… not bad, she guessed.  Even though he was a boy.  He was pretty enough, if she did not think too much about it.  Why did she only like girls again?  She couldn’t really remember…

                His lips were a little chapped, and clumsy with their first kiss.  She imagined that she was no better, and she felt herself overcome with something, a longing in her loins for a connection with another person.  Her mind cried out in agony that he wasn’t a girl.  She imagined a woman’s heaving breasts, a damp wetness between her legs, that gorgeous curve of the waistline, slender hips…

                “I’ve never been with a man either,” she whispered, her lips inches from his.  She hadn’t meant to say that aloud!  Wait—had she said it aloud?

                He stared up at her, the drink swimming in his eyes.  “It doesn’t mean anything, does it?”  _Yes, she had definitely said that aloud!_

                She laughed.  “You know I like girls, same as you,” she said dryly.

                He kissed her again, and it still felt weird to her.  She turned her head away, shaking her head.  “No, I don’t like that,” she said, making a face as if she had bitten something that tasted off.

                “Shame,” he said, and she wasn’t sure if he were joking or not.

                She hoped that he was just teasing.  “I’m willing to try it with a man, if it’s you,” she added, but had not intended to say that aloud either.

                He hesitated, and seemed to consider it.  “So long as…  We can still be friends, right?”

                She laughed, and nodded.  “Yeah.  Let’s not make it weird.”  So, because neither of them had ever been with another, and because nothing would ever happen between them even after the point, they began drunkenly peeling off the other’s clothing.

                It was easier said than done, and there was nothing romantic about it either.  There was lots of fumbling, and laughing at each other.  Lots of staring drunkenly at buttons, and trying to untie knots.  Fingers were not nimble enough for all of it, and it took some time.  Time and alcohol were funny things.  Enough of it, and one became sober.  However, in a smaller amount of time, one only becomes more drunk as the alcohol seeps through the veins, saturating the brain.  And, of course, telling the inebriated person in question to do things they would most likely not normally do.

                Once they were finally both stripped of their clothing, said articles haphazardly strewn about them, and lying partly on top of someone’s tunic, Ginger climbed on top of Leto with all the confidence of a frightened rabbit.

                She shook her head suddenly, springing off of him, shivering at what she had _almost_ done.  She scooted away, drawing her legs up against her bare chest.  “Oh, Mythal, you’re a _man_ and I can’t do this!” she cried in terror, and realized that at least half of the words had been in elvhen and the other half in the King’s Tongue.  “I’m…  I’m really sorry…”

                She heard him sigh, and sit up.  Thankfully, one of his legs pulled up to hide himself, for which she was grateful.  “That’s fine, Ginger,” he told her, knowing what she had meant even if it were halfway in another language; they were good friends.

                She felt like such a fool.  How could she have thought they would go through with this?  By the Dread Wolf, he had a _penis_!  “I’m… such an idiot.”

                Unfortunately, neither of the two remember any of the events that happened after that moment, or so fervently denied the events and insisted they did not remember that whatever happened after that was never mentioned.

                Fact of the matter, they could have just as easily passed out naked, and _assumed_ they had sex, considering how little they actually remembered about that part.  It was also possible that they had passed out during it—an unfortunate but, sadly, typical event.  Or, perhaps they had simply both passed out without their clothes on—all of these things were possible.

                They dressed awkwardly in the wee hours of the morning, drinking from the stream, and asked each other how they were feeling.  Neither of them said “well” to put it mildly, and Ginger asked Leto if he remembered anything that happened last night.  They both agreed that _something_ had happened, though were a little sketchy on the details.  In conclusion, they could not say exactly and decided between themselves that even if something happened or if it did not, it didn’t change anything.

                And when it fully dawned on poor Ginger that she might have done such things with a man, she promptly fell ill, and vomited.  She made him promise to never mention that night— _ever_ , and he agreed to do this thing, on the agreement that she do likewise.

                No matter what happened, the Dalish was incredibly sore in the morning, and wanted nothing so much as to sleep the day away.  But practice called, and she was even sorer by the end of that day, because she couldn’t dodge as well as normal.  She felt like she had slept all night in an awkward position, while lying on a rock.

                And, worse, Leto seemed to be suffering from a hangover.  He sat at the side; his head between his knees with his fingers digging against his scalp, eyes squeezed shut.  He ended up being hit a lot too, and almost didn’t care.

                The question, though, was—was it worth it?

                In conclusion, the answer was…  No, no it definitely was not.  Not in any way, shape, or form.

                Mieta seemed to know what had happened, and little Varania only wondered where they had been all night, and why Leto just fell into bed and pulled the sheet over his head.  Thankfully, Mieta did not scold either of them for it, or that was just something that was going to happen later.

                Ginger was right.  Mieta sent Varania out early in the morning, and stood in front of the single door, arms crossed and looking impenetrable.  The two teenagers stared at her, waiting for what they knew was coming.

                “And where did you two acquire the alcohol to get so drunk?” she demanded, looking from one to the other.

                Leto’s eyes flicked to Ginger, and she could have kicked him for the subtle gesture.  Mieta’s gaze shifted to her.  The woman raised an eyebrow, waiting.  Ginger knew that she was quite content to sit there staring at someone until they talked, and under her scrutiny, she was quite uncomfortable.  “I… stole it,” she admitted.

                “I could report it, and have you both whipped for this,” she said under her breath.

                “They won’t notice it’s missing,” Ginger insisted.  She had gotten the bottle to the rubbish heap, after all, so they would not even find the bottle in the orchard.

                “Like no one noticed that you two were hung over yesterday?” she demanded.  The two shifted uncomfortably.  Thankfully, most people did not care enough to punish them, and their master-of-arms was content to have them both beaten and bruised in the training ring as a lesson.  “The two of you could be in a lot of trouble, you know.”  Ginger would have retaliated, but Mieta did look genuinely concerned for the two of them.

                “I’m sorry, Mother,” Leto whispered.

                “I’m sorry, ma’am,” the Dalish said, hanging her head.  “It won’t happen again.”

                Mieta stared at them, as if they had missed the point.  “It’s not _me_ you need to be afraid of.  You’re children; if it were up to me, I’d do exactly what you did—make you both go about your day instead of nurse your pain.”  She shook her head.  “But you just be grateful if you _don’t_ get beaten for this.”

                Ginger realized that, if that were to happen, today would be the day.  Yesterday, someone would have reported it, maybe by evenfall at latest.  Which would mean…  With that, Mieta let the two go.  The pair was silent, and both were reluctant to break that silence.

                It did not need to be spoken of anyway; they were both wondering if anyone had noticed enough to report it.

                They were distracted during training, and worrying throughout the day.  Toward late noon, Ginger saw a page say something to the master-of-arms, Bruce.  He nodded, and the training bout continued, but he pulled Ginger and Leto away a couple hours later, dismissing everyone else early.

                “I’m disappointed in the two of you,” he muttered darkly, and signaled for the two elves to follow him.  They did--quietly.  Ginger touched Leto’s arm, seeking to give and receive some small measure of comfort.  She gave a slight squeeze, and her hand dropped away.  “Leto, you’re first.”

                There was a post shaped rather like a doorway, and one wrist was lashed to either side, above head height.  His shirt lay a short distance from him.  The human was compassionate enough to them, most of the time.  He had a tendency to be harsh, but not cruel, and one had to know one’s students, after all.  He gave him a thick tube of leather to bite, telling him that it helped.  Even to Ginger, Leto looked scared.

                She flinched at every crack of the whip, and he told her to count, and told her that she had better not lose count.  She didn’t, but she did find herself stuttering, her eyes watering in heartache.  This was her fault.  It was _all_ her fault.  Every one of those twelve lashes had been because of her.  No one else; just her.  She should have taken those lashes, not him.  Not him!

                He was sagging in the bonds, whimpering in obvious pain.  Blood trailed down his back.  Her eyes had been fixed to his bare back, but she was suddenly aware, as her friend was being untied, that someone was watching—had been there the whole time in fact.  She turned to look, and took a step backward in surprise.

                It was that man that bought her—Danarius.

                He was studying Leto, just like he said; as if he might want to eat him.  She prayed Leto would not look up, that he wouldn’t see him.  She prayed that he would keep his head down and stumble off, and fall, and stay down.  It was shameful enough to have this done.  Worse, to have an audience.  Worse still, to have their master watching, and looking at him like that.

                But Leto did look up, and see his master.  He stumbled a little, looking dizzy.  Ginger started to move to help him, but a glare from Master Bruce kept her in place.  She felt helpless, and rooted to the spot.  Leto kept his gaze stuck to the ground, and focused entirely on walking.  She could tell that every step hurt.

                If she could take it all back, she would.  It made her want to cry.

                When he came to a stop beside her, and did not even look at her, she felt her eyes water.  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.  “I’m so, so sorry, Leto.”

                He only nodded once, a slight movement of the head in reply.  Maybe he was in too much pain to talk.  Or was too angry.  Master Bruce made her remove her shirt, which was embarrassing.  She knew that she deserved it though.

                She wondered if Danarius was still watching.  She hoped that he had gone.  She glanced over her shoulder, back at Leto as Bruce tied her wrists in place.  Her eyes widened, her stomach tightening.

                Leto was cringing, in obvious discomfort.  Danarius had his hands on his back, and she saw one of his fingers drag—painstakingly slowly—across the open wound.  As her other wrist was hoisted above her head, she saw her friend’s knees buckle, and he fell, on his hands, unable to take it anymore.  To her utter horror, she saw the mage put his bloodied finger to his lips, and tasted the blood.

                The mage sauntered up to Bruce, and Ginger was close enough to hear what they said.

                “I want Leto sent to the infirmary; I don’t want him scarred.  I don’t care about the girl,” he said, and with that, turned on his heel, and left.

                Bruce put the bit of leather to her lips, and gently told her to bite down on it.  She did so, despite that it had been in Leto’s mouth a moment before.  She had tasted his spit just the other day anyway.  This time, Leto counted.  Twelve lashes.  Each one was worse than the next, and even her throat was raw by the end.  Leto had to help her put her shirt back on.  Bruce told him to go to the infirmary, on his master’s orders, and muttered that Ginger should go as well.

                The two helped each other walk, their shirts bloodied and sticking to their backs.  Blood ran down their backs, mixing with their sweat and dirt of the day.

                A page had gotten there before them, and a mage, a servant, was waiting for them.  She saw to Leto immediately, cleaning out his wounds, and applying an expert skill to his back.  Ginger was simply cleaned off by another servant, and told, rather disdainfully, that she may wait in the corner, out of the way.

                She did so, watching from a distance the mage healing Leto’s back.  When she was finished, there wasn’t so much as a scar.

                The pair had to relinquish their bloodied clothing, and received different shirts.  They walked back.  She still hurt something terrible, and knew she would for some time yet.  She looked up at Leto and wondered, with a sinking feeling in her stomach, why it was that Danarius had not wanted him scarred.

                She was reminded of how Leto sometimes had to serve food and drink at formal occasions.  Maybe that was why.  But she remembered some of the looks that he had given him.  She liked to tease her friend, but she sincerely _hoped_ it was just an aesthetic reason…

 


	19. Hemming a Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein there is some aftermath to the previous chapter, and the characters try to be happy and come a little short.

                All was silent at the worn trestle table, in the corner where Mieta, her two children, and Ginger sat eating.  Usually, Leto and Ginger would banter, tease Varania, or Ginger would tell one of her outlandish stories she was so famous for.

                Varania had been unnaturally quiet, though, since the whipping.  She had seen the blood on Ginger’s back, saw Leto help her to wash it every day, and never knew what to say.  Ginger was usually a pretty happy person by nature, always trying to make the people around her laugh—which they did, despite everything.

                “Why did they hurt you?” Varania finally asked Ginger, peering up at her.

                The older girl and her brother shared a look, and Mieta raised an eyebrow.  But Ginger said, “I got caught stuffing pastries in my mouth.”  She grinned impishly.  “But I ate about twenty of them before I got in trouble.  You should have seen me—I looked like a chipmunk with all that bread stuffed in my mouth.  I would have denied it, of course, except that I was still chewing when they caught me.”

                Varania laughed, a little uncertainly.  It sure sounded like Ginger, but Mieta wasn’t laughing, and Leto’s smile was forced.  Varania felt like it was a lie.  It probably was.  As young as she was, she was actually quite accustomed to the idea of people older than she was lying to her; they did it all the time.  _But not Leto._   Leto was the only one who ever always told her the truth. 

                “Once upon a time, there was a… goat,” Ginger said, as if she were just spitting out words to divert the conversation, which is exactly what she was doing.

                “’Kay,” she said.  “It’s off to a good start.”

                Ginger thought for a moment.  “And the goat… decided he didn’t like being a goat.  In fact, he hated it.”  She seemed pleased with herself for a moment, and Varania knew that she was just making  this story up as she went.  “So, the goat went into the forest and found the magical winged… kitten…  That lived in a sycamore tree.”

                Varania stared at her as if she were mad—an expression Ginger was so accustomed to that she scarcely noticed it.  “What’s the kitten’s name?” the young mage inquired.

                “Octavion the Great, Hero of the War of Birds, General of the Felines, Slayer of Canines, and Lord of the Dance,” she proclaimed with a self-satisfied nod.  That finally got a chuckle out of both Varania and Leto, which only spurned Ginger on.  “The goat said to the magical kitten, ‘I do not wish to be a goat any longer.’”  Ginger gave the goat in the story a gruff voice.

                Leto raised an eyebrow.  “Why does the goat _talk_?”

                Ginger hit him in the shoulder.  “It’s a story.  Everything talks.”  She cleared her throat and continued.  “So anyway, the Hero of the War of Bards replied—“

                “Birds,” Varania reminded her.

                Ginger nodded.  “Yes, ‘Birds.’  My bad.  The Hero of the War of Birds replied, ‘What would you like to be then?’”  She mimicked the sort of voice she imagined a kitten having if it could talk—which in her mind meant unnaturally deep and manly.  “The goat thought for a moment and replied, ‘I would like to be a man.’”  Ginger grinned.  “And so the winged kitten said, ‘Very well.  You are now a man.’”  She looked at her audience, and noticed that some of the people nearby were listening, and giving her odd looks, more things she was more than accustomed to.  “The kitten continued, ‘Go down to the village, for that is where men go.’  And so he left, quite happily.  Upon arriving at the village, he pranced about, quite merrily.  A young boy approached him, and his first instinct was to headbutt the boy, so he did.”  She elbowed Leto for emphasis.  He scowled, but she continued on as if oblivious.  Varania giggled.  “He climbed on things.”  Ginger propped her arm on her friend’s shoulder, and jabbed him in the neck with her fingers.  “And stepped on things.  He went places he had never gone before.”  She jabbed her finger in his ear for further emphasis, which set Varania to a fit of giggles when Leto shoved Ginger away.  But the redhead grinned back at him.  He raised an arm preventatively, to keep her from further illustrating things on him.  “And he chewed tin cans and weeds.”  Ginger leaned forward and very casually bit Leto’s arm.  He stared at her, a look of strained tolerance on his features.

                Varania was laughing in fits now, and even Mieta was smiling.  Ginger pulled back, and Leto wiped his arm on her shirt in an effort to get rid of the saliva she had left on it.  “Ew,” she complained, then looked back at the young mage.

                “So he still acted like a goat?” Varania inquired.

                Ginger grinned back at her.  “ _Listen_.  So the winged kitten Octavion came to visit him and asked him, ‘How do you like being a man?’  To which he replied, ‘It’s wonderful; I’ve never been so happy.’  And the kitten smiled—not an easy feat for a kitten, mind you—and said, ‘Good.’  And he bid goodbye to the goat, and went back to his sycamore tree.”

                Varania blinked.  “What?  I thought he was a person…”

                Ginger shook her head fervently.  “Never said that.”

                Varania laughed all the harder, and even Mieta chuckled.  Leto smiled.  On the way to the training ground, Leto commented, “A good story needs a moral.”

                Ginger nodded.  “Yeah, and I thought of one, but I didn’t want Varania to hear it.”

                Leto looked at her, raising an eyebrow.  “Well?”

                The girl sighed and looked away.  “Sometimes, you need to lie to someone to make them happy.”

 

                Mieta suspected more than she had let on.  Leto and Ginger were close.  They spent most of their time together, after all.  She had no doubt that they were friends, and Ginger flirted and teased a lot for a girl her age.

                But, two kids—a boy and a girl—alone all night, drunk?

                She thought they were too young.  Thirteen and fourteen?  They were not even _developed_ , let alone mentally mature enough, in her opinion.  As a parent, she wanted to confront them and demand the truth.  Similarly, she knew that the truth would do no real good.  What was done was done, and who was to say that the two had not simply gotten themselves drunk and passed out somewhere?

                Even if something _had_ happened, what would she do about it?  Punish them?  She sighed to herself.  This life was a punishment enough, she felt.  What could she do?

                No, that was not the answer anyway.  Why punish two people for doing what felt natural to them?  True, they were too young to understand the implications of their drunken actions, but they had such few pleasures in life, she could not bring herself to take that away.

                Maybe that was why she felt like such a failure as a parent; she just could not punish her children.

                Leto seemed to punish himself, though—every moment of every day.  But Varania?  She had barely raised the girl; Leto had done that, something that would weigh forever on Mieta’s heart.  Her son had done a decent enough job, when he could, but she had been so young when Leto was pulled away to start practicing for the gladiatorial arena, that little Varania had had to watch after herself.  It hadn’t been fair, and it was appallingly cruel, but that was how it had to be.

                She sensed a hurt brokenness inside her son.  She saw it in his eyes when he was angry or upset.  When he had told her that it was her fault they were here, so many years ago.  That was a moment she didn’t think that she would ever forget.

                It _was_ her fault that they were here.  Her cousin had told her, begged her in fact, to come with her deeper into Qunari territory when they had first gotten word that the Tevinters were headed their way.  She had not listened, to her own misfortune, and that of her children as well.  But she had thought, their walls had never fallen before, and she was pregnant and should not travel, and she did not want to abandon her husband to die alone either.  But everyone died alone, she knew now.  And the outcome would have been the same for him anyway, and maybe her children would have had a chance… except for Varania.  The Qunari leashed their mages.  For her, maybe slavery to a Tevinter mage was better than the Qun, but perhaps Leto would have been happier.

                Sometimes, she still thought about poor little Lura, all alone.  She wondered if the girl were even still alive.  The poor thing.  Should she have tried to lie?  Say that she and Leto were twins?  They looked nothing alike, and Lura was too little to know to lie.  Still, if Lura could be bidden to stay silent on the matter, it was not so uncommon that twins were not identical, and some humans honestly could not tell the difference between elves too.  It was too late for regrets anyway, though she did wish…

                No, wishing would not change anything.

                She wanted a future for her children—something, anything.  But there was nothing.  She had nothing she could hope for them, except escape.  She knew that the Dalish girl was very resourceful, knew that Ginger had every intention on escaping someday.  She prayed that Leto would go with her when she finally ran.  Varania had a phylactery now, and could never escape, but maybe Leto could.

                But she wondered if her son, who was so painfully loyal to his little sister and mother, would seize the opportunity when it was finally presented to him.

                A sharp prick of the needle scattered her thoughts.  She studied the bordering on the gown.  Danarius had a niece that the dress was for—a pampered thing a bit younger than Varania.

                She tied off the thread, finished with the bordering on the neckline, but it needed to be hemmed before she could start on the embroidery at the bottom.

                Lana looked up from her own work.  She was a rare headmistress, the sort that worked alongside the slaves under her care.  She was relentless, but not unkind exactly.  More like, she expected everyone else to keep up with her despite anything else.  She had replaced Sadie some years back, and the change had been a good one at least.

                Mieta stretched her fingers.  She had been sewing for so many years, she was beginning to develop a pain in her hands.  Varania was just skilled enough to take the pain away when it was bothering her overmuch, but not so much yet to heal it completely, so it always came back.  Her daughter was more skilled at what she called “entropy.”

                “That needs to be hemmed, doesn’t it?” Lana said, mostly to herself.  She set her work down and went over to her.  Her thick auburn hair, speckled with bits of grey, was pinned back, out of her face.  She inspected the needlework, smiling down at it.  “I don’t know why I ever inspect your work, Mieta—you’re better at embroidery than I am!”  She kind of laughed.  Mieta smiled a little at the praise.  She frowned to herself.  “We don’t have a form close enough to the girl’s size—the child one is getting repaired.”  Her brow creased in thought, and she snapped her fingers as an idea came to her.  “Mieta, is your daughter done with her lessons for the day?”  
                Mieta looked out the window.  The day was just growing dim.  Usually, the girl was home alone right now.  “She should be, yes,” she said, wondering what the woman intended.

                “Great.  Go fetch her, will you?” she said, and dismissed her to return to her stitches.  Mieta set her needlework down and left to get her daughter.  Did she intend to use Varania as a form?  Varania would love that.

                As she walked, she looked off to her side, watching her son drill.  It seemed curious to her that his lashes had been healed so perfectly with magic, and Ginger was left to suffer the healing of her own.  She knew that her son was sometimes drafted to pour wine and such at formal occasions, and the scars would ruin his skin, but…  Perhaps when he was older or started fighting, he would not have to do that anymore.  She hoped so; Leto hated it passionately.

                When Mieta came into the house, she saw Varania sitting on her bed, her legs dangling over the sides.  Her hands were about five inches apart, and a light was glowing between them.  The girl was in such deep concentration that she didn’t notice her mother until she stood beside her.  Abruptly, the light fluttered and died out between her hands.

                Mieta put a hand on her daughter’s head.  “It was pretty—like a night wisp.  Did I ever tell you about the wisps?” she asked her, lifting her off the bed.  Varania was a tiny, frail little thing, and she could still easily lift her.  She set her down on the floor.

                “No,” the mage-child said, eager to hear more.  “Tell me?”

                Mieta took her hand and led her out of the hut, closing the door behind her.  She inspected the girl first.  Because Varania had lessons inside the mansion, she was required to bathe more often than she liked, so she was relatively clean, except her feet, which were bare.  Mieta distracted her with her story as she led her out of the compound and down the path to the manor.  She told her about how night wisps, with their ephemeral beauty, could only be seen at night—usually in swamps.  She told her how they lured travelers deeper into the swamps, to their deaths.

                The girl was so distracted that she at first did not notice the path they were on.  “Where are we going?” she asked suddenly as they approached the door.

                Mieta smiled.  “You’ll see.”  They wiped their feet on a mat, and went inside, and down a hall.  The room’s windows faced the courtyard, and it was not far from the door.  The room’s door was ajar, and as soon as Lana saw Varania, she stood up again.

                “Excellent.  Now, Mieta, get your daughter into this dress; I think she’s about the right height,” she said, picking up the gown.  The girl’s eyes went wide with obvious delight. 

                Mieta helped her daughter out of her clothes, and into the dress behind a curtain.  Varania was positively glowing, and lifted the skirts carefully as she walked.  Mistress Lana looked up at her when she came out, and she smiled in satisfaction, nodding to Mieta to continue.  She let Varania look at herself in the mirror as she pinned the dress to hem it.

                Varania only stared in silence for quite a while, giggling as she looked down at the dress, and maybe even daydreaming.

                Mieta found that her heart felt heavy.  It was not the nice reprieve she had hoped to give her daughter—not at all.  It was just something she could never have.  Maybe doing this had been worse than trying to guess on her own, but it _was_ Mistress Lana’s decision, after all.

                When Mieta was finished, she called Lana over to check the work.  Lana looked at the hemming.  Varania was maybe a scant inch taller than the girl the dress was made for, so Mieta had made it a bit shorter on purpose.

                “Another quarter inch—if it’s too short, we can add lace to it,” she decided.

                Mieta nodded, and helped her daughter out of the dress.  She sent her away, and made a mark to re-pin it, though that would have to wait until tomorrow morning; Lana even agreed on that.

                Varania was all aglow at the experience, and bragged about it to Ginger.  Leto commented that she probably looked ugly in it (what are big brothers for?), and Ginger punched him in the arm for his remark.

                The dress was finished by evenfall the next day with both the seamstresses working on it, and Varania was happy to come work on her stitches that day, which was rare.  She asked to see the dress, and Lana was nice enough to show it to her.

                Mieta wished she could tell Varania that one day she would have something so pretty.  But…  Well, there was nothing for it.

                The life of a slave just did not permit it.

 

                The gathering was a simple and intimate affair with a couple of other magisters and higher-ranking magi while they discussed business.  Apprentices had been left behind, and Raith had complained, but the boy would get over it, Danarius knew.

                The courses had already been served, complimented, and eaten, and taken away.  They had since retired to a lounge.  One of the magisters was smoking a cigar, the open window drafting most of the smell.  The aroma mingled with that of the cherry wood fire, and the subtle scent of his slaves waiting in attendance, covered in aromatic oils.

                The magisters spoke primarily in Ancient Tevene for this latter part, as they talked about such important matters of state.  Over the past month, the Qunari had beaten the Imperials back to the southernmost coast of Seheron, and other countries were afraid to trade with Tevinter from the sea route.  The gathered magisters were discussing land routes and the risk of guarding ships.

                Danarius gestured as he spoke, adding his own opinions—which was that for trade to work at all, they needed a safe sea route, so guarding the coast was well worth the effort.  One of the magisters made his money in ships, and emphatically agreed with this statement, and would speak on it with feeling.

                The matter would be brought to court in three days, and one did like to know one’s allies, after all.  The five in the room usually sided together after debate, which was what this gathering was about.

                The only elven magister in Minrathous argued vehemently against trying to open the sea routes, and he and the other were at one another’s throats about it.  He was insistent that trying to beat the Qunari back in the seas would be too costly, and was very much against raising taxes to cover the cost.  “ _You just can’t control your peasants, Vyeth,”_ Philanthe said.

                The elf shot him a lofty glare—which was difficult when you stood head and shoulders below someone, but there was something about the particular glower that made taller men feel shorter.  “ _They need to keep enough coin to live and work, you daft old fool.”_

Danarius decided that he had better put a stop to it before it actually came to blows, amusing as the two of them could be.  “ _You both have excellent points, of course.  But consider…_ ”  He went on to discuss, instead of clearing the Qunari from the waters, of hiring escort ships—possibly Rivaini ships, if they could be trusted.  This topic was discussed with fervor and somewhere the subject strayed back to an ever-present issue—a desire for more slaves.  The Tevinter Imperium lived off of the blood of slaves.  Slaves raised their children, slaves grew their food, cleaned their houses, and fought their wars.  There was always a thirsty need for more bodies.

                He made a signal for more wine as he listened to a high-ranking Circle mage, Vanessa, talk.  She was fairly young to come of the rank of Senior Enchanter, and very ambitious.  She was being considered for the rank of magister in another Circle—no small honor for a Laetan mage such as herself.  She supported this idea with the same ambition.  Out of the corner of Danarius’ eye, he saw his slave very carefully step, and very quietly fill his glass.  His hand reached up, resting on the elf’s wrist lightly.  The boy did not move, and was quite possibly terrified.

                “Even a Qunari-raised child is still a child,” Danarius said, this time in the modern Tevene.  He took the bottle from the dark-haired slave and set it beside the glass.  “I bought this whelp from Seheron—captured from Qunari-friendly territory.”  A slight exaggeration, but it proved his point.  He smirked at Leto.  “Kneel.”  The boy knelt, eyes fixed to the floor as the magister’s hand idly stroked his hair, the same way someone might a dog.  “Once these places in Seheron are back in Imperial hands, where they belong, it will be nothing to subdue these ‘Qunari subjects.’”

                His short speech was met with general approval, and a toast to the idea.  Danarius drank to it, but did not give Leto permission to stand and go back to his duties.  He looked at the boy, considering that thin serving outfit, nothing but a few pieces of silk really, held together with delicate silver chains.  He ran his fingertips through the dark hair, cupping Leto’s cheek.  His thumb brushed against his eyelashes.  The boy’s eyes were closed.  He touched his lips—a little bit chapped.  His hand trailed down his neck, tracing the curve of his shoulder.  Leto was barely breathing.  Danarius ran a finger over the silver collar around his neck, which all the silver chains attached to in one way or another—which was symbolic, really.

                He did all of this without really looking at Leto, and all while commenting on the conversation.  He beckoned his slave closer, until it was quite comfortable to continue petting his hair as if he were a dog.  Leto was very obedient in these situations.  The first time he had done this to him, he had made a little, kind of endearing, whining noise, and the saddest look in his eyes he was capable of.  Of course it only influenced Danarius to do it more often.  The first time had only been because he knew that Leto and another of the slaves had quarreled in the kitchens, and he wanted a stop put to it.  Ordinarily, he would have had someone else oversee the matter, except that both the slaves were gladiators, and he needed them both to work as a team, so the situation was more… delicate.  He had made both of the slaves kneel—for over an hour.  When they were getting shaky and uncomfortable, he had slapped the one and sent him sprawling.  Leto had braced for the same blow, but instead, the magister had touched his face, bent closer to him and had whispered to him that he had best never quarrel inside the manor again.  Now Leto barely spoke in the serving outfit.

                He traced the curve of the boy’s jaw, considering how he was just becoming a man.

                He let Leto go back to his duties after several minutes, but kept him long after everyone else had gone, and watched him pick up the other glasses, and set them on a tray.

                “Leto—that’s your name, isn’t it?” Danarius inquired over the rim of his glass.

                The boy gave a nod of the head.  “Yes, Master,” he answered, his words a little clipped.

                The magister watched him a while longer.  He rose and set his empty glass down himself, reaching around the boy to do so.  He ran a hand along his back, thinking about all those dripping wounds from the whip on his back not so very long ago.  His fingers trailed from his shoulders down to his hips, where they rested.  Danarius knew it was the alcohol, but he leaned in close to Leto’s ear and whispered, “Say yes, my little pet.”  As he spoke, one of his hands trailed past his hip, to his thigh, feeling the firmness of his muscles, stroking his leg suggestively.

                Leto’s eyes closed, and he looked away.  “I don’t… know what you mean, Master,” he said, and Danarius heard notes of denial in his voice.  And a little bit of a cracking tremble that would mark puberty.  The boy’s face heated a little at that.

                The magister let go of him, walking away.  “Oh, I think you do, elf.  I really think you do.”  He left the room laughing, and did not look back to see Leto cross his arms as if it were cold, his legs shaking at what he had narrowly avoided.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One day, one of my coworkers wanted me to talk. I asked her, "What about?" and she replied, "Anything. Tell me a story." So I made up a story on the spot--which is Ginger's story about the goat and the magical kitten. All of Varania and Leto's lines throughout it are her reactions to the story.


	20. Flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Leto is faced with a difficult decision.

                Ginger woke one night, in the dead of the night.  A sound was bothering her.  She looked around the small room, but no one else was awake.  Why did it bother only her?  Her throat felt dry, and she was suddenly restless.  Maybe she should go to the well…

                She slid out of the bed.  Her night shift always seemed to twist and bunch up around her waist in her sleep.  When Leto was around, she had felt self-conscious enough to try to squirm it down lower before she rose, but he was dead asleep, so just let it fall down when she rose.  Besides, he had seen everything anyway!

                She finger-combed her hair absently as she tiptoed to the door.  It creaked slightly as she opened it, and she stole out into the night.

                There was a long silence in the dark as she walked alone to the well.  The stars were shining, and the moon was waning.  The night of the formal dinner, when the magister’s brother came to visit, would be moonless.

                She rubbed at one of her eyes, yawning as she approached the well.  She shoved the lid off it with some effort, and let the bucket fall into it.  It was kept at least partway open during the day, but someone usually closed it at night.

                She turned the lever, hoisting the bucket up from the depths of the well, briefly annoyed that someone had left it in there all night--again.  The sound pierced the night again, and this time rather than a dim memory, she placed it.

                A birdcall that was not a birdcall.  Had her ears deceived her?  She hesitated, and then called back to it, mimicking the cry.  Hers was not as good; it sounded too much like a person’s throat to her ears, but she doubted anyone else was paying too much attention.  Sure enough, it echoed again.  Her eyebrows rose.  Hope flared anew in her breast.

                She followed the sound of the call, over the low wall around the compound, to the high stone wall that surrounded the manor grounds.  She pressed her ear to the wall, and hoped that her voice would carry.

                “ _Are you there?”_ she asked in the old tongue, in elvish.  She had made sure not to forget it, teaching Leto and Varania a few words here and there too, which helped to remember.

                “ _Viscaria?”_

Her heart hammered in joyous hope, in something close to what she knew to be salvation.  _“Yes,”_ she breathed.  She knew the voice, even after two, almost three, years, she remembered the voice of the hunter.  “ _How did you find me?”_

“ _Why do you think it took so long, sister?”_

She wasn’t _really_ his sister, exactly, but they were all like a big family, so she was sort of a sister, in a fashion.  She wanted to laugh, to dance, to sing.  “ _I’m so glad you’re here.”_

“ _When can you escape?”_

She hesitated, and thought seriously.  When would be a good time?  She supposed…  “ _Come back two nights from now, at this time.  I’ll be ready_.”

                “ _Be ready,”_ he echoed.  She parted from the wall—quickly, lest anyone see her.  She took her drink from the well, and put the lid back in place.  She went back to bed, but wondered if she would even be able to sleep.  Excitement thrilled through her.  Three long years, and she would be free— _free!_ —in two night’s time.

                The hardest part was keeping silent about it.  She knew not to talk about it.  She knew to pretend as if everything was absolutely normal, and she acted accordingly.  She jested, and sparred, and talked as if nothing at all were out of the ordinary.  She was certain that not even Leto suspected anything.

                The night she had planned, she slept in her shift of course lest she draw attention, but neglected to put her clothes in the drawer; it creaked.  She lay awake, counting down the seconds, the hour, and slipped out of bed just before the appointed time.  She changed as quickly and quietly as was possible, stuffing the shift under her old blanket.  She paused at the door.  She knew she could not bring them all with her.  Knew that Mieta could not leave, for Varania.  Knew that Varania had to stay, for she had a phylactery.  But Leto…

                She knelt by his bed, and touched his shoulder.  She put a finger to his lips to keep him from saying anything.  She inclined her head toward the door, and he followed her out.

                Safely behind the hut, away from anyone who might wander outside, she whispered, “I’m leaving.  Tonight.”

                His eyes widened at the implication.  His eyes reflected, not joy, but horror.  She knew why; he had told her what they did to runaway slaves—if they caught them.  “Ginger…”

                “They won’t catch me; my clan is here; they’re going to help me.”

                He shook his head in dismay.  “I don’t want you to be hurt.”

                “I won’t,” she promised him, and took one of his hands in hers.  “I want you to come with me.”

                He looked at her.  She looked into his eyes, trying to discern his thoughts.  He was so expressive.  His eyes and face always betrayed his emotions, and she had found it both endearing and infuriating.  Now, it just saddened her.  She knew he wasn’t going to go; she could see it in the set of his jaw, and she knew it pained him, by the sadness in his eyes, and the regret.  “I can’t,” he told her.

                She wanted to make him see.  “Leto, the Dalish will help you—you’ll see.”

                He shook his head, and looked back at the hut, where his sleeping baby sister and mother lay.  “I can’t leave them,” he said, and looked back at her.

                Was that what his family meant to him?  Were they worth more to him than freedom?  Of course they were, she reflected.  He had not known freedom since he was a child; he must barely remember it.  If slavery was all he had really known, what did freedom really look like to him?  But surely, he must see that freedom was better, and he must know that if his mother and sister knew he had a chance, they would urge him to go too?  “They would want you to go,” she told him, gently, a hand against his upper arm.

                He looked away.  “I won’t,” he said.  “What would my mother do but worry about me?  And it would crush Varania, to have me abandon her.”  He shook his head.  “I just can’t.”

                She had wasted too much time as it was.  She sighed sadly, seeing there was no way to convince him to go.  She threw her arms around him, hugging him tightly.  “I’ll never forget you, Leto.  And I promise, I’ll find a way to rescue you—and your family.”

                When she pulled away, she saw in his eyes that he did not believe her.  But he smiled all the same as she left, and she knew he watched her leave.  She went to the wall, and watched for anyone near.  She had to hunker down and wait for someone to pass by some distance away, and then she called like a bird.  There was a brief pause, and then something landed, hard, a short distance from her.  She crept up to it, finding a rope dangling over the edge, with a rock tight to one end.  She untied the rope; hauling it back up would make the rock bang against the wall—people noticed that sort of thing.

                She scooted the rock away, and wrapped her hands around the rope.  She scaled the wall with some small measure of difficulty, and climbed down with relative ease.  It was too smooth for her to climb it like she had the tower; there were no handholds.

                There was a brief reunion with the two hunters, and they took the rope and stole away into the night.  She only looked back once, thinking of Leto.

                It was brave of him to stay.  It was a hard choice too, especially knowing everything he could have had.  She had told him about her clan, about what they did, and how they lived.  He had listened, and agreed that it would be wonderful.  He was not as entranced as Varania had been, but there had been a certain wistfulness to him.  It must have been hard to walk away from the opportunity.  That required courage, and she admired him for it.

                Shame he wasn’t a woman; she would love him if he were.

                But if she had loved him, she did not know if she would have left either.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was a difficult choice: Would you pick your family, or your best friend? Leto chose his family. Would you choose your best friend and a life of slavery, or your clan and freedom? Ginger chose her clan. They each have different priorities, but I don't feel like that makes them any less of friends; just different people, and in a way, they both made the same choice.


	21. Danse Macabre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leto's point of view and perspectives are changing as he gets older, Varania overhears some frightening news, and Mieta's health is failing, causing her children to worry.

** Part Three **

 

                A year ago, Leto had started fighting in the arena.  Their mother had not liked it, but there was nothing to be done about it.  Each time he left, Mieta wrung her hands, and bit her lip, terrified that her son would not come back alive.

                At the end of the night, though, he always came back, and whole.  The first night had been the hardest.  Varania had been twelve at the time, but old enough to know, by the stone-cold look on his face that something bad had happened.  When Mother had gone to sleep exhausted after a day of work and worry, she poked and prodded her brother to wakefulness, and begged him to come outside with her.  Unable to say no to his little sister, he followed her out.  She walked over to the shed, and the two climbed onto the roof like they had as children.  It was more than sturdy enough to support them.  It was a cloudy night tonight, though, so there were no stars to see.  They had suspected that it might rain tomorrow.

                “What was the arena like?” she asked him, tucking her legs up against her chest, cocking her head to the side as she looked at him.

                He seemed vaguely haunted.  “It’s… big,” he said.  She rolled her eyes, and made a gesture for him to continue.  “There are stands, and they’re filled with people cheering, and the stadium is covered in sand, and smells like blood.”

                “Do they fight to the death?” she asked him.

                He paused, and shook his head.  “No—just the prisoners.  But if we kill someone with a blunted weapon—by accident—the crowd just… cheers,” he said, and he stared off, but like he wasn’t seeing anything around them.

                She paused, and raised an eyebrow.  “You killed someone, didn’t you.”  It wasn’t a question.

                He shivered, and paled.  “Someone’s brother.  Someone’s child.  Maybe someone’s father, or lover, or husband,” he whispered.  He looked at his sister.  “How would you feel if someone killed me?”

                She looked down, at her feet, and really thought about it.  “I’d be… sad, I guess.  And angry.”  She nodded decidedly as she really thought about it.  If Leto were to die…  “I’d hate whoever killed you.  I’d…  I’d be really angry.”

                He nodded, as if in affirmation.  “Imagine how upset you’d be…  Today, I made someone _else_ —someone I don’t even know—that sad, and angry, and they would hate me if they knew me.  And I could do it again.”

                She realized that his hands were shaking, and he was staring at them.  Had they been bloody earlier today?  She reached out toward him, and gripped his hand in hers.  He blinked, as if being pulled from dark thoughts, and looked back at her.  To her, her brother looked lost.  “Do you hate yourself, Leto?” she asked him, as soft as she could make her voice.

                He paused, and she saw his eyes begin to water.  “Yes,” he choked.

                “Did you mean to kill him?”

                He did not look away.  “No…  I really didn’t,” he insisted.

                “It was an accident.  That’s all,” she said, her voice tinged with grief for him.  “I don’t hate you.”  She scooted a little closer to him, and squeezed her hand in his, then hugged him with both arms, dropping his hand.  “I love you a lot.”

                He sighed, and hugged her back, then he let go.  She pulled herself away, but he still did not look very convinced to her.  “Thanks, sis.”

                She frowned, wondering what she could say to him.  She imagined that there was very little that she could say.  “Why do you hate yourself for an accident?”

                He shook his head in despair.  “I could have… done something,” he said, but as if he were floundering for an excuse for his hatred.

                Varania shook her head.  “It’s not your fault.  You didn’t make yourself fight; our master did,” she told him.  “ _He_ killed that man, not you, Leto.”

                He looked away.  “I wish I could believe that, ‘Nia, but he didn’t have the sword.”

                Her brother had changed since that night.  He had already been pretty melancholy, but that just made it worse.  With Ginger’s absence and having killed someone, he changed.  Varania didn’t notice so much, at first, but over the past year, there was something different about him.  A hatred that had been sown when he was a child, and that seed had taken root, and began to flower.

                He was still kind to her, of course, and she met him frequently on the path back to the compound and walked with him, but he no longer said much about the arena, even when she asked.  Sometimes, he came home and smelled like blood, and there would be sand in his hair.  Most of the blood would get on the armor and leathers he wore during the fighting, but sometimes he would come home with dried blood on him.  It made their mother go pale, and Varania had only watched in a mixture of fascination and disgust.

                In time, he even seemed eager to go.  Another time, he was in a _good_ mood after he commented that he had killed someone else.

                He had even come home before bragging about the coliseum, how the crowd cheered, and a magister’s daughter had licked blood off of his cheek and tried to kiss him before her chaperone yanked her away.  He had thought it was quite amusing.  Mieta was not amused.

                One evening, he came home late, smelling like a combination of blood, sweat, and this time, charred leather and hair.  Varania had gotten a good look at his dark hair, and pointed it out.  Mieta looked closer.  Leto smirked, apparently pleased with himself.

                “It’s a good thing your hair is so dark!  What’d you _do_?” Mieta demanded, getting a look at her son’s lightly singed hair.

                He grinned wryly at her.  “ _I_ killed a _dragon_ ,” he announced with more than his fair share of pride.

                Mieta’s eyes opened wide.  Varania rolled her eyes.  “A dragon?” Mieta echoed, her voice tinged with wonder and fear.  “In the coliseum?”

                Leto shrugged a shoulder.  “They caught it—someone bought it and wanted to see it killed, I guess.”

                Mieta was astonished.  “But—the crowds…”

                The boy shrugged noncommittally.  “There were mages and guards—more than usual.”  He seemed reluctant suddenly.  “The dragon was chained in the Proving Grounds—to keep it from escaping.”

                Varania snickered, and he shot her a glare.  “It was _handicapped_ ,” she pointed out to him.

                He made a face.  “It could breathe _fire_!” he argued.

                The girl smirked.  “By ‘dragon,’ brother mine, I think you mean ‘drake.’”  As his lips curved into a disapproving frown, her smirk widened to a mocking grin.  “I heard the magisters talking; it was a _baby_.”

                “Adolescent,” he shot back.

                “It was barely big enough to do any real damage,” she scoffed.

                He scowled.  “It could have eaten me!”  Quite right, actually—the dragon could eat a great deal of sheep, cattle, goats, and the like.  An elf would have been nothing but a quick chomp—maybe about five big bites.  Its teeth could cleave bone.

                At that, she laughed.  “So could _worms_ , given time.”

                He fumed for a moment, then looked back at their mother.  “Well, _I was_ the one who killed it.  My sword cut through its neck—nearly in two!—which is how I got close enough for it to singe my hair.”

                Something about the phrase made Mieta still, and fall silent.  She smiled hollowly at her son, and spoke words of encouragement, but even Varania could see that something about what Leto had said had struck a bad chord with her.  To Varania’s horror, her brother seemed to connect the words he had spoken with their mother’s sudden change in mood, for he addressed it immediately.

                “It was a long time ago, Mother,” he said, his words bitter, even angry.  “He’s dead, and nothing will change what’s happened.  This is our lives now—Schavalis may as well have never happened.  So get over it.”  Mieta stared at him, aghast that he could say such a thing.  His eyes widened, his fingertips touching his lips, as if he had never intended to say it—a futile attempt to pluck the words from history and banish them to the recesses of his mind yet again.  His lips parted.  “I…  I…” he stammered, suddenly at a loss for words.

                “I… need some air,” Mieta said, and walked past her son, and out the door.  Leto had refused to tell Varania what that was about, and the girl only felt excluded from whatever had gone on between mother and son.

                Varania wondered what was happening to him.  A sick feeling twisted in her gut.  Her brother was changing, and becoming someone else, someone she did not know, and was certain she would not like him if this kept up; he scared her sometimes.

 

                Mieta stared up at the moons in the sky, watching Satina glisten on high, her mantle of stars about her.  She heard the door open and close, and was expecting little Varania, but was surprised to see Leto instead.  She looked back at the sky.  These were the same stars over her on her wedding night, the same stars when Leto had been conceived, the same stars when Varania had been conceived.  The same stars that had watched over her life.  She would die under these stars, and she feared with every fiber of her being that she would never be free again, and she barely remembered what it felt like.

                “Do you remember Schavalis?” Mieta asked her son, in the tongue they had used when they lived there as she began to walk from the door.  He walked beside her.

                She watched Leto struggle with the words, and was disappointed when he did, though not in him exactly.  “Mother, I don’t even think in the Trade tongue anymore,” he said, his Tevene as perfect as if he had never spoken another language.

                Her heart felt heavy at those words, but she had known that long ago.  “Did you know what I said?” she asked him, this time in her shambling Tevene—her accent something he would tease about, and try to help her pronounce things.

                He considered.  “Something…  about Schavalis?”

                “Do you remember it?” she repeated, sitting down in the grass, her back against the low wall.  He sat down beside her.

                Leto was quiet, looking up at the stars, his eyes tracking the constellations she had taught him, the pictures he knew.  “I…”  His lips pressed firmly together, and his eyes slid closed in memory.  “Papa coming home in the early morning… I’d try to stay up and wait for him to come home…”  The King’s Speech came out halting and heavily accented, but she understood his words.  “I never could stay up that late.”

                She smiled, just a little.  “You’d fall asleep by the door sometimes, and I’d carry you to bed.”  She looked at her son, as adoringly as she had when he was an infant in arms.  They were quiet, and she started humming softly to herself, a lullaby that she had used to sing him to sleep.  He shifted closer to his mother, his head resting on her shoulder, and sometime between then and halfway through the lullaby, he was curled on his side, his head in her lap.  She stroked his hair gently, and began to sing the rest of it, in a quiet voice that was only for the mother and child.

 

Danarius froze, his gaze fixed to the scrap of parchment.  The Grey Wardens would be at the games today… recruiting.  It was a valuable bit of information, and one he had paid handsomely for.  He had lost two gladiators in his time to the Wardens.  He simply refused to lose any more, so he paid spies and informants to let him know what the Wardens were up to when they came into the city.  It was a matter of pride at this point.

                The last gladiator they had taken was an elf.  He had heard that the elf had since learned to read and write, among other things the magister completely disliked.

                They took away what was his by rights.  He wouldn’t lose another.  Some part of him knew, with a cold, iron certainty that if they saw Leto fight, they would take him too.

                Leto had never lost.

                It was early morning, but the slaves should be just departing for the coliseum.  He rose to his feet, shouting for a servant, a slave—anyone.  A servant came careening into the hall, wide-eyed and fearful.  “Run—tell Ser Darroll to send Leto back to the compound.  _He is not to go to the games_ ,” he ordered.  “Now, _go_!”  The servant didn’t even take the time to bow—he was frightened enough to spin around and dash out the door, quick as he could move.

                Danarius went to the window, and watched as the servant barely caught the wagon.  He watched the half-retired knight try to argue with the servant before yelling at the elf to leave, which he did.  The knight grumbled and climbed back on his horse, the slaves watching with mute interest as Leto walked alone, somewhat sullenly, away.

                The magister sat back down, feeling more relaxed.  Any other he could bear to lose, if he must, but not the best of them.  No, the best of them he would keep.  For a while at least.

 

                Varania had been dismissed early, and kicked out of the tailor’s room—they had a big project to do and didn’t want her about to muck it up.  She fumed, and stalked off back to the compound.

                She threw open the door, muttered to herself about being treated like a child, then saw her brother sitting on the bed meditatively, with a wan smile on his face.

                She was tempted to throw something at him, but nothing was readily available.  “What are you doing here, brother mine?” she said instead, plopping down across from him.  “The other gladiators left.”

                There was supposed to be a match today, wasn’t there?  She hadn’t gotten the days wrong, had she?  No, if she were wrong, he still wouldn’t be here so early.  Leto’s smile faded.  “Before I got into the wagon, a page came and said that I was not allowed to go.”

                Varania stopped, and thought.  Her lessons were cut early because Raith and Danarius were going to the game.  And she had heard Raith say…  She brightened.  “The Grey Wardens are in the city,” she offered.  She had heard the two mages talking; they had mentioned the Wardens’ presence, that they were in Minrathous to recruit.

                Leto frowned in thought for a moment.  “They sometimes go to the games, and recruit from the… gladiators,” he said slowly, piecing the puzzle together.

                The elven mage looked at her brother, and he looked back at her.  Both realized, with a cold certainty, that Danarius had deliberately kept Leto from the game because of that.  All the others had been allowed to go, so it couldn’t be that he was dropping his gladiators or had some other errand to attend; he was hiding Leto from the Wardens.  Even a slave knew a bit about the Wardens, and the Right of Annulment.

                They could take anyone, from anywhere—even a slave.  It happened—not often, but it did happen.  If they saw Leto fight, they may take him too.  For Varania, that would be the end of her world.  She couldn’t bear to lose her brother, who meant so much to her.  It never even occurred to the girl that it would also mean Leto’s freedom.

 

                Raith had something to attend to, some experiment Varania had seen him writing notes on.  She could not read, of course, but she _could_ read patterns, and spell-forms; she was good at it—the one thing in the world she felt confident in doing.  It was what she used when she was doing embroidery.  Embroidery was just a pattern of stitches, after all, and she was good at translating it in her head, even if she couldn’t manage to make them straight.  He left the room before she did, in a hurry to attend to something.  A page had come, and given him a note of some sort.  He had hurried out so quickly that she wondered if it were some emergency.

                If so, she would hear about it in time; rumors spread like wildfire throughout the house, after all.  She had heard quickly enough about the Grey Wardens.  She rose from her seat, and went to tidy the room, as was expected of her.  She had been tracing glyphs to memorize.  The trouble with training a mage and trying to keep them from learning to read entirely was that it just didn’t work that way.  If you were going to teach a mage like that from a book, you had better make certain it only had pictures, and that they never watched the teacher read aloud from it.  She recognized a few words, here and there, though didn’t know the names of all the letters.

                She had been reluctant to speak of this ability to anyone, even Leto, lest someone overhear (she was always overhearing conversations that she shouldn’t, after all).  She remembered her mother writing words in the dirt of the hut, and trying to teach them to read when she could.  Leto had seen no sense in it.

                His precise words had been, at about age eight, “Why should I learn to read?  So I can read the name of the sword before it cuts off my head?”

                Mieta had been appalled at the comment.  Varania had only asked for him to explain what he meant, and he told her that many people named their swords, and the names were forged onto the blade, usually in flowing script.

                She first wiped the stiff parchment she had been drawing on clean of the charcoal with a small towel, then cleaned off her hands before she put the parchment away.  It was expensive, and if cleaned properly, could be used several times over.  She picked up the books and put those away next, more through memory of what the filigree looked like and where it should be than anything else.  As a child, she had thought of it as a game—trying to memorize the places all the books went.

                She cleaned up the pile of ash, and the candles.  Learning a spell was one thing, but learning to control it quite another; she had been practicing how to light candles today, and eventually individual candles in groups—that would come later.  Raith had a pile of papers on the desk—something he had been doing today while she had been copying the glyphs.  He did expect her to at least organize the desk, so she thought nothing of it.

                She put the books back on the shelf first, and cleaned the quill pens, put away the inkwell.  She started picking up the papers, trying to keep them in the order she had found them.  One slipped to the floor.  She set the stack down and bent to retrieve it.  This one was a formula, pieces of which she recognized.  She frowned at it, wondering what it said, but she did understand a bit.  She understood enough of it to tell that it was some kind of recipe for lyrium.  A different kind of mana potion--maybe something more potent?  She couldn’t imagine what else it could be.  Lyrium could be used for a few different things, but putting pure lyrium in, say, a ring would radiate illness to the wearer, even a mage.  It just had to be tempered down to something else.

                Working with it was dangerous; she had been allowed to work with a bit of it, but really only dwarves and tranquil mages could put it to any real use, like augmenting a weapon or creating runes.  She had been _told_ that Templars drank lyrium, and that gave them some of their abilities, but they had to be given a steady supply of it or else they went mad—and the mind fading and ultimately death was always the end of the matter.  She _imagined_ that someone who could devise a way for an alternative would be rather renown, and even rewarded.

                There was a small diagram on it too, but she didn’t understand all of it.  She frowned, and slid it back into the pile.  The first page, she now noticed, was a map of the body—human, elf, dwarf, or Qunari—it made little difference; the muscles and bones were primarily the same.  The first page dealt with a skeletal structure.  She looked up, at the door, and her curiosity drove her further, and she looked back down at the pages.  The second was a map of muscles.  That had always made her uncomfortable, and she moved on quickly.  The third was a map of nerves, which seemed odd.  Skeleton, muscles, and nerves?  What would that have to do with the lyrium recipe?  Or perhaps it was actually two separate projects; that was possible.

                She decided to set it aside rather than continue her snooping.  She set the papers down in a neat pile, and pushed the chair in.  Work done, she left the room.  She walked on the side of the hall, off the carpets, like she was supposed to.  She had intended to go out the way she usually did—through the servant quarters, but the path was blocked.  A maid glowered at her, and told her that she couldn’t come down this way, because the floors were getting waxed, and told her to go around.

                The girl nodded, and turned back around.  She hoped she wouldn’t get scolded for going along the main parts of the mansion, but there was nothing else for it.  If she hadn’t been dismissed so early, then she wouldn’t have had to go out this way after all…  Still, her stomach churned uncomfortably at the thought of someone yelling at her that she shouldn’t be here.

                But no one even seemed to notice her.  Indeed, the few people she did see were in such a hurry that they just rushed past her.  She wondered what could possibly be going on?

                A door was slightly ajar down the hall, and as she approached, she heard voices.  She wouldn’t normally have eavesdropped, but elves had sharp hearing, and she couldn’t help but hear them speaking.

                “…  I hope the Dalish didn’t give you too much trouble,” a voice said.

                _Dalish?_   Varania thought of Ginger.  “No more’n me’n my men can handle, though they did lead us on a merry chase.”

                He laughed, and she suddenly recognized it as her master, Danarius.  “Is that what you call it?  Those elves strung you around for nearly three years.”

                “That they did, but I got ‘em in the end,” the man said.

                The young mage felt a lump grow in her throat, and realized that she had stopped moving.  It felt like a chunk of something cold and unyielding had filled her throat, stopped her heart, made her blood thicken.  _No…_   “For your trouble.”  She heard the clinking of coins.  Her hands fisted at her sides.  What had he paid to kill the Dalish clan?  And Ginger—what had become of her?  As if he had read her mind, he asked, “Where’s the girl?”

                “In the dungeon—seemed a fitting place for her.”  That one was Raith.

                “Very good,” he said.  Varania knew that she had best move on—quickly.  She had better be gone before they came out of that room.  She moved on, walking as fast as she could without making too much noise.  The men continued to talk—idly, about the fight, and the hunt.  Did any Dalish escape?  Yes, a few—but not many—most are dead.  How many did you bring back, including the girl?  About six, we caught, serrah, but one managed to escape, and another hung herself.

                She felt so cold suddenly, and sick to her stomach.  Her master’s pride would murder so many people, just for one girl who wasn’t even that important?  Did it mean so much?  She knew it did.  This was why escape was simply impossible.  He would pursue the escapees to the ends of the earth.  Why?   Because they were his property, and he would not allow his property to escape him.

                She had to tell Leto.  It was abruptly the most important thing in the world to her.  He had to know.  He needed to know.

                And once she was out the door, under the graying sky, she was running.  She lifted her robes and ran.  Robes for a mage, robes to mark her apart so all would know.  Sometimes, others picked on her for it, knowing she was forbidden to use her magic outside of practice.

                She came skidding to a halt by the practice ring.  Leto wasn’t here.  Where was he?  She looked around desperately, and no one even seemed to notice her; it made her feel invisible.  Varania was so full to bursting with her news that she almost fell to panic when she couldn’t find him, but he eventually emerged from the armory, carrying a heavy hammer-looking thing as big as he was.  Ordinarily, she may have commented on that, but she instead ran up to him anxiously.

                He knew something was wrong almost immediately when he saw her.  He frowned.  “Varania, what’s wrong?” he asked.

                She grabbed his elbow, looking around at the people nearby earnestly.  She bit her lower lip, hesitant to blurt out what she had overheard with so many people to hear her say it.  Leto seemed to sense her need, and set the big weapon down, leaning it against the side of the armory.  He glanced at Bruce, whose back was turned, and was shouting out commands to the combatants.  It was two against one.  Leto had explained to her that things like that happened often, and one had to be trained for it as well as anything else.

                He caught her sleeve in his hand, and the siblings hurried behind the armory, where they were relatively alone.  He crossed his arms, more to have something to do with them than to try to be intimidating.  “What’s going on?”

                Varania thought she might burst into tears, and it all came out in a rush.  “I overheard them talking--he caught her—he caught Ginger, and the Dalish are dead or captured, and she’s in the dungeon.”  A tear tracked down her cheek.  “Leto, he’s going to hurt or kill her!” she gasped.

                His face was as pale as she had ever seen it since he started spending all his time under the hot sun.  His lips parted, as if he would speak, but found no words.  He shifted, his back against the wall.  Slowly, he sunk down, sitting on the bare earth.  He shivered, as if it were cold.  She wondered if he felt as sick as she did.

                She remembered that Ginger had once asked him to run away with her, and she realized that, if he had gone with her, he would be in that dungeon too, waiting to see what their master would do with him.

                His hands raised, covering his face for a moment, then pulled away.  He shook his head.  “Maybe you heard wrong,” he said, looking up at her to catch any doubt in her eyes.

                She shook her head.  “They didn’t _say_ Ginger’s name—just ‘the girl’—but they talked about the Dalish, and…”  She floundered, hoping she hadn’t misunderstood and to have caused her brother so much grief for nothing, and at the same time… desperately praying that she had.  She hoped it wasn’t Ginger, but she knew better.

                He glanced back, toward the general direction of the circle.  “I need to go,” he said.  He got up.  He didn’t look at her when he left, didn’t say anything.  His face was quite stoic, in fact, and he walked a little woodenly.  Varania bit her lower lip, and decided that she had best do likewise.  She changed clothes, and went to the tailoring room, and helped her mother.

                She didn’t tell Mieta about the Dalish or Ginger.  Not just because Mistress Lana was there, but because she couldn’t bear to see her mother so upset.

                Varania and Leto had talked about it often enough—that their mother’s health was beginning to fail.  Part of it was a gnawing despair at her very soul, and the long hours she worked.  Her hands were giving her trouble more and more frequently, and Varania did all she could, but there was no magic for despair.  The despair was causing her stomach cramps, she imagined, and her health to wane.  Both her children were worried about it.

                “If we could somehow get mother back to Seheron…” Leto had said, his tone wistful.

                The mage had frowned.  “We would have to find a way to get her out of slavery; she can’t just run away,” Varania had added.

                He sighed, as if in inward pain.  She knew, a little at least, of how he felt.  He was supposed to be, well, the man of the house as it were, and take care of the other two.  Abruptly, he said, “Do you know Mother used to sing and dance?”

                Varania stared at him as if he had said that he could breathe underwater.  “What?  No—I’ve never seen her dance.”  She frowned.  She would hum sometimes, something soft—lullabies occasionally, but Varania couldn’t remember her _ever_ actually singing.  Humming maybe, halfheartedly more often than not as of late.

                Leto nodded in remembrance.  “She loved it—she danced all the time, and she was always singing.”  He paused, as if to simply consider his words, then the moment stretched longer, and he seemed disinclined to continue.

                Varania was saddened to hear of such things.  Had it been slavery to do that to her?  Perhaps she and Leto weren’t as affected because she had been born into it, and he had been so very young.  “We have to do something,” she heard herself whisper.

                He looked down at her, and she looked up, seeing his eyes reflect her same sorrow.  “But what?”

                It was a good question.  It was _still_ a good question.  But there really was nothing that her children could do for her.  Varania could help to heal her physical ailments, which was why she knew that Mother’s stomach pain really came from her mental pains, not a real illness.  If that were so, she could at least find the source of it, of that she was sure.


	22. The Nightingale and the Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we see what atrocities or injustices people are capable of committing, for one reason or another. This chapter is about doing things you know are wrong, because you feel like you have no choice.

                The magister sat in a high-backed chair of supple leather.  The air was perfumed with the sweet scent of burning oils.  Behind him, the sunset was a streak of orange across the sky.  He couldn’t see it from this particular room, but the sea would be alight with the fading light.  The room was brightly lit, making it look cheery.

                Today actually marked the anniversary of his late wife’s death, not something he ordinarily thought about, and, usually, tried to make himself busy to _keep_ from thinking about it.  He sometimes  wondered how different things would be had she lived.  Roschelle…

                He had been married for only the briefest of times.  It had been an arranged marriage—something put together by his parents.  His father had died before the ceremony, but he was honor-bound to go through with it.

                His bride was a few years younger than he, just of age.  It was a smart match, they said.  And it _did_ help him become a magister later in the year—for that wasn’t something solely of inheritance, though his Altus status did speed the matter.  They had been married by the Black Divine himself, in his Chantry.  She had not been a mage, but had come from a line of mages, a prestigious Altus family.  Roschelle had been what was called a “skip.”

                He hadn’t liked her at all from the moment he saw her—the first time being on their wedding day.  He disliked her smile, and her nose.  Her eyes were a dull brown, and frankly reminded him of horse shit.  She couldn’t dance.

                She wasn’t Shallise.

                Still, he did his best to at least not hate her.  He spent their wedding day with her, trying to find something he liked about her—anything.  She was not shy, not really.  She was forthright with anything he asked, and very open, which made it easier, though he barely knew anything about her when they took their vows.  She was sharp of wit, and quick of tongue, and she was incredibly intelligent; he saw that when she spoke to her relatives on matters of politics.  The amount she seemed to grasp of it, and how well she played the game was astonishing in a woman who wasn’t even a mage, and he began to understand his father’s reasoning.

                But she was charming in her own way, and everything a bride should be, and everyone she met was half in love with her.

                Three months later, and he thought he might be too.  She was dutiful, and attentive, and smart enough to carry on a conversation, and oversee the manor affairs—something he no longer had to worry himself with.  She kept the books, and when he occasionally went over them, he noticed nothing wrong.  He gave her a monthly stipend, and she _always_ spent at least some of it on something for him, absolutely delighting in it.  He _liked_ walking into his quarters after a long day—testing, and trials as the Archon tried to decide if he should appoint him to the rankings yet—and find her waiting for him, naked and lovely, wearing some bauble she had bought, and, calling no attention to her nudity, would ask him if he liked the jewels.

                Of course he liked the jewels.

                He’d find little notes from her, stashed in the most ridiculous places, about what she would do to him when he got home, about how she was missing him and he had better be back soon.  Charming.  He was never annoyed by it, to the contrary in fact.  When he _didn’t_ find the notes, he felt oddly disappointed.

                When she told him, late one night, her lips against his ear, that she was pregnant, he had rolled back on top of her, and amidst their lovemaking, made his own confession, “I love you.”

                And she laughed softly, and kissed him, and breathed that she felt the same.

                Nine months of bliss followed.  He was appointed to a magister.  Nothing could have been better.  He was busy and sometimes stressed, but content—maybe even truly happy for the first time he could ever remember.

                Labor took her, and he had nearly forgotten Shallise.  But then his lovely Roschelle’s labor lasted longer than was the norm.  He hadn’t been _too_ concerned, at first.  She had a mage there, and several attendants and the midwife.  But when an entire day passed, his concern went to worry.  He cancelled his appointments, and paced in front of the room, listening, wondering if she was dying and dreading the answer.

                When the screams ceased, he had stilled, and paled, and his heart had hammered in fear.  There was rustling, and voices, and the midwife came out, and all he had to see was the look on her face to know what had happened.

                Roschelle had died.  The babe was stillborn.  Did everything he ever cared about die or leave?

                It was easier not to care, and he dared say he liked being cruel and cynical anyway.  It was so much more fulfilling, so much easier, and so much less stressful than caring.  Or so he told himself.

                He had given it some thought—more than a little, and this scenario he liked best.  Earlier that day, he had the two remaining Dalish executed, for the simple crime of theft.  Oh, they tried to say that she had been captured, that she wasn’t property.  But she _was_ his property; he had bought her.  And he intended to keep what was his for as long as he wished, and if he no longer wanted her, he would dispose of her in any manner he saw fit; that was the nature of property, after all. 

                Dalish elves—they seemed to think they were equal to or even better than humans.  Before they died, he had made them say things, do things.  They had first said they wouldn’t, and had been very resolved to be resolute.  Pain has a way of changing one’s mind, though.  First one, then the other, and he took his time of course.  Pain was something that should be cherished, and he let it run its course, let them cry, and beg.  Why not?  They wanted to live, did they not?  If it took longer, they lived longer.  When he asked them if they wanted to live, they said that they did, so he let them live for that much longer, to give them that much more pain.

                It was nothing less than they deserved.  True, thieves ordinarily were given to the arenas, and two Dalish hunters would have made quite a rare spectacle, but he needed subjects to test too.  When the pair were sufficiently cowed, he began his experiments.  Small, trace amounts of the special lyrium mixture, carefully applied to the skin.  It was thick, and half-solid, and had to be carved into the flesh.  It was a ritual of blood magic, and he used their blood to fuel it.  Not all of it, of course, but some of it.  They both _lived_ obviously.  He had come to a point where he could at least keep the subjects _alive_.

                The trouble was that they all seemed to lose their minds in one way or another.  Much as corpses rotted differently, they always went mad in different ways.  From the pain, he assumed.  Or maybe the demons—that could be.  He did learn things, of course.  He was always learning things.  It needed more tweaking.  Maybe more life, or maybe a Tranquil could work the lyrium better than he could (perhaps that elven mage—Varania—would do if she kept doing poorly in her studies?).  As the spell ended, and the second one’s mind was waning, a demon whispered something to him, her hands running suggestively over his robes, her sultry lips sensuous against his ear.  _“You need one willing_ ,” she told him, her voice as tender as a lover’s, though he could hear the double-layers of her voice.  It was a valuable hint, something he remembered, and made note of later.

                A willing subject.  But he knew that wasn’t all there was to it; it would require more than that.  But, still, it was a valuable bit of information.

                He had the odd-eyed girl watch, her wrists bound above her head, and listened to her scream when he had used one’s life force to extinguish the other.  He had rather enjoyed that—seeing the horror in her mismatched eyes, watched fresh tears streak down her face, a face that was marked with the Dalish tattoos now.  It wasn’t something he would tolerate—the tattoos.  He might have simply punished her, shackled her again, and used her as an example, except for the tattoos.

                He had given her to Raith after that.  The girl was to his taste, apparently.  She had been screaming when he left, but he had ordered that he leave her alive, and relatively unharmed.  His plans wouldn’t work as well if she were hurt too badly.

                The door opened.  Danarius watched placidly as Raith entered first, followed by two guards and the elf.  Not the Dalish, though.  No, that would come later.

                He felt a pull at the corner of his lips when he saw the young man.  It seemed like it had not been so very long ago that the boy had stabbed him, and nearly killed him.  Now, he served him.  He thought of him very much like some kind of wild dog—one that would bite upon capture, but had since been domesticated.  He was confident that the boy was now quite… tame.

                “Bring in the girl,” he said to the guards, who bowed and left.  The elf, Leto was his name, should be rather confused right now, he imagined.  He was growing up to be everything Danarius wanted in him—strong, an excellent warrior (more than excellent—the brat had never lost), and obedient.  He also looked splendid oiled down and in one of the sparse serving outfits too.  Elves usually did though—they made terrific servants.

                How old was he now?  Elves aged so well, it was sometimes hard to tell.  He considered for a moment.  Seventeen, he decided.  He felt old, suddenly, momentarily.  He remembered Leto as a child, glaring hatefully up at him.  If he still hated him, he had at least learned to school his expression, but he doubted it.  The boy probably just didn’t care any more—any rebellious nature in him had been beaten out years ago.  Still, it did make him feel old to think that the young man before him had been a small child in what seemed only a few short years ago.  Where had all that time went?

                Study.  He was close to the fruition of his experiments; he could sense it.  He was missing some key element, but he would find it—soon.

                The boy could feel him watching him; he could see it in the way he shifted uncomfortably, and flexed his fingers.  “Stop fidgeting—it’s unbecoming,” Danarius snapped.  Truth be told, he liked watching him squirm under scrutiny, but he liked obedience better.  The boy straightened, and stilled.  He was getting tall.  Taller than most elves, anyway.  Most male elves were about the height of, well, of a human female and usually shorter.  One day, the boy might be able to stand eye to eye with him—not that he would ever allow it.

                Danarius enjoyed the silence, knowing that it made others uncomfortable.  Even Raith began to shift from side to side, and clear his throat.  The mage was learning, he would give him that, but he was an impatient one.  Though, he was good at his research, and in writing rituals.  He supposed that if one must have faults, let them be something he could exploit.  Raith’s impatience led to not only blunders and dead-ends, but discovery as well, after all.  Sometimes, he could barely believe that they were only seven years apart.

                The door opened, and Danarius watched Leto look up, and took some small amount of pleasure when he saw the girl Ginger being led by the two guards.  She was bruised, her lip cut, covered in blood that wasn’t all her own.  She really did look quite a mess.  Leto’s eyes were wide in horror, his jaw dropping in astonishment.  He started to speak, then stopped.  Started to reach toward her, just a slight motion of his hand, then stopped, rooted to the spot.

                Danarius smiled to himself.  Obedience, as befit a dog.

                The girl had been in the dungeon since yesterday afternoon, and he imagined that Raith had done what he would with her, before he gave her to the guards, the servants, the slaves if they wanted her.  True, Danarius made them go down to the dungeon if they wanted her, but he had no doubt they did.  It had seemed to work; the fight was gone from her.  She sagged in the arms of her captors, and stared at the world through dead eyes, only lighting when she saw Leto, and perhaps a bit in confusion.

                Let her be confused.  Confusion added to horror, and horror and fear both led to the same thing when tempered correctly—obedience.

                He had heard that the girl could sing like a nightingale—that was what his hunters had said.  Matter of fact, it was the call she had used to alert her clan.  Danarius pretended not to notice the glance the two elves gave each other—he would give them that much at least.  Let it not be said that he never gave anything freely.

                “Drop her,” he said, and the guards dropped her.  Her legs buckled, and she fell to the floor.  Her wrists were bound behind her back, and she did not catch herself when she fell.  Her knees hit the carpet first, and she crumbled to the floor.  He watched her for a moment, and she showed no sign of moving—ever.  Her chest heaved as she breathed, though he was suspicious that her nose was broken, and had been broken for a few hours at least.

                He glanced at Leto.  “Do you know her, elf?”

                The boy blinked, and Danarius saw indecision in his eyes.  Would he lie?  Would he _dare_ to lie?  “Yes—once, Master,” he said after the briefest of pauses.

                It was good enough, and true enough.  It _had_ been years since the boy would have seen her last.  It would be nearly a lie to say he _did_ know her, as well as a lie to say that he didn’t.  At least he could please his master.  “I see.”  He let a silence fall, long and uncomfortable.  He let the two elves contemplate their fate, just long enough to give them some time to really think about it.  Thinking about something atrocious was often worse than experiencing it.

                He nodded to his guards.  “Leave us.”  The two bowed and left, closing the large door behind them.  His gaze flicked to Raith.  “You too.”

                His apprentice blinked, in obvious shock that he would be dismissed so, but rather than argue, bowed, and excused himself.  The door shut, and he was alone with his two slaves—one a rebellious runaway, and the other an example of perfect submission.  He looked at the two, and made it no secret that he was doing so.  And why not?  One could always look at their property, free to marvel or criticize.

                “Leto.”  The boy turned toward him, but did not raise his head.  Good.  “Come here.”  The teenager didn’t trudge, or drag his feet, or make any indication at all of what he may be thinking, except for his face.  He had a very expressive face.  He wondered, in a casual sort of way, if he would be so expressive in bed.

                He stopped before him, a couple feet away.  Danarius watched him for a moment, and glanced back at the girl.  Then, he lifted the item he had stowed in a drawer at his desk.  He raised it to the boy’s hand-level.  It was a dagger, the very one the boy had stabbed him with.  Leto’s eyes fell to the blade, and seemed to recognize it, even after all this time.

                “Take it,” he commanded him.  Without question, he did, by the hilt, carefully not touching his master even to do as bidden.  The human rested his arm back on the armrest of the chair.  The elf was staring down at the blade.  Danarius’ gaze shifted to the girl as she started to move.  She was pulling herself up, and sitting on the floor.  She was staring at them both, openly and with no regard to manners.  Well, that didn’t matter too much anymore, did it?

                His gaze flicked back to Leto, and his mouth twisted into a small, sadistic smile.  “Kill her.”             He saw the elf’s eyes widen, his lower lip tremble.  The girl’s face had gone ashen, and she was trembling.  It was a gamble, but a test—a necessary one.  The boy could easily choose to draw the knife, and, if he were fast enough, he may even be able to kill his master.  All it would take is one motion, one blow to the neck, the eye, the chest—even the leg.  He was close enough if he acted very quickly.  Danarius had seen him act that quickly before, watched him in the arena.  More than that, he was a ruthless killer, and had more than enough physical strength to propel the weapon.

                But would he?  Did he even realize that he could?  That the mage simply wouldn’t be able to defend himself if he acted quickly enough?

                True, the two would never escape from the manor alive, but they couldn’t know that.

                Rather, Leto turned.  He didn’t walk so much as stalk over to Ginger.  She stared up at him like a bird trapped in a cage, in a room with a cat.  _No_ , he thought.  _A wolf.  My Leto moves rather like a wolf, and often behaves like one_.  He thought of him in the arena.  Yes, he certainly behaved like one.

                There was a sharp hiss of steel as the blade was drawn.  The girl had fallen to begging.  “Please, Leto, no,” she gasped, her eyes watering.  “Please don’t do this—don’t listen to him!”

                He froze, staring at her.  If the bitch hadn’t spoken, he would have drawn it across her throat by now.  But Danarius was willing to forgive this.  It was asking a lot of his slave to kill the girl—someone he knew, with a weapon no doubt given to him to defend himself.  “Kill her.  Now.”

                “I have to,” Leto whispered, the weight of the order bearing down on him, and everything he was.  _Obey your master._

                “No you don’t!  Kill him!” she practically screamed.  “Kill him for everything he’s done!  Think of your mother, your sister!”

                He shook his head.  Danarius would have insisted this end, but the drama unfolding before him was… interesting.  How much did the whelp care about his mother and sister, then?  “If he dies, what do _you_ think will happen to them?” he cried, shaking his head in silent dismay.  Ah, so Leto had already considered that.  And did he realize that most other magisters would make Varania Tranquil so she could work lyrium?  Did he realize that his mother would be shipped off separately somewhere else?  And did he realize that he would either be killed immediately, or thrown into the arena until he fell?  “I’m so sorry, Ginger.”

                She fell silent then, staring at the knife blade as he held it to her throat.  Tenderly, Danarius thought, like he cared for her.  “My name is _Viscaria_ ,” she whispered, and closed her eyes.  The blade cut into her throat then, and she gagged, eyes opening in shock, and the warrior made a quick motion, opening her neck from side to side.  Blood rushed down her neck.  She died in seconds, and the boy backed away from the corpse as it fell to the carpeted floor.  Blood dripped from the knife’s blade—once, twice.  Leto was shaking, his eyes transfixed on the blood pooling over the floor.  The knife fell from his shaking hand, hitting the carpet with a dull thud.  From his other hand, the sheath fell, landing softly at his other side. 

                Danarius sighed to himself.  Couldn’t he have simply stabbed her in the kidneys?  Did he _have_ to do the bloodiest thing, the most melodramatic thing?  Of course he did—wolves always went for the throat, or the heart.  It seemed like… in a way, he had gone for both.  He almost smiled.

                “A simple stab to the kidneys would have sufficed… my little wolf,” he commented.  Leto said nothing, and didn’t even seem to have heard him.  Danarius rose and went to the corpse, taking a look at the way it was bleeding, and ruining the carpet for that matter.  “I am… rather pleased with you, my pet,” he commented, rolling the term from his mouth like a candy, and liked the sound of it.  If Leto was to be a wolf and was his own, then that would make him a pet, would it not?  The boy started to look up, then back down—a faint recognition that he had at least heard him.  He felt a desire to touch him, to dominate him.  To own him in every conceivable way and meaning of the word.  He cherished the desire for a moment, then let it go.  Now wasn’t the time or the place, but his pet wasn’t going anywhere—ever, if he had a say in it, which he did.  He had plenty of time to do whatever he wished to him, and he had no doubt that he would.  He chose to be cross, and raised an eyebrow.  “That was a compliment.”

                Leto blinked, jerking his head slightly, as if coming back into reality.  “I… thank you, Master,” he said dutifully, but was still staring at the bloody corpse like he didn’t quite believe in its existence.

                He had best do something about all that blood.  He considered all the blood magic spells at his disposal.  Really, he only wanted to cast one because blood used in magic smoked and evaporated, and then he might save the carpet.  It was a priceless carpet… a wedding gift, actually, from Roschelle’s family.  Of course he had it placed in a room he used frequently.  He knelt, and touched two fingertips to the blood, and flicked his eyes toward Leto.  He rose, and smiled to himself.  The elf was staring transfixed at the corpse as if he would never move again.  The boy jumped when Danarius put his bloodied fingers to his lips, then Leto stilled, but his eyes shut, and he cringed.  Gently, the magister, with his other hand, guided Leto to kneel on the floor, and he sank down to the floor with him.

                Leto was trembling like a newborn ewe, blood glistening on his lips.  Danarius reached back into the puddle of blood, soaking his hand into it.  He cupped his pet’s cheek, gently, letting the warm blood dribble down his neck, and he pushed his fingers into his hair, against his ear, and he finally heard the tiniest of sounds from his throat.  Danarius’ other hand was making all the motions necessary for this most _intimate_ of blood magic spells, and something discovered quite by accident under… mysterious circumstances many years back.  The spell cast, the blood began to smoke without heat, and Leto shivered, eyes squeezing shut as he tried to fight it, then couldn’t.

                He moaned, somewhere on a perfect precipice of pain and ecstasy, back arching, lips parted.  Danarius watched the rise and fall of his chest as he struggled to keep breathing, then panting.  It stopped once Danarius broke contact, and Leto’s eyes opened wide.  The spell gone, fear leaked into those sage eyes.  Very calmly, Danarius touched his hand to the blood again, already weaving another spell of the same variety.

                “And all I did was touch the side of your face,” Danarius mused.  “Just think what I could do with the rest of you.”  He touched his lips again, and left a trail of blood down to his clavicle, and caressed his throat as the spell ran its due course.  This time, the blood around them sizzled and dissolved as well as the blood on the elf, and Leto fought to stop the moaning, and just barely failed.

                Danarius watched, in a detached sort of manner, the elf’s member stiffen through his trousers, watched him gasp, and moan, and eventually peak, in time for the blood to completely dissipate.

                At least he had saved the carpet.  Leto watched him timidly, and when Danarius reached toward him again, he instinctively shrunk away.  It hadn’t been rape, and the boy had orgasmed, but it hadn’t been in the least bit willing either.  The magister knew that, and was dimly amused by it.  He knew how it would affect the elf’s mind, how he would question himself, and everything he knew.  If Danarius were very patient, and he was, he could convince Leto to believe the lie that he had wanted it.  He knew it would work, because he had done it to others before him.

                Danarius buried his hand in the elf’s thick, dark hair, and watched the way he cringed—somewhere on the verge of tears, but trying too hard to be a man to cry.  That was what would make those tears the most worthwhile to work toward, though.  The magister rose, his hand falling from the elf’s hair.  He strode back to his desk, and sat down, as if the entire episode were forgotten.  “You are dismissed.  Call a servant to dispose of that corpse before it starts to stink.”

                The elf shivered, and rose, glancing toward the bloodless corpse again, before he fled the room.  He must have passed the message on, because two servants came to collect the body a short time later.  Outside, the rain had just begun to fall.

 

                The next day was another match, and he rather enjoyed watching his little wolf fight.  He didn’t always go to the games, but he did enjoy it when he did.  Something seemed… off, though, about him.  Something… not right.  Was it over what had happened last night?

                He moved, too slowly to avoid a shield slamming into his shoulder, knocking him down.  His head slammed against someone’s armor—hard.  He watched his little wolf fall, and not get back up.  His eyes narrowed.

                The losers were punished for their loss, publicly of course.  Humiliation and blood were something the magisters did enjoy, he most of all.  One lash for every “enemy” left standing.  He watched his team receive their lashes, one by one.  Leto nearly fainted again—four lashes, and he was stumbling more than he should have.  He had his servant-mage heal him, and one more he occasionally had serve at feasts, but the others would make do with washing and poultices to keep from infection.

                Later, at the manor, he sat in his study and had Leto escorted to him.  He dismissed the escort, and observed the boy for a moment.  He seemed dizzy, and flushed, and his eyes were a bit glazed—pain, he recognized; he had a headache.  His anger at the elf just as quickly vanished.  He had a fever.      _Who_ had made him fight in the arena with a fever?

                “You have a fever,” he said bluntly, getting right to the point.  “Did you tell Ser Darrol?”

                He sensed a slight hesitation, then a simple nod.  “Yes, Master.”

                Danarius’s fingers curled in anger.  “And he still made you go?”

                “Yes, Master.”

                He could barely control his temper, his utter rage.  He had risked Leto—his personal favorite gladiator?  A fever could kill him in the arena.  Frankly, his little wolf made him entirely too much money for him to be less than angry, but not with him.  “I see.”  He frowned.  “Don’t train tomorrow—I want you in bed all day, and tell your sister that her lessons are dismissed tomorrow so she may take care of you.  Do you understand?”

                “Yes, Master.”

                The boy left, and Danarius sat back in his chair.  He had been prepared to question him and have him punished for his utter failure.  Rather, it seemed he had someone else to punish.  Fine—Darrol would take the whipping he had reserved for Leto, maybe a few extra lashes for his foolishness.  And if the man _dared_ try to extract some kind of vengeance for it on his pet wolf, he might lose more than a bit of flesh.

                While the fever was more than likely the boy’s own fault, the point still stood that he was ill.  The timing was far too coincidental.  He had probably been outside all night alone somewhere, and gotten sick in the cold and the rain.  Grieving perhaps—Danarius idly wondered what the boy looked like when he cried.  Tevinter was usually pretty temperate all year around, but in the winter, the nights could be cold, and it was fall, and it had rained.  Hence, his fever.  He would see him punished eventually, but only when he was well again.  Perhaps a couple licks of the whip would do; his little wolf made such a delicious face when he was in pain.  Or pleasure, he recalled.

                He considered the boy’s apparent devotion to his family.  _A willing subject_ … 

                _How_ devoted was he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was really difficult for me to write...


	23. A Fever of Flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just Varania and Leto being siblings, for better or worse. No matter how much siblings might fight or bicker, they're still family at the end and they will still care for and look out for one another.

                “This is your own fault,” Varania accused her brother.

                He groaned from the bed miserably, curled into a ball.  His skin was clammy and hot, and he had thrown up twice last night.  Mieta had made him drink broth this morning, and he had so far kept it down, but Varania was skeptical.

                She rung out the rag with both hands over the bucket of cool water, and mopped his brow tenderly.  “This is exactly what you get for being out all night,” she said hotly.  “What were you _doing_ anyway?”  That question was more to herself than to him.  Some of the other boys had snuck through the wicker gate, to a neighboring manor.  Not to escape; they were after the slave girls there.  Their masters didn’t care so much, though, so long as they were back by morning.  Was _that_ what Leto had been doing?  She contemplated hitting him.  “Were you with a girl?”

                He paused, one sage green eye open to look at her, then slid closed.  “Yeah,” he breathed.

                She stared at him in open dismay.  He was off _having sex_ while Ginger was in the dungeon?  How could he?  She hit him in the shoulder with the wet rag.  He grumbled, and shifted.  She glared at him.  “You deserve it, you bully,” she said heatedly.  “I can’t _believe_ you’d do something like that right now.”

                The eye opened again.  “Believe it.”                                                                                

                She didn’t know what to say for a moment.  She was astonished that her brother could be so… so…  “How can you be like that?  Don’t you care about Ginger at all anymore?” she asked, her voice cracking.

                There was a short pause, and she wondered if he might have fallen asleep, but then he spoke.  “There’s nothing to care about.”  His voice was flat, uncaring, but not exactly cruel.  It just felt cruel.  How could he say that?  How could he feel that way?  Was he just trying to be tough?  Did he really think acting like he didn’t care made him more of a man?  It didn’t.  It just didn't.

                She fumed, and contemplated leaving him to take care of himself.  “I thought you two were friends…  Does that mean nothing to you?”

                He paused, seemed as if he would answer, then only sighed, and said nothing, eyes closing as if to try to sleep.  She was angry enough not to let him get away with that.  “You ass,” she huffed, and went back to mopping up some of his sweat.  “I certainly hope it was worth it then.  Honestly…”

                He was silent on the matter.  She got him a cup of water, and had him drink it.  When he finished and handed it back to her, she set it down.  “I haven’t heard anything about Ginger,” she admitted under her breath.  “I’m so worried about her.”

                He made a face, and rolled over, away from her.

                She stared at him.  Was that how it was?  He had seemed so appalled the other day, so afraid.  But now he was indifferent?  Suddenly, he didn’t care about Ginger?  Weren’t they supposed to be friends?  Shouldn’t friends worry about one another?  What made him change his mind so fast?  How could he _not_ care?  Had he really changed so much?  Was fighting all he cared about any more?

                “Fine,” she snapped, and marched away from him.  She sat on her bed, and practiced ice spells—some ice would do his fever a bit of good, after all, and it gave her something to do besides.

                Leto’s fever broke sometime that day, and he still wasn’t completely well the next morning, but neither had been excused of that day’s work, so the siblings went to it immediately anyway.  However, Raith’s first question to her was after her brother’s health.  When she admitted that he wasn’t well still, he immediately sent her back, and to collect her brother.

                They walked back to the compound together.  He went straight back to bed, and she decided to clean up a bit while he was asleep.  They didn’t have too much time for that ordinarily, so she had a lot to do.  She cleaned everything, and swept, and when he still wasn’t awake, she took the dirty clothes and went outside to wash them.  By the time she had hung them up to dry near the house, he was awake.  She walked with him to the privy pit, in case he got a dizzy spell again, and wandered away for a time to give him some privacy, then walked back with him.  She got him some more water, and begged the cook at the longhouse for a bit of broth, which was given grudgingly, and she trotted back to him.  He drank it greedily, some of his appetite back.  She washed the bowl and brought it back to the longhouse.  By the time she got back, he was asleep again.

                She sighed to herself.  It was so _boring_ sitting in here all day.  She took all the bedding but his and washed that too, and hung it up to dry after ringing it out really well.

                Her fingers were all wrinkled, but she decided to wash up anyway.  By then, Leto was finally awake, and she sat next to him on his bed, though he mostly ignored her.

                “You’re no fun anymore,” she commented.

                “I’m sick,” he objected.

                She made a face.  “In general.”

                “Hmm?”

                She shrugged a shoulder absently, beginning to wish that she hadn’t brought it up.  “You’re kind of an ass.”

                “You’re kind of a bitch,” he said in the same tone.  She flicked the tip of his ear with her finger.  He made a face.  She sighed, and decided to drop the matter.  She held her palms out.  Flame sprang to life out of nothing, dancing over her hands, giving a soft warmth and light.  Leto watched it the same way someone might watch a venomous snake in the grass.  She supposed she might do the same if it wasn’t under her control.

                “You remember the story you told me—about the knight and the dragon in the sky?” she said.

                He considered for a moment.  “Oh.  Yes.”

                She smiled a little, and formed the flame with her will and power.  The flame parted into two pyres.  The right one twisted, elongated, changed into a dragon, with great wings, and a long neck and tail.  The left was more difficult, but she managed; it altered into a knight, a banner flying, a lance leveled.  She grinned.  Leto was watching with interest now, and not just suspicion.  She carefully turned it toward him so he could see all of it.  As he watched, she concentrated, and the knight began to charge.  The dragon breathed flame, and it struck the shield.  The horse reared, the lance caught in the dragon’s teeth.  The battle continued, and eventually the lance pierced the beast’s throat, and the two molded into one flame again.  She clapped her hands together, snuffing it out.

                “Pretty good, huh?” she said, quite pleased with herself.

                He kind of laughed.  “You’ve been practicing that,” he accused her.

                She chuckled.  “Yeah, I admit it.”  Her lips curved into a frown.  “Not all magic is practical, or even useful,” she commented.  She did not say that manipulation of flame like that was an art form, and not every mage could do it half so well as she.  She would be prideful of that, except that she knew that most of the spells she was actually good at were not especially useful or worthwhile.

                He laid back on the bed.  “Is anything?”

                She wondered if he might mean something else, but knew better than to try to ask.  “Of course it is,” she said instead.  “I can do a pretty neat ice sculpture too, but it melts fast.”

                “Can I see it?” he asked.  She wondered if he wasn’t just being polite.  Regardless, she created her sculpture. 

                It started as a tiny pinprick of water, then snow, and it built itself, shaping itself.  Cold winds caressed her hands as she worked, the magic hovering over her open palms.  Building it up, shaping it.  “See?” she said, urging him to look quickly.  He looked back at her, and certainly _seemed_ interested to see it.  She had made a halla about the same size as her head, from Ginger’s descriptions and her carving, and the pictures Ginger had drawn in the dirt for her when she was younger.  One day, she’d be able to do it in more detail, but it was accurate enough to tell what it was.  Deer-like, with two spiraling horns on its head—Ginger had been emphatic that they weren’t antler, but horn.

                “Can I touch it?” he asked.

                She shrugged one shoulder.  “I don’t see why not.”

                He reached forward, and touched the sculpture’s neck.  His finger ran over its smooth, cold surface.  It was already beginning to melt.  His finger came away wet.  She brought the sculpture to the water bucket, and put it in it.  It could melt in that.

                She swiped her palms on her dress—she wore robes as little as possible.  “Mama said that you were _engaged_ once,” she said, over-emphasizing the word.

                He groaned, and rolled over, his back toward her again.  She rolled her eyes.  “So?” he muttered.

                She prodded him in the back.  “ _So_.  What was she like?”

                “I don’t know—I was _three_ ,” he muttered.

                She frowned.  He was really no fun at all.  She knew he was sick, but he was well enough to talk and carry on a conversation.  And he had no sense of romanticism at all, really.  She really wanted to fall in love one day.  But… she was a mage.  She didn’t think she’d ever meet anyone who could see past that.  “What if you were to meet again, after all this time?” she said dreamily.  “What was her name?”

                He groaned, wanting nothing more than for his little sister to shut the bloody hell up.  “The girl I snuck out the other night to see’s name is ‘Viscaria.’”

                She wrinkled her nose.  “Isn’t that a type of flower?”  She wondered if he hadn’t been gallivanting somewhere and tripped in a patch of flowers or something.

                “I don’t know,” he said.

                Varania had a strong desire to cover her face in hopelessness.  Was her brother really this daft, or was he doing this on purpose?  “I think it is.  I bet Mama knows what kind, and what it means.”

                Indeed, she did.  She told Varania that it meant “come dance with me.”

                She had heard Leto laugh when she said that, but it hadn’t sounded happy.  It had been a cold, lifeless, hollow sound that gave Varania a chill to hear.

                The mage woke later that night, her lips cracked and her tongue parched.  She tried to ignore it and simply go back to sleep, but found that was impossible.  She tossed and turned a bit, then got up.  Her brother was asleep, and Mieta had disappeared again, which happened from time to time.  Varania never really questioned it, because she had been doing it since she was three years old.  She was suspicious of what happened during those times, and why, but neither sibling ever spoke of it—it was a rule unspoken.

                She heard her master’s dogs barking in the kennels, before the servant watching over them shut them up.  She slipped out the door, and watched a cat stalking a mouse down the path.  She watched the cat pounce, heard the mouse’s little shriek of terror before it halted abruptly.

                She turned and walked barefoot down the path.  A chill wind had picked up from the shore, tousling her hair and making her shiver in her patched shift.  She went to the well, and heaved the lid off.  It made a loud clanging noise, and she nearly dropped it.  She worked the lever and the bucket, and finally quenched her thirst.  Satisfied, she replaced everything and started on her way back.  She let out a yelp when she saw one of the rats that so often plagued the slave quarters scurry by not three paces from her.  She shivered, eyes glued to the spot she had last seen it.  She would need to report it in the morning.  Rats brought disease, and killed infants, so they would need to do something about it.

                She tread carefully, as if the rat might run across again.  She gave a start when something stepped out of the shadow, and realized it was only Erron.  Varania did not remember him fondly; he had been one of the instigators in throwing stones at her, and he and Leto had been at one another’s throats for years, though he was four years Leto’s senior.

                Erron smirked down at her—Varania was small for her age, though she knew she wasn’t done growing as of yet.  “It’s late,” he commented dryly.

                “Go to hell, Erron,” she said, rather than engage in conversation with him.  He was nothing but a bully, and talking to him was wasted effort.  “I hope our master sells you to a plantation.  That’s where he found you, after all.”  It was a sore subject on Erron’s behalf.  His mother had been pregnant with him when Danarius had decided that she was very pretty, and would make a good serving girl.

                Erron’s teeth clenched, and he shoved her roughly against the wall of the hut.  “You bitch,” he said, and shoved her against it again when she tried to step away.  Her heart pounded in fear.  She was forbidden to use magic to harm someone, even in self-defense.

                Still, bullies fed off of fear.  “You’re nothing but a bully, Erron.  And my brother will kick your ass again if I tell him to,” she snapped, which was true enough.  She had come to Leto many times in tears because someone had pushed her in mud, or were otherwise cruel to her.  And Leto’s eyes had always narrowed dangerously, and he would come back to her looking self-satisfied, while the offending party nursed bruises.

                “Your brother is a bitch too,” he snorted, and laughed aloud.  “And wait ‘til he hears what I got to do to Ginger.”

                Varania shot him a contemptuous glare.  “You’re a bloody liar and an idiot besides, Erron—go bother someone else.  We both have work in the morning,” she said heatedly.

                He shoved her back against the wall instead, and laughed as he kept her pinned there and she struggled.  Should she scream?  “You’ve gotten kinda cute,” he told her, almost grudgingly, shoving a hand between her legs.  She yelped, her thighs clamping tight together, but he was so much stronger than she was.  Her eyes watered, and at his prying fingers, she screamed.

                Her scream echoed around the compound, and no one came out.  Screams were too common.  Sometimes, the guards would rape the women, after all—or even the men.  No one came.

                She started to cry, unsure of what to do.  She tried to fight him off with her hands, struggling against him.  He threw her down to the ground and before she could scramble away, he climbed over her, flipping her onto her back.  She kicked, and fought, but without her magic, what could she do?

                She cried out again, this time in terror.

                She heard Erron laughing as his hand went back between her legs, shoving her shift up to her hips eagerly.

                Then he cried out suddenly in pain.  And everything happened so fast that Varania barely understood what happened.  She saw her brother, and Leto hauled Erron off of her, and punched him—once, twice.  He kept punching him.  Erron fought back, of course.  He was older than Leto, but he wasn’t enraged either.  But Leto was sick enough that he should not be up and about.

                The pair brawled, yelling taunts at one another, then the taunts just gave way to grunts and noises of pain until Leto knocked Erron back down to the ground.  His foot ground aggressively into the other’s neck.  Leto’s eyes blazed with barely controlled rage.  “Name one reason I shouldn’t kill you,” he hissed, but stepped too hard on Erron’s neck for him to do anything but gasp in reply.

                “Leto,” Varania cried.  “Don’t…”

                Leto looked back at her.  She stood in her shift, trembling, and he stepped away from Erron, and embraced his little sister.  She held on to him tightly, sobbing into his shoulder.  He glared contemptuously back at Erron, who sat nursing his bloodied lip and broken nose.  The other seemed to debate his chances, then scampered away.

                “Are you okay, ‘Nia?” he asked her, his voice gentle and comforting.

                She nodded her head against his shoulder, trying to hide her tears.  She had almost been…  She shivered, holding on to him tighter still.  She inhaled deeply.  He smelled like stale and new sweat, like freshly churned earth and vaguely of blood.  “Thank you,” she told him.  Her voice cracked, and she sobbed, and he held her tighter still.  She felt like, if her big brother could keep holding her, she would be safe forever.


	24. Remorseless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leto learns what it is like to truly hate and despise someone while Danarius reminisces about Roschelle.

_Cillian woke to a stirring in the bed.  He rolled and turned to look at Roschelle, already awake.  The grey light of morning was shining through the window.  Why hadn’t the servants closed the drapes?  But he looked at Roschelle as she leaned forward, and suddenly remembered precisely why._

_Her small, firm breasts mashed against his chest when she kissed him, pushing him back down against the pillows.  She cuddled up to his side comfortably, one of her legs draped over him casually.  “Were you named after someone in your family?” she inquired.  “Cillian.”  When Roschelle spoke his name, she liked to roll the l’s over her tongue like an exotic chocolate, pronouncing it—or, more accurately, over-pronouncing it—like it was a word that had more meaning than it seemed._

_He looked up at the ceiling.  “No,” he said.  It was a touchy subject for him, but it was Roschelle talking, and he would let the matter slide.  For her, he had found himself willing to do more and more things he would not ordinary want to do—attend ballets for example._

_She leaned her head against his shoulder and he shifted to better accommodate her slender frame.  Not so slender soon, he hoped, thinking of the child growing in her womb.  It was appropriate for her to gain some weight to be healthy during that phase, and he wanted her to be nothing but healthy.  “I was named after my great aunt,” she continued.  “But perhaps you were named after an historic figure?  Is there such a person?”_

_He sighed inwardly.  “No,” he answered bluntly._

_She made a face.  “So… your parents just… liked the sound of the name?”_

_He sighed, and closed his eyes for a moment.  “Yes.  There’s no story to it, no great person whose namesake they bestowed on me.  It’s a name without a meaning or a purpose.”_

_“Make your own meaning, and your own purpose.”  She leaned up, and smiled.  “Cillian.”  She kissed him.  “Your parents gave you a great gift:  No one predates you, and you are in no one’s shadow because of your name.”_

_He supposed he could look at it that way, but somehow it still left him feeling raw.  His brother was named after the first magister in their family line—ironic, as he was born without the gift.  “I… suppose,” he said._

_“Tell me about your parents.  I never got to meet them,” she lamented._

_Cillian was silent for a moment.  “My mother died when I was a twelve.”  He sighed.  “A wasting disease.  She just… could never get better.”_

_“I’m sorry,” Roschelle said, and meant it._

_The mage sighed, and pushed his face into her hair, seeking comfort there.  It was an old wound, watching his mother’s life fade away at the dawn of his teenage years.  “My father…  I barely knew the man.”_

_“You did things with him, though,” she objected gently.  “He taught you some magic, didn’t he?  And you both went hunting together.”_

_His eyes closed.  “Everyone brings up the hunting,” he whispered, thinking back on that bright spring morning._

_“But it’s true?”_

_“Yes.  He gave me some tutelage on magic.  But I learned most of it when I apprenticed under another magister.”  He frowned.  “And we did hunt together.  But we didn’t really… talk.  No, I didn’t know him at all.”  Sometimes, they would go on large hunts, with whole hunting parties—sometimes family friends or relatives, knights, an assortment of slaves.  Most of the time, though, it was on their land, and Cillian had always preferred to not be so encumbered, and his father often felt much the same._

_She hugged him.  “I…  I’m sorry, Cillian.”  He wanted to say something, anything, but no words would come.  But he knew she would ask if he said nothing.  Yet still he said nothing, for nothing came to mind, and then she asked:  “How did he die?”_

_Cillian Danarius did not want to talk about it.  He hated talking about it, because so few people ever believed him about it, even his own family.  But…  He really couldn’t deny her anything, could he?  “A hunting accident.  That’s what they called it.”  He kind of laughed—a harsh sound that wasn’t remotely merry.  “Some people say I killed him.  I don’t feel like ‘accident’ does it any justice though, and I never had a hand in it—not really.  And in some ways, maybe I did.”  He sighed, and knew he needed more of an explanation than that.  “My father was always insistent that if I learned nothing of magic, the most useful thing to know was healing magic.  Well, that seemed, well, boring to a young boy—and who could blame me for feeling that way?”_

_“Is it boring?” she inquired._

_He shrugged.  “I thought so.  Hurling fireballs was more interesting, to be sure.”  He paused to gather his thoughts.  “So I only knew the most rudimentary of healing spells, of course.”  He made a face.  “At Vinewood Manor, we used to have a flock of sheep—along with the grape vines, horses, and cattle…”_

_“’Used to’?”_

_“That’s part of the story,” he assured her.  He cleared his throat, and went on.  “We found signs of a bear near the estate.  Unusual, but not unprecedented.  Anyway, one morning, we found a dead lamb in the field—mostly eaten.  We sent a couple of the slaves to watch for animals.”  He kind of laughed.  “Wolves, maybe they could have scared off—or a cat.  But the bear attacked them, and they ran.”  He kind of laughed.  “I don’t even blame them.”  He shifted.  “Anyway, the bear killed another of the sheep, and drug its corpse off into the wood that time.  My father and I, upon hearing about the incident, decided to track it down and kill it.  It seemed reasonable at the time.”  He paused.  “We were both skilled hunters, trackers, both accomplished mages.”  He sighed.  “So we had our horses saddled, and we went out alone in search of this bear—thinking it would just be a bit of sport.”_

_She had gone utterly silent as she listened to the story, but he paused for a long time, as if he were reluctant to go on.  Roschelle peered up at him.  “And the bear?”_

_He swallowed.  His throat felt dry for some reason.  “The bear…” he echoed.  “Well, we were tracking it, and talking to one another—not about anything really.  I guess just devising strategies for dealing with the creature—I don’t really remember anymore.”  He was quiet again for a moment, appreciating the warmth of his wife’s body against him and the medium of comfort it brought as he delved into dark memories.  “I remember…  I remember hearing something in the forest—a crashing noise.  I turned to look and a stag burst from the brush, nearly bowling right into my father’s horse.  The stag bounded away, but the horse panicked, and threw my father—and ran.  My own horse was unsteady, but I controlled it, and vaulted from the saddle.”  He held her closer for a moment.  “He…”  Cillian didn’t know if he could say it all aloud again, but the words just tumbled out.  “His neck was lying awkwardly, and blood covered his hair, and ran down his face.  When I knelt beside him, and cried for him to say something, to look at me—to squeeze my hand…  Nothing happened.  When he had been thrown—his head had hit a rock—a big boulder of a thing, actually.  Blood was all over it.  I thought he had died instantly, but I swear:  His eyes turned and looked at me, and he tried to speak.  He tried to say something!”  He didn’t know how he could ever convey the importance of those words to someone else.  What had his father meant to say?  What were his final, unspoken words?  “I don’t know what he tried to say.  But…  If I had known at the time how to heal…”_

_Roschelle touched his arm gently, and then held him tight.  “You couldn’t have stopped the horse from throwing him, or the stag from frightening the horse.”_

_He knew that.  But maybe he could have still saved his father.  Maybe then his father would not have died in his arms, and he would not have had to walk back, his horse carrying his father’s broken corpse, bloodied and unseeing—the remnants of the innocence of his childhood in tatters.  “The bear’s skin is the rug on the floor.  And I had all the sheep slaughtered,” he added._

_“You must have been eating mutton for a fortnight,” she commented._

_He actually laughed.  “There are a surprising amount of ways in which mutton can be prepared.  I sent most of it to the servants and the slaves, though.”  He paused.  “I mostly dined on the bear.”_

_“I’ve never had bear steak,” she commented, kissing his neck._

_“The next time I go hunting, I’ll hunt bear.  You’ll like it,” he told her._

 

                Danarius woke with a start, and leaned back in the bed.  A dream of a memory, nothing more—haunting though it was.  Would Roschelle’s memory ever leave him be?  He didn’t think so, and a part of him didn’t really want it to.  Strange thing—memories.  He barely remembered his mother, just a series of events, but the woman herself?  Not especially.  And his father?  He remembered him better, but the image of his corpse was more firmly burned into his mind than that of him living.  Roschelle, though—his memory of her was as if she had died yesterday, and sometimes his grief of equal value.

                He had never had a chance to hunt a bear for Roschelle.  She had died before he could manage the trip.  He had thought…  He had thought that they had all the time in the world.  What a fool he had been.  If he had known she would die in childbirth, he never would have let her carry it to term.  There were many things he would have done differently, in fact.

 

                He had been bragging to the other boys for days about taking that red-headed bitch in the dungeons.  The others hadn’t gotten there in time, so it was all to him, and he liked to talk about the way she screamed and cried, especially after she had humiliated him so many times in the training grounds.  She hadn’t been so arrogant then, had she?

                He had hit her, and watched her small breast bruise under the grip he applied to it.  He bragged about how she had cried out when he wrenched on her nipple, and how she sobbed when he took her like a dog.

                He _told_ the other boys that she had sucked his cock too, but honestly, he had been too afraid to try that—not that he would admit to that aloud, no one would ever say otherwise!  She had bared her teeth when he had tried, and he had no doubt in his mind that she would bite down until her teeth touched if he did.

                Still, he had given it to the bitch good, for all the times she had kicked him, hit him, walloped him with those swords, and called him names with that funny accent of hers.

                Lot of good all that did her now.  It was satisfying to see her tied up, naked and helpless, and waiting for him.  She may have pretended not to like it, but he knew better.  That was part of the game, after all.  She had to keep up appearances—couldn’t let anyone know she secretly liked it, but that was all right with him; he knew how to treat her, and dominate her.  In the end, she was just a whore really.

                He saw Leto, and wondered if he knew.  He had been sick the past couple of days, after all.  He had never liked the bastard, either.  The little free-born brat thought he was better than they were.  He had started off with a better advantage to come with that smug attitude (that a real knight had given him a dagger and that he came from Qunari territory, and they were great warriors), and he was quick.  Erron felt like he could beat his pretty face in though.  He had just been taken off-guard the other night, that was all.  It wasn’t fair attacking someone from behind unawares like that.  His nose had been set the morning after, but it was healing crooked, he feared.  Fucking bastard Leto, anyway.

                Heh—maybe Leto was just as much of a whore as that bitch Ginger was.  Was that it?  He thought Leto belonged more in a whorehouse than the arena, and said so, to the laughter of his friends.

                He knew Leto had heard him, but he walked on like he hadn’t.  That annoyed Erron—a lot actually.  In the past, he had always been able to provoke him, at least to temper if not to attack.  And Erron had learned, quickly, to have his friends gang up on the Seheron boy.  Erron bellowed, “Where do you think you’re going, whore?”

                Leto froze, fingers clenching, then continued to the armory.  Erron didn’t like being ignored.  His eyes narrowed with contempt.  His sister, Raenya, had commented to him that she rather liked the way Leto looked, but had also said, with a giggle, that so did the magister.  Erron had inquired what she meant, and she had said that when she was serving food at a ball, and Leto had been with her, how their master had looked at him.  Maybe Leto _was_ taking it from the magister.  It made sense to Erron.  Why else would he keep getting called into the manor, and then go missing for two days?  Maybe he hadn’t been sick, maybe he had been in bed, sure… but not sick.

                _Whore_.

                He made mention of his new theory to his friends, who quickly accepted it as a fact, saying that it made perfect sense, that it had to be true.  Whether it was or not made no difference; it was a good story, a fine tale to spin about the brat from Seheron.

                As Leto came reluctantly back to the ring, waiting for Master Bruce, a page came instead, before the master arrived.  He went right up to Leto, and said something.  The elf showed no emotion at all as the page relayed his message, then trotted off.  Erron watched the other sigh, and slog off toward the mansion, after he put the sword away.

                Erron laughed, loudly.  “And the whore is called back to bed?” he hollered after Leto.  He saw his fingers clench, but he didn’t look back.  The others hooted, laughing, mocking.  Erron snorted.  He must be right.  Surely, he’d do something about it otherwise.

                Master Bruce showed up next, and Erron took it upon himself to tell him where Leto had gone.  He left out his own suspicions, and just said that a page had come and summoned Leto to the manor.  Some of his friends snickered at the inside joke.  Bruce glanced toward the manor, then nodded.  He told the assembled boys that they were going to help train the new boy—a nine-year old child, by demonstration.

                They did so, and the lesson was well under way by the time Leto came back, his head down.  He trudged into the armory, and Erron saw the back of his tunic, which was bloodied.  Punished for something?  For what?  He glowered, recalling that their master _always_ had the Seheron boy healed after a taste of the whip.  The blood was fresh, but the wounds would be gone, he bet, or would be later today.  Erron thought condescendingly, _Did he not scream loudly enough in bed?_

                Leto came back out shortly, armed and armored, looking like he would rather be almost anywhere else.  Bruce called him into the ring, and told him to spar with Erron.  He told Erron to be the aggressor, and Leto was to defend.  The point would be to not give ground, and force the aggressor to move where he wanted him to, or vice versa if it could be managed.

                Leto stretched his arms, looking bored as he hefted up the great sword.  Erron swiped at his brow with his sleeve, rolling the shoulder that held the shield until it popped.  _Bring it on._   He stood, and waited for Leto to enter.  The big sword wasn’t a weapon for defending, not really.  Erron grinned with confidence.  In this, he would win.  In this, he was confident, and the whore was going to land on his ass and stare up at him in defeat.  It happened frequently enough before when Leto had to defend.  The Seheron boy just couldn’t defend very well with nothing but those big two-handed weapons; they were not things of defense.

                “Hey, whore,” Erron spat.  He saw Leto’s brow draw down in a glower.  “You like it from behind?”  He charged toward him.  Leto didn’t move, but did draw the sword up to block, swinging hard—too hard.  His shoulder caught the blade, and the force of the blow knocked him backwards, but beneath, his armor was unharmed.  He kind of laughed a little—Leto was _pissed_.

                They exchanged a flurry of blows, stepping and side-stepping, a dance of blades.  The clang of metal, their master calling out directions, insisting that Erron needed to keep his shield a bit higher.  No matter—he knew what he was doing.

                Erron brought his sword down.  Leto caught it on the cross guard, and for a moment, they were locked in place, each pushing against the other to give ground.  “You know that bitch, Ginger?” he said, voice so low only Leto would hear it.  Erron grinned.  “I gave it to her hard from behind—just like you take it, whore.”

                He watched rage fill Leto’s eyes, contort his face.  He heard him scream, wordless in a fury, the tide of his rage finally breaking free of him like a broken dam.  He broke the block and slashed forward, mercilessly, and swung again.  Erron could barely block in time.

                “Leto—you’re the defender!” Master Bruce was shouting above the din of the clash of swords.  His tone was angry.  Leto was furious.

                “You mother-fucking bastard,” Leto hissed, venom dripping from his every word.  The sword swung again.  Erron caught it with the shield.  A quick movement, a turn of Leto’s blade, and his own sword flew from his hand, and he couldn’t remember how he had lost it.

                “Stop,” Bruce boomed.

                Leto didn’t even seem to hear him.  Erron looked up, eyes widening in what he realized…  What he knew…

                Leto didn’t see or hear anything but Erron.  Nothing else seemed to exist, and as the sword came down, it felt like an eternity, and that Erron was frozen in place, unable to move, to blink, to breathe.  The sword came down so slowly, and it felt like it would never reach him, like it couldn’t reach him.

                No, this couldn’t be the way he died.  It just couldn’t be.  This bastard killed him?  He would die because of some pretty boy that was younger than he was got mad at him?  He couldn’t take a little teasing?  They were just… they were just having fun.  That was all.  It wasn’t worth getting so angry about, surely…  He had never _meant_ any of it.  He had just thought…  He didn’t really think Leto was…

                The sword came down.

                It struck.  The time had long since passed when they practiced with blunted weapons.  They wore armor, of course, but mostly it was a test of their own skill.  Usually, it wasn’t dangerous.  But Leto wasn’t practicing.  He was trying to kill him, Erron realized, too late.

                The blade had found a chink in the armor, at the elbow.  Erron felt everything.  He felt it slice through the leather padding, felt it slice into his skin, through the muscle, cleaving the bone.  He felt blood spill out of him, felt his heart pounding and pumping the blood out of him treacherously.

                He heard a child scream, heard someone else curse.  He stared upward, and couldn’t remember having fallen onto his back.  When had that happened?  Leto was staring down at him, glaring at him with all the contemptible hatred he could muster, from the very fiber of his being—as if Erron were the only thing in the world the boy had ever hated.  There is a special kind of hatred when a person does not particularly hate anything, and then finally finds something to hate; a special kind of way that that person hates.  It is a righteous hate with lost innocence—and a hatred of itself, for who does not hate the one who taught them the reason to hate?  He stared at him as if Erron were a vile thing, a stain upon the earth.

                His blood stained the earth.

                Funny, he felt so dizzy.  He felt… light, buoyant even.  He was aware of other people rushing toward him, of someone getting his armor off, and trying to make a tourniquet.  _Too late,_ he thought.

                He felt… cold.

                His eyes drifted back to Leto, who hadn’t moved.  Still held the bloodied sword in fact, and showed no sign of remorse on his face.  A face that, he realized for the very first time, had seen entirely too much for his age, had been through entirely too much. 

                And he had never been anyone’s whore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wrote the word "whore" a lot here.  
> I decided to make "Danarius" his last name, because the more I looked at and said the word, it sounded like a last name rather than a first name that he just prefers to go by. Besides, it makes it really easy to differentiate his past/present. If you don't like it, just ignore it.


	25. Pain and Punishment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The little family is ragged and hurt, but through it all love one another very much, faith in each other never faltering, always wanting to do their best for their family.

                It was impossible not to have heard about it—everyone was talking about how her son had killed another slave.  She had heard so many stories by the end of the day, she feared which might be true.  She had heard that he wasn’t being punished for it, that he was being killed for it, that he was being sold to someone else.  They obviously weren’t all true—though she feared some more so than others.

                She ran all the way home, and was relieved to see him sitting on the bed.  He was shaking, she noticed, slightly:  A distinct tremble throughout his body.

                She went to her son and he looked up at her, still shaking.  “Are you all right?” she asked him, knowing that nothing could ever be all right.

                He nodded once, looking back down.  “I’m fine,” he lied.

                She bit her lip.  “Let me get you something to eat.”  She turned to go, but he caught her sleeve.

                “No,” he insisted, shaking his head.  “I won’t be able to keep it down.”  He spoke as if it pained him to do so.

                She stared at him, wondering what had been done to him.  Her heart ached for him.  A mother shouldn’t allow her children to wallow in such misery.  She wanted to do something—anything.  She started to embrace him, and he hissed, as if in pain.  Her eyebrows raised in alarm, and she stepped back.  “Darling, what’s--?”

                “I have three broken ribs,” he confided, still shaking slightly.  As he tilted his face and looked at her, she saw a dark bruise across his face, fresh.  “And I can’t lie down because… twenty-seven lashes.”  His words were broken by pain.  For the first time, she glanced at his back, and saw the blood that had soaked through his tunic.

                She paled a bit.  She had no bandages, but her eyes fell to the spare bed, with its freshly washed sheets.  She went to it, ripping off the sheet.

                “Mother, don’t,” he said, but he was helpless to stop her, and she tore the sheet to strips, and helped him, gently, out of the tunic.  He was so covered in welts and bruises that it made her want to cry to see her only son like this.  The broken ribs were the important thing, and she had had to tend to Calias once in the distant past when he had hurt his ribs.  It felt like a lifetime ago, like it had happened to someone else, so long had she been a slave. 

                She fetched some water, as swiftly as she could, and cleaned the bloodied wounds, quickly but tenderly.  She wound the makeshift bandages around his chest, gently, but firmly, making him gasp and cringe.  She saw her son’s eyes water, and she felt hers begin to water as well.  It pained a mother to see her child in pain, no matter their age.

                She didn’t want to see him like this.  Her heart ached for it.  Maybe when Varania came back, she could…

                “Varania,” she said, looking to the door.  Her mageborn daughter could heal all of this—why hadn’t she considered it?  
                Leto gave a slight shake of the head.  “She’s confined to a room in the manor,” he whispered.  “Can’t heal me until tomorrow night.”

                His punishment was to live with the pain until then, she realized.  That was why they kept her daughter locked away.  Varania wouldn’t be able to bear seeing her brother, who she so adored, in such pain.  As she wound the bandages firmly around his ribcage, she thought, _fourteen years_.  They had been here for fourteen years.

                She should be finding a husband for Varania.  She should be seeing Leto married to Lura and looking forward to grandchildren.  Instead… instead…

                “Mother…” Leto said, reaching out to her.  “Don’t cry.”

                She hadn’t realized that she had started crying, but she was.  She couldn’t bear this.  She couldn’t bear that they should be here, that anyone should have to live like this.  She wiped at her face, sniffing, holding back her tears.  “I’m sorry, honey,” she said, tying off the bandage, and getting to work on the rest of his back, which was more difficult.  “I just… hate seeing you in pain.”  In the end, she just had to dress the wounds as much as she could, and help her son lay down on his back, because he couldn’t lay on his stomach or side.  Every movement was an agony for him, though, and she knew it hurt him to so little as breathe.

                His eyes shifted away.  “It won’t be for long,” he said, his voice soft.

                She shook her head.  “Too long.”

                He snorted, and gave her a half-smile.  “Mother, if I had killed someone in Seheron if we were free…”  He took a labored breath, then another.  “It would be a crime.  I got off easy, don’t you think?”

                She cupped his cheek tenderly, wondering how he could smile for her after all this.  She could barely smile for her children half the time.  Why should he have to be the strong one?  He was a man yet, but she was the parent.  It should be her responsibility, not his—never his.  “I’m sorry, baby,” she told him, as if he were a child again instead of nearly eighteen.  He looked up at her, and in her eyes, she saw him as a three-year old again.  It made her eyes water to think of how hurt he was.  “I’m sorry I haven’t been a good mother to you.”

                He seemed saddened to hear her say that.  “Mama, you’ve done the best you could,” he said, and she smiled to hear him say ‘Mama’ again, despite herself.  “And I love you.”

                She would hug him if it wouldn’t hurt him.  She kissed his cheek instead, and he made a face, but seemed to generally accept it.  “I love you, my son.”  She combed his pretty ebony hair off of his face with her fingers.  “What happened—or are you not well enough to talk?”

                He sighed, gently though.  “I was just… really angry,” he said.  “It was Erron.  He’s done nothing but mock and ridicule me since we came here, and…  I’m so sorry, Mother.”  He paused frequently to breathe, and flinched occasionally as he spoke.  She knew there was more to the tale, but she would leave him his story.  If he wanted to tell her all of it, one day he would.  Until then, she would leave it be.

                She had to leave him, though reluctantly; she was famished.  They never fed them enough.

                Maybe… it was a training accident.  She didn’t know all the details, exactly; it was an accident, and he had been too angry to properly control himself?  As awful as it was, she was glad that it wasn’t her son that had died.

                Though, she had counted _thirty_ strikes on his back, not 27.  A miscount?  Or had the extra three been for a different infraction?  She had no doubt that her son kept things from her; he was almost 18.  If he _wasn’t_ keeping something from her, she’d be astonished.

                Still…  She left him, both to eat and because he probably just wanted to sleep.  As she ate, alone and in silence, Erron’s mother and sister giving her a vicious glare from across the room, she thought.  The extra three could be for losing a match the other day.  That seemed likely enough.

                Her son was hurt.  His back was covered in slashes, and it made her want to cry to think of it.  She tried to eat quickly, knowing full well that she needed to eat, but scarcely tasting any of it.  Before she had been enslaved, she hadn’t thought a body could subsist on the meager amounts of food they gave them.  Rice and sometimes beans, and once a day a bowl of some unidentifiable-looking brown liquid they called a soup that was composed entirely of scraps and perhaps occasionally food that was beginning to turn.  They were fed little better than most swine.

                Thinking about it too deeply sometimes made her weep.  How had her children grown on this diet?  _How_?  How did _anyone_ grow on this diet?  The food, the living conditions, the patched, cheaply made clothing they counted themselves fortunate to have, and her son hurt on top of it all, and nothing at all she could do.  Not take him to a healer, not even properly care for the open wounds.

                “I’ve known you for almost fifteen years now, and I don’t think I’ve seen you smile once, except to your children,” a voice said from behind her.  When Mieta looked up, she saw that it was Marlance.  The statement was true; slavery had drained the life, the song, and the dance, from Mieta in a way that nothing else could have hoped to, and all her smiles had felt oddly vacant since coming to the Imperium.

                Mieta looked at the woman, and felt her heart hang heavy even as her voice rang like a hollow bell.  “I’ll die in slavery.  And my children will die in slavery.  How could anyone smile?”  It was a mystery to her that despite all of this, some of them didn’t seem to care about it.  Was it truly that they just didn’t know any better?  Could that really be all there was to it?  She just couldn’t make herself believe it though.

                The woman looked at her for a long time, as if contemplating something.  “It’s not as bad as you think,” she finally said, and sat down beside her on the old bench.  It creaked slightly at the added weight, but it wouldn’t give, not today anyway.

                Mieta stared at her, incredulous.  “How can you say that?”  She had no words to convey her astonishment, the horror of that statement.  How could it not be “as bad as you think”?

                Marlance shifted in her seat, and to Mieta it seemed as if the woman were far away, in another place, another time.  She began to speak, “I was born on a farm in the country.  We were not fed; we were given some seed and a bit of land, and told to farm it on our own time.  Our own time marked the hours we should have spent asleep.  We ate very little, because there was simply very little food.  When I was nine, I was sold to a grape plantation, and made wine.  We ate from the same trough as the dogs--I remember having to fight over scraps with the dogs.  When I became a woman, at thirteen, my master made the men mount me until I was begot with child.  They refer to it as ‘breeding.’  Some of the men refused; they were beaten until they submitted.”  It was no huge secret that elves didn’t breed as quickly as humans.  For Mieta to have had two so close in age was a rarity.  Pairing elven women with multiple male partners was considered the “solution” to this “problem”.  And didn’t Mieta know the truth of that.  Marlance’s voice was low and grave, and did not carry far beyond Mieta’s ears.  No one else was listening; it was a story everyone knew even if they hadn’t heard it.  It was quite familiar to all of them, in one way or another.  “When I was older, I was considered pretty, and I came here to be a serving girl.  I had a child, and I was not so fortunate as to have my child come with me.  I imagine that she’s still there, fighting over spoiled meat with a dog, getting raped by the overseer, and making wine.”  She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.  Mieta was shocked to silence, not knowing what to say.  She imagined that there simply wasn’t anything to say.

                Marlance looked at her, and raised a delicately arched eyebrow.  “Your children will not outlive their usefulness and be sent to the mines to work until they die.  Your daughter is a mage and will never be seen as anything but valuable as a slave, and your son is a skilled swordsman.  Once he has outlived his usefulness as a gladiator, yes, he’ll be sent to Seheron to fight the Qunari, but is that so much worse than working a quarry until he simply drops of exhaustion and dies?  And on top of that, you have a skill—a learned trade; you will never fear for yourself the same way nearly everyone else does.”  She rose, and her voice was still quiet, but somehow strong.  “So stop feeling sorry for yourself.”

                Mieta’s eyes opened wide, not knowing at all what to say, how to react.  Should she apologize for her actions?  Should she tell Marlance she was sorry to hear her tale, and about her daughter?  Should she simply stay quiet, and do nothing?

                More importantly, should she be more grateful for where they had ended up?  Things could have so easily gone any other way.  She and Leto could have been separated.  It could have happened so easily.  She might be like Marlance, who ended up in one place while always fearing for her child, and what became of them.  She had to be grateful, all those years ago, that Leto had always looked a bit younger than he was.

                She remembered, when they were all separated and put in different warehouses, that one of the first things they had done was separate family groups.  But Leto had been too young.  They had said that he likely wouldn’t survive if he were separated from her.  Lura had been simply coincidence—maybe they had assumed the same.  There were so many things that could have gone wrong.  She could have been raped on the march.  Being pregnant had saved her from that; there had been plenty of other women who weren’t spared after all.

                She returned quickly, though, despite that the others had begun to ask her about her son, and the circumstances around it more importantly.  She replaced the water in the bucket she kept in the house, and drank a bit herself.  Leto couldn’t sit up to drink from the cup, so she wet another rag, and ran it over his lips, drizzling a bit in his mouth.  No doubt, he thought it very undignified, but he could deal with it; he had to drink something, and he did admit that his throat was parched.

                She had a bowl of broth for her son, but he was dead asleep by the time she had come back.  She was reluctant to wake him, so put the bowl on the dresser, and covered it, somewhere within easy reach.

                She worried for her children, for both of them.

                She was loathe to part from Leto that morning, but she made sure he swallowed the broth, and had water nearby so he didn’t have to move too much, as well as a chamber pot, just in case.

                “I’m so tired of bed rest,” he muttered.  She knew it was meant light-heartedly, but she just wanted to cry hearing him say it.  He wouldn’t have killed someone if he wasn’t fighting.  If he weren’t a slave.  If she had been strong enough to leave her husband, and take him north like she should have. 

                If, if, if!

 

                She hurried home, running over the path in her worry, unable to restrain herself to a more mature pace.  Something about the very air felt wrong.  She had sensed it all day, a sense of something sinister at work, something vile, like a taste in her mouth she could not banish.

                She slowed when she saw the slaves rushing by, giving the small gathered group a wide berth as they headed into the compound, and tried not to look.

                She froze in her tracks when she saw that it was her children, and the magister and his apprentice.  Leto was in obvious pain; she could see it even from this distance, his back straight so as not to crunch his ribcage, but keeping it straight hurt his back.  He was naked to the waist, with nothing but the bloodied bandage around his ribs on—the dressings on his back were gone as well.

                Mieta saw Varania, too, between the two magisters.  Raith had a hold of her wrist, and it looked like he was hurting her.  Raith shoved her forward, and Danarius issued a command—to heal him, probably.

                She saw the way Varania stumbled, and lost her balance.  The young girl fell to her knees, and Mieta found herself hurrying forward again.  Her hair was tangled, her skin pale, and she looked sick.  Had…  No, it couldn’t be…

                The girl wiped at her face and stumbled forward again.  Leto caught her as she started to fall, and the movement caused him pain.  She hauled herself up, trying to be strong.  She put her hands, carefully, just a few inches from his chest.  Her healing magic was blue, the color of a clear, still lake in the summer, and glowed like a fire.  It danced from her fingers, burrowing into his chest, past the bandages.  It didn’t hurt, but setting the bone did, pushing all the pieces into place did.  His teeth gritted, eyes tightly closed against the pain.  She knew when the girl had finished, because they both sighed in evident relief.

                Mieta was close enough now to hear what was being said clearly, even past the beating drum of her heart.  “His back too—and don’t you dare let it scar,” Danarius hissed at her.  “Use blood magic if you have to, but _don’t let it scar_.”

                Varania bit back a sob, and nodded her consent.  She put everything she had into the magic, as she moved to Leto’s back.  Sweat tracked down her face in concentration, and the magic didn’t flow so much as was pushed from her, everything that she had, everything that she was.

                It wasn’t enough, apparently.  Mieta couldn’t see from the angle she watched from, but the mages could.  “There’s scarring—fix it,” Raith barked.

                She looked at the two desperately.  “But, Master, I haven’t the skill…”

                His eyes narrowed, dangerously.  He moved forward, as if to strike her.  To Mieta’s surprise and horror, Leto stepped between them, keeping his sister behind him, away from their master—always the big brother shielding his baby sister from harm.  Danarius glared at him.  Leto averted his eyes, but didn’t back down.

                But then the mage began to laugh, as if deeply amused by something.  “Really, boy?  Does your sister mean so much to you?” he mused.  “Varania.”

                She cringed, and tried to step around her brother.  He grabbed onto her, hauling her back, shoving her backwards.  She let out a small yelp, tripping over something, maybe her own feet, and fell onto her bottom.  Though none of them could truly appreciate it, it was exactly the position the four were in when Danarius had decreed Leto should be trained for the arena.

                “Varania, extend your hand,” the mage commanded.  Mieta saw the knife in his hand.  The blade glinted in the dying light.

                Leto’s gaze flicked to it too.  “Don’t,” he hissed to his sister.

                She held her arms close to herself, and looked up at her brother, and shook her head, and mouthed something to him.  Mieta could imagine what it was— _It’s not worth it_.  She held out her left arm, trembling so much that even Mieta could see it from this distance.  The blade was quick, precise, and the slash to her forearm coated the blade.

                Magic sprang from the wound like a spring, rushing over her.  Not blue this time, but red and sinister.  Leto helped her to stand back up, and she, weeping, poured the blood magic into the healing magic, mixing what should never be.  But blood magic just fueled other abilities, Varania had once commented.  She had said that she supposed there were blood magic-specific spells, but that wasn’t all it was used for.

                When she stopped, Mieta noticed that the blood on her arm had sizzled and evaporated, and she no longer bled.  Had the healing magic, by default, extended to her as well?

                Danarius backhanded Leto—hard enough to knock him back a pace, then turned and left.  Though the previous nasty bruise that had marred his cheek was gone, a red mark from the slap took its place.  Mieta rushed to her children.  Varania touched his cheek, tenderly.  A ring had cut into his face, and blood was running down his cheek.

                “He’ll want me to heal that too,” she said quietly, and he said nothing as she healed the cut.  It didn’t even leave a scar.  She was trembling, and so pale.

                Mieta didn’t even know what to say when her two children looked at her, with such horrible pain in their eyes.

                “Am I… does that make me a blood mage?” she asked, sobbing, but instead of going to Mieta, she fell against her brother’s chest.

                “No,” he said gently.  Her legs gave out—either from the blood loss, the stress of the day, or just everything.  Leto blinked in surprise, and heaved her upward, as if she weighed nothing.  He cradled her in his arms like he had when she was an infant, and the poor thing just kept crying.

                Mieta looked at her, really looked at her.  Her eyes were hollow, as if she hadn’t slept, and red as if she had been crying.  And she had seen how frightened she had been.  Had she been…?  Mieta had seen dozens of women raped when she had been captured.  She had been pregnant enough that no one had been horribly interested in her, but that hadn’t excused her from _seeing_ it, and trying to comfort the victims.

                _Who?_ she wondered, though dared not ask.  This wasn’t the time for questions.  Right now, getting the girl to bed would be the best thing for her.  She walked beside her son, and he was deathly silent throughout the walk back.  Mieta cleaned the blood off of Varania, and Leto pulled himself out of the wrappings, and into a shirt.  He commented that he was going to go to eat, but Varania snatched his hand as he moved by.  She stared up at him with her big, haunted eyes.  Tears tracked down her face.

                “Please stay,” she whispered to him, drawing him closer.  He paused, and moved toward her.  Mieta knew he was hungry.  Knew he hadn’t eaten anything substantial since the day before, and was tired and that the places where he had been hurt were still hurting, and would for another day or two, but still he knelt beside her, and she threw her arms around his shoulders, burying her face against him as she sobbed.  He held her while she cried, his eyes closed and accepting.

                Mieta looked on, uncertain and feeling like a stranger to her own children.

                “Don’t leave me alone,” she was whispering to her brother.  “Don’t leave me…”

                They were all each other truly had, Mieta thought.  She was their mother, but she had been absent out of necessity, not by her choice.  She wished it could be any other way, and it was not that her children were close that made her sorrowful; it was that they truly seemed to believe that the other was all they had.

                Had she been so negligent of her children?  She had tried.  She had done everything she could for them, whenever she could.  It hadn’t been enough.  It hadn’t been nearly enough, and they still sought solace in each other and never in her.

                Varania slid out of the bed, and he supported her as she fell.  He let her cry for a while, let her hug him as tight as she could manage, before he lifted her in his arms, not straining.  He laid her down gently in the bed, and her grip on him slackened, and her arms fell away.  She kissed his cheek as he set her down, like she had when they were children.  He smoothed her tangled hair out of her face, and promised to brush it for her when he got back.

                She reached out to him again, catching his wrist, squeezed, and let go.  He nodded, and left without another word.

                “Are you hungry, darling?” she asked her when the door swung closed, already knowing what the answer would be.

                “No,” she said.  “I just want to go to sleep.”  She rolled onto her side, away from her.

                Mieta sighed, and removed the old shift her daughter slept in.  She set it in a neatly folded pile beside her, and left.

                On the way back, after the meal, she asked Leto, “Could you talk to Varania?  I fear… that something happened, but she won’t talk to me.  But she’ll talk to you.”

                He looked away.  “I’ll try,” he said.  It was good enough of a promise to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mieta loves her kids so much--some favoritism there, but hey. Mieta would weep if she knew all the hell Fenris had gone through. I feel like, even if he didn't recognize her, she'd still refer to him as her "baby" and be concerned about him in a very mothering way.


	26. Tears Before Daybreak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a wedge is driven between the sibling's closeness that has the possibility to fester if it is not cared for. This chapter is about the fear and hurt that drives a person, leaving only sadness and pain in its wake.

                Leto did try to talk to her, a little bit, but Varania simply refused to talk about it—to anyone.  She got Leto to leave her alone when she asked about the girl he had murdered.  She had heard whispers of it, words of a corpse, and had her suspicions, but she didn’t really know.  He had just fallen silent, bowed his head, and told her that she could keep her secrets if he could keep his.

                She refused to admit that anything had happened.  She attended her studies, sewed, and devoted herself utterly to her works.  She didn’t allow anything else to exist.  It was the only way to cope, to handle it.

                Two months passed, though, and her denial had gone on long enough.  The true horror had only just begun.  She had thought that brief moment had been all there was to it; she was wrong, and she had thought the first missed moon had been a fluke.  Maybe it would come with the second?  But she didn’t want to fool herself any longer, and Leto seemed to at least suspect already.  She knew that her mother had known a month ago, but had blessedly said nothing at all to her.

                Well, Varania didn’t want to talk about it.  To anyone, even her family, for another week or two.  By then though, she did desperately want to talk to her brother.

                As she often did when she wanted to speak to him privately, she pulled him out of bed at a ridiculous hour, and they walked alone to the shed, and only once they were both safely sitting on the sturdy roof, did she confide in him.  She took her time though, and he let her, without rushing her, without making her want to hit him, or feel awkward.  That almost made it worse though.  She spoke of the weather at first, of mundane things, trying to ease out some of the tension.

                Randomly, she just blurted out, “I’m pregnant,” she said, voice sounding dead even to herself.

                Leto was silent as the grave for a long moment.  Despite having been prepared for this, he had no words for it either.  Then, he did.  “I’m sorry, ‘Nia,” he whispered, and he wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

                She wanted to cry.  She felt like she should be crying.  It wasn’t _fair_.  It was just once.  Just once, and she had been a virgin, and it hadn’t been willing, and it wasn’t _fair!_ “I hate him,” she hissed, in rage.  “I hate them all.”

                She sobbed, and hid her face against his shoulder, but she didn’t exactly cry.  He let her stay there as long as she would, and she pulled away, and off the roof.  He followed her down, but she only stared at the path back to the hut.  He looked at her inquiringly, and she went around the longhouse, away from view.  She put her back against the wall, and closed her eyes.

                “I want you to punch me,” she told her brother when he followed her.  She heard him stop in his tracks, but didn’t turn to look at him.  If she looked at him, she would lose her resolve.  “In the stomach.  Hard as you can.”

                There was a long silence from him.  “It could hurt you,” he finally said.

                “I don’t care.”

                “I do.”

                She rounded on him, furious, but kept her voice down.  “I don’t want to bear that bastard’s child,” she hissed through gritted teeth.  “I’d rather die.  So do it, or I find a way to kill myself.”  It would be pretty easy.  She could just walk up, very casually to the tower room that she practiced certain spells in, and just throw herself out the window.  Easy.

                “’Nia…”

                She swallowed hard.  He was making this so difficult.  “I’ve heard… that tulips are poisonous.”  There were tulips in the garden.  It wouldn’t be that hard to eat some of them.  Maker knew they weren’t fed enough as it was, and she was almost always hungry, and never mind whatever they tasted like; slave rations were terrible.  Leto, being a gladiator, was fed slightly better and more often than she was, but he always tried to sneak her foods…  He cared about her, didn’t he?  He had to see why she needed his help!  “Maybe the poison will…”  She touched her stomach absently, biting her lip in worry—but worry that it wouldn’t help.

                He stared at her, eyes so full of pity that she was tempted to slap him—hard.  But then she thought of how Danarius had slapped him, realized that she had wanted to hit him the exact same way, and she calmed, just a little.  She didn’t want to be that, ever.  “’Nia, please,” he begged her.

                She shook her head.  “Please, Leto,” she besought him.  “You’re the only one who can— _please_!”

                He looked down, then shook his head.  “Not here.  Let’s go… to the orchard.”  He led her out of the compound, and they snuck around to the empty orchard.  The leaves littered the ground.  They would be raked soon, she imagined.  The walk wasn’t silent, though.  The entire way there, he pleaded with her to reconsider, to do something else.

                She did not listen.  She didn’t want this child.  She wasn’t old enough.  She wasn’t _ready_.  She couldn’t bear to have a baby, least of all a child born of rape.

                She turned to face him, ready for the potential bruising and the miscarriage that would ensue, ready at least, for what little she knew would happen.  “I’m ready,” she told him, but was afraid to see his face.  He was silent for so long, though, that she had to look up at him.  In the light of the half-moon, he stood frozen.  He just looked appalled.

                Then, his features softened.  “I’m not,” he told her, voice so soft she barely heard it.  “Please don’t ask me to do this.”  His gaze fell down, to the leaves under their bare feet.  It took her a moment to realize that he was in as much pain as she was, in a way.

                She reached out to her brother, touching his arm gently.  “Leto, please.  I have to,” she told him, desperately.  “Please understand.”

                He shook his head, and backed away from her.  The movement shocked her.  Was she a monster, for what she wanted to do?  For what she asked him to do?  Was that how he saw her?  “It’s not the child’s fault,” he pleaded with her, trying a different approach.  Before that, he just hadn’t wanted to hurt her.  Now it was this?  “The sins of the father do not pass on to the sins of the son.”

                She folded her arms under her breasts, stoic.  “That’s not why I don’t want the baby; I’m not _ready_ , Leto!” she cried.  “I don’t _want_ to be a mother, least of all the… the dirt for that bastard’s seed!  _Please_ , brother, help me!”

                He stared at her, measuring the depth of her desperation, her fear, her utter terror.  Finally, he nodded, and stared back downward.  “Are you ready?”

                “Yes.”

                The first hit knocked her off her feet, and after that, she put her back against the sturdy trunk of a thick tree, and the siblings made an effort not to look at each other.

                She felt her stomach bruise, and it hurt something fierce not to simply crumple to the ground, and curl into a ball crying.  Oh, her eyes watered, and she cried out in pain, shaking.  She tried to be quiet, though, lest anyone hear.  And she tried not to show how much it hurt, for her brother’s sake.

                She finally had to have him stop, and he seemed grateful when she told him to.  She was bleeding, she knew, and he turned his back while she cleaned herself.  It was horrifying and simultaneously pleasing to see.  It worked.  It had to have worked.

                “Thank you,” she told him as they walked out of the orchard.

                “Don’t thank me,” he said, his voice as cold as it had ever been to her.  _He’s angry,_ she realized.  Really, truly angry with her.

                “You could have refused me,” she told him, and as soon as she said it, she regretted it.

                He rounded on her, so quickly that it scared her.  He suddenly seemed terribly tall, impossibly frightening.  He raised his hand as if he might strike her.  She cringed, fully expecting the full force of the blow.  “Could I?  _Could I?_   Would you have blamed me for your child?  Would you have hated me?”

                She stared at him, wide-eyed.  How could he say that?  How could he speak that way to her?  “No…” she gasped.

                His hand lowered, dropping back down to his side.  “Don’t ask me for anything again,” he said, with so much venom in his voice that it hurt to hear.  With that, he turned on his heel, and walked away, leaving her standing there alone, for the first time in her life.

                She had thought… if anyone would understand, it would be him.  If anyone would support her decision, it would be him.  She was wrong.  She felt… oddly, betrayed.  The aching in her stomach reminded her of why he was angry.  Was he angry because he truly believed that it wasn’t the child’s (more like a quickening in her womb than a child) fault?  Or was he angry because he hadn’t wanted to hurt her?  Or was it simply because he didn’t want to be the one to do it?

                No matter the reason for his anger, no matter if his anger was warranted or not, she sunk to her knees, and pushed her back against a tree trunk.  She brought her knees to her chest, and hid her face.  She cried like a child.  She cried because of all the things wrong in her life.  She cried because she was a mage, because she was a slave.  She cried for her brother’s pain.  She cried for the rape, and possible child she wanted dead.  No, it wasn’t it’s fault, but she still felt like it was the right choice to abort it.  She couldn’t raise a baby.  She wasn’t old enough for this.  She wasn’t ready, and she hated it already besides.

                Nothing was _fair_.

                She wanted all of this to just be gone.  She wanted to erase all of this, like it never happened, and prevent it all from happening.  It felt like it couldn’t be real, because she just couldn’t really have ever been pregnant.  It was all a mistake—that was all.  A mistake.  She had just dreamed being raped—it had been a terrible nightmare, but it was a dream, right?  And Leto—he hadn’t really killed Erron.  The boy would be in the yard later, yelling cat-calls at her, and butting heads with Leto again.

                When they were much younger, and she had been discovered to be a mage, Erron and his friends had thrown rocks at her.  She had been expressly forbidden from using magic, and couldn’t outrun the boys, or the stones, and they hurt.

                Leto had been there, though, and beat up the three boys with a stick.  Oh, he had gotten a little bruised too, but he had been there for her.

                She had thought that it would always be like that.  She had thought that she could always rely on her big brother, forever.

                But…  He had told her never to ask for anything again.  Did that mean she couldn’t go to him when she was upset?  That she couldn’t seek solace in his company?  Or anything?

                She felt like her heart was breaking.  She disgusted him.  Maybe she was disgusting.  She was a mage, after all, and she had used _blood magic_.  That alone made her feel filthy and unworthy.  But even then, he hadn’t hated her.  Had this been too much?

                She couldn’t bear to think of her only brother hating her.  It was awful.  He meant so much to her.  He had always been there for her—always.  Always looking out for her, and there to make her feel better when she was down.  And now… now…

                She felt like she had really screwed up, and now he hated her, and there was nothing she could do to make it better.  Nothing.  If she had known he would hate her though, would she have still asked him to do this?

                She didn’t know any more.  She knew she didn’t want a baby.  That was certain.  But was it worth her brother’s hatred?

                It seemed that all she could do was cry.

 

_Her smile had always seemed a little… off to Cillian.  When she was born without the gift, and he with, and she older, she had cried, and he had said nothing.  Which is when she had begun to say things—things that bothered him, or sounded strange, and often both.  When they were eight, he would find impaled mice—some still writhing on their stakes, and she watching them twitch in utter fascination.  He had taken them away, and hid it, and kept their parents from seeing._

_He had found Irielle, a knife in her hand, and a smile like one who had seen something holy, her other hand wrist-deep in a cat’s entrails.  He had burned that too, cleaned her up, and gotten rid of the knife.  Would it have been better to tell his parents when they were children?  To tell them then, and pray that they helped her?  But he had been so afraid that they would send her away.  He knew there was something wrong with her, but didn’t know and couldn’t understand what._

_She would go on walks in the wood and come back looking peaceful and even sublime.  He had thought that maybe she was getting better, but when he took the dogs out tracking, he would find the squirrels, a vole, field mice, even birds when she could catch them.  He had hid all of those too and slowly began to fear that one day…_

_Irielle would sing to herself as she walked down the halls of the manor.  She would study and memorize her lessons, and smile her slightly off smile—a thing about her mouth and eyes that did not look forced exactly, but more as if it were not a part of her face._

_One day, he caught her screaming in the hall after their mother died—and she had avoided their mother for days once the dying had truly began.  She was throwing things, attacking the servants who were trying to subdue her.  Cillian had managed to calm her, and when he touched her shoulder, she had calmed as if it had never happened, and smiled her off-smile to him.  She began to hum gently, and swayed as she walked away.  Cillian had threatened the servants not to tell a soul, not even his lord father.  He had threatened them with his station and most of all with his magic, and he had gone back after her._

_Later that year, she had set fire to her room and tried to bathe in the flames.  Cillian had run when he smelled the flames and heard Iden scream for help, but in the end, their father had rushed inside and pulled out his daughter, and left Cillian to tend the flames as a mage can._

_Even then, her fits could be called grief so long as Cillian kept her activities hidden.  He had tried to tell her to stop, but he could not get through to his twin.  She only smiled at him, and whispered her stupid songs and didn’t seem to hear him._

_One day, she killed one of the hounds.  From the looks of it, she had tied up the trusting creature, and muzzled the dog.  Then, she had started to cut off pieces.  That time, a servant had found her instead of her twin, and the woman had ran screaming.  Cillian insisted he had to see the body, and his father had made Irielle bury it.  Cillian had offered to help, but a menacing glare from his magister father had silenced him.  The dog had been cut into six pieces and she had been trying to skin it before it bled out and died, the poor creature._

_She hadn’t really been very coherent after burying the dog, and the beating that had ensued.  Cillian could barely speak to her.  She would only give him nonsense verses of something like abstract poetry and nothing made sense.  He once asked her, “Why would you do something like this?”_

_She had smiled.  She always smiled.  “I have to stop the whispering.”  She made it sound like the most logical thing in the world.  “Eggs and infants and beating hearts.  Where does the sun go if there is no sea to set it in?”_

_He had backed away from her, and did not return for a fortnight.  She had been kept locked in her quarters, for her own safety, her father had said, until something could be done about her.  But Cillian cared for his sister, and he heard her crying at night, whispering prayers, and when he passed, she would beg him to let her out.  He would speak to her sometimes, and confessed that their father had planned on moving her to a facility where she could be cared for.  He was uncertain if she truly understood, for, again, she only really replied in nonsense riddles and strange verse._

_It made Cillian sick to think about his twin going to a place like that.  There was a servant, he knew, who had spent some time in one, as a caretaker of sorts.  He had gone to her and asked her about it.  She had looked at him with pity in her eyes, but not for him.  “She will be locked in a cold cell.  She will be given bread and water, and if she proves troublesome she will live her life in chains.”  A pause.  “No one lives long there, though, so you may take some comfort in that.”_

_He had went immediately to his father, beseeching him to, if he must cage his sister, to cage her in the house.  “You can’t do this.”  He told him what the servant had said.  “She can’t…”_

_“Irielle has lost her mind,” his father said, matter-of-factly, as he said everything.  He imagined that his father would have announced his mother’s death to him in the same voice, had it been he in the room with her instead of Cillian.  His father had not even visited that day, in her final hours—something Cillian had silently never forgiven him for._

_The son had stood shocked to silence that his father would be so callous.  He had begged and pleaded, and would give no ground.  Neither would his father.  So, late one night, Cillian took the key from his father’s desk, and opened his sister’s door.  The door only opened for meals and to empty her chamber pot.  At this queer hour, he had been expecting her to be asleep, but then he heard the quiet singing.  She looked a terrible fright, hunched in the corner as she was, unclean with her coal-black curls in disarray._

_He held his hand out to her.  “We have to go,” he insisted.  “Father is going to take you away.”_

_She looked at him, though, as if he were a stranger, and she smiled, and he thought she knew him then.  She rose quite gracefully, and strode to him as if she were not mad at all, like it were all a misunderstanding.  But when she got to the door, she lunged suddenly at him—violently and with everything she had.  She knocked him down, and he was too shocked to react.  She fled down the hall, and, panicked, he chased after her.  He always seemed just behind her.  It was like a disgusting mimicry of when they would play cat-and-mouse as children.  She even laughed as she had then, but there was something wrong with the laughter._

_Somewhere, he lost her.  He wandered, always quickly, always calling for her.  He ultimately heard the sound of her singing—a wordless melody of her own.  It was haunting at this hour, and it slowed his approach rather than speed it.  Something felt wrong.  There was a wrongness to the stillness of the air and a wrongness he felt in his soul._

_He opened the door to the kitchens, and stared, because he didn’t know what else to do.  Blood splattered the floor, and a body lay maimed.  He knew it was a slave on principal if nothing else—at least one slave was always in the kitchen doing one chore or another, and by the flour and dough laid out, the chore had been making bread.  There was blood in the flour, a gob of flesh neatly indented in the dough like a freakish imitation of a dried fruit.  Strange, bloodied and naked and barely enough to call it a body, there was little distinction between a slave and a free man._

_And she was singing, and bloody, and smiled at him when she saw him, her teeth stained red with blood, as if she truly saw nothing wrong with what she had done._

_His father had had Irielle beaten bloody, and chained to her bedpost in her room from then on.  Cillian had a similar beating and a worse lecture.  He had no desire to free his sister again.  But, with her record, they did not send her to the home, lest she kill again.  They were only fortunate that it was a slave she had found alone there._

_Rather, a room was made for her in the attic, a long heavy chain fixed about her ankle, capable of being pulled taught from the room below—something done when the bedding had to be changed, or she needed food or her chamber pot emptied.  Cillian visited his sister once a year after that, on their shared date of birth.  He would sit in a chair at a fair distance, and she would smile at him.  He talked to her, but she gave no indication she even knew what he was saying, save once._

_They were fifteen that day, and he had been visiting from Minrathous.  He had finally had to ask, “Irielle, I need to know…”  He almost choked on his own words.  He shook his head.  “I need to know why.”_

_“Butterfly?” she rhymed._

_He sighed.  It was useless.  Her mind was too far gone as it was.  He shook his head, but tried again.  “Why did you hurt all those animals, and kill that slave?  Why, Irielle?”  He knew the slaves still found impaled rats and mice in the attic—a pigeon once or twice too.  Impaled, and worse things.  The servants would not go to tend her any longer, so it fell to slaves, and they would be too frightened except that one of the slave-guards attended them, just in case, naked steel in hand._

_He heard a small sob then, and looked up to see his sister weeping.  Instinctively, he wanted to go to her, but then remembered her bloody smile.  He kept his distance.  “I just wanted someone else to hurt as much as I did,” she whispered._

_Try as he might, he could not make her explain herself.  She would only try to rhyme his words, or quote bad poetry at him.  Not half a year later, she had managed to slip free of her chain and threw herself from the tower window.  She must have been working at the lock for years, they had said._

_But all of that had been a long time ago, hadn’t it?_

                A quarter of a century ago today, my sister died, Danarius thought, looking out the window.  He wondered, for an insane moment, what it would be like to fall through the air to an inevitable end, wind caressing his skin, passing through his hair.  The slave who had found her had been insistent that she had been smiling, and as far as Danarius could tell when he saw the corpse, it was true enough, though he had not been able to see it until the day her pyre was lit.  Sometimes—not very often—he feared that her same madness lurked in his mind too, because they were twins.

               

                Another month passed, and though Varania tried to deny it, she couldn’t.  It hadn’t worked.  It had all been for nothing, and Leto still wouldn’t talk to her except when he had to.

                She tried, desperately, to talk to him, but he would stare at her like she had destroyed something in him.  Maybe she had.  It was one thing to accept that she didn’t want the child, and entirely another to ask him to be the one to kill it.

                She tried not to say anything to her mother either, but three months in, and it was too obvious not to, though she still didn’t speak of it.  Mieta certainly _tried_ to bring it up, but Varania wouldn’t.  She couldn’t bear it, and certainly didn’t want to think about it.

                It wasn’t denial exactly—she knew she was pregnant.  She just didn’t want to talk about it.  That was all.  She had a right not to speak of it, just like her brother had a right not to speak to her.


	27. Unanswered Prayers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Leto makes a promise with no intention to keep it, while Varania loses her faith. All the while, the Ritual looms ever closer...

                The tip from the demon had been useful.  Over-useful, in fact; he became utterly obsessed with his pursuit of an answer to the riddle.  A couple more slaves disappeared from the compound, a few more mad animals, and…  The answer came.

                Raith and Danarius had written out the entire ritual.  Just writing it had taken days, sleepless nights, hours of research and precise runes, countless study.  The ritual itself would take hours.  It would be a thing of blood magic, demons, and lyrium.  Usually, lyrium replaced blood magic, but not in this case.  It was extremely dangerous—lives would be required, and there wasn’t a way around that.  But life was expendable, after all.  And, if they were careful, the Tranquil would not be as necessary as they had at first assumed.

                The slave it had worked on, they beheaded; he wasn’t useful for the ability.  Raith’s master wanted someone more _capable._   He wanted a choice subject, someone worthy of the masterpiece that was to be his life’s work—a living canvas, as it were, but so much more.

                Naturally, such a position was an _honor_ , and to be deemed worthy, it seemed only fitting that the person would have to win it.  It wasn’t even a question—Danarius wanted a warrior, someone who could and would _use_ the abilities that would come with the ritual.

                A mage wouldn’t suffice; the lyrium would deplete itself whenever they cast even if they weren’t driven insane, and they wouldn’t _use_ it, as such, except to fuel magic—there was also the dangerously high risk of death.  A regular person with no capability and no discipline would suddenly be able to do things—untold things—that could hurt or injure someone.  The concept would be like an untrained mage:  Dangerous to everyone including themselves.  And Danarius liked the arena anyway, so why not?

                Raith presented, triumphantly, his work to his master.  They spent three days going over the minutest of details, correcting small things, adding changes, and creating a map of the body.

                The work would take place along the nerves more than the veins, as they had originally thought—that had been a dead end.  Lyrium in the blood not only drove a person to insanity, it usually ended in death.  But along the _nerves_ was a different story.  They could be _close_ to the veins, and for some things, that would be necessary, but they couldn’t be _in_ them exactly, and being so close to the nerves had other small bonuses as well—more control, for one.  But lyrium wasn’t a solid thing; it was a liquid.  The body had to be reconstructed a bit to accept the lyrium—which was something of a trial all by itself, even for highly skilled mages.  It wasn’t a tattoo, after all.  It was so much more than ink on the skin:  It was poured metal.

                So many details—so much work to do.

                Satisfied, Raith was then set to issuing a decree, a tourney.  Invitations were sent to some—knights, soldiers.  Raith thought it was generous to include the gladiators in the invitation, and even his own slaves.  Slaves from other houses were allowed, with their master’s permission.  Depending on their station, they would receive certain things, the greatest of which would be given to all—a single boon of the wealthy magister, with few to no restrictions.  To go along with the ritual, of course, and they certainly made a note of it, it would make the individual quite powerful.  All the power that a Templar had, was the plan—maybe more.  Maybe it would even be different than that.  It was untold, what it could do, but lyrium made a mage more powerful, made a weapon more powerful, gave the Templars abilities to fight and bring down mages.  What would it do to someone when specially refined lyrium was embedded in their flesh, forever?  Untold power, he imagined.  The raw material could only be handled—very carefully—by dwarves and Tranquil mages.  It would be wise even if it weren’t completely necessary to have a Tranquil doing the tattoos, but he personally despised them, and was horrified by them.

                Fortunately, Danarius seemed to find them equally unappealing, and so did not seek their use.  Besides, the lyrium _was_ refined—twice in fact.  Once, by the dwarves before they sold it to them, and a second time by themselves.  But it was still dangerous stuff.  Even dwarves, who had a natural resistance to magic, through exposure to the metal, became rather touched in the head, given time.

                But Raith wondered—how far did simple greed go to make a person want something like this?  So close to the nerves, the subject would probably be in constant pain, and they couldn’t exactly lie about that, though they certainly sugar-coated it.  In addition, the ritual would alter the person’s mind, slightly at least, in small ways.  Still, he had noticed that people had a tendency not to read the fine print, and even if they did, their greed would often override their common sense.

                Idiots.

                It was nothing but foolishness.  And anyway, it would be some months yet before it actually began.  It would take a while for all the invitations to get to where they should, and longer for people to arrive.  The entire event would be a grand affair, of course, with parties and feasting on top of the main event, the ritual.

                Unfortunately, the ritual itself was expensive.  The blood and life used to make it had to come from somewhere, after all, and slaves were costly, with the damned Chantry tithing it, and smuggling out prisoners was sometimes difficult, and taking people off the street raised too many questions.  Even if fueling the spell wasn’t an issue, the lyrium _was_.  The Chantry strictly regulated its use even in Tevinter (though not as much as elsewhere, and fact of the matter it was just another form of taxation), and they had used quite a bit of what they had already in the experiments.  More of it would have to be smuggled out, and it came all the way from Orzimar in Ferelden, and that would take a while too.  There was a dwarf there that was simply waiting on the order, Raith knew, but Danarius had yet to choose the _colour_ of it, as if aesthetics were really so important.

                Raith didn’t quite get it.  He had suggested to just get the lyrium—and bugger the color.  If it didn’t all match, that wasn’t really the issue, was it?  And who cared if it didn’t compliment the subject’s natural colours?  Danarius had stared at him as if he were speaking nonsense, and said, quite calmly and matter-of-factly, that he “wouldn’t tolerate something that was generally offensive to the eye.”  No, he wanted to wait until _after_ his champion had won the tourney.  Then, after it came, it had to be refined, perfectly mixed—all very carefully and in small amounts at a time.

                It would take _weeks_.

                There were only three colours, and not even any additional hues.  They _could_ just get all three colours.  They had small samples of all three shades, of course, but not nearly enough for the entire ritual.  Raith was certain that they could find _some use_ for the lyrium anyway; blood magic was messy, though it did require fewer mages. 

                It was infuriating; Raith was so eager to see the culmination of so many years of work, but it would be months in the making yet.  All the same, it would be soon.  He had waited this long; he could wait a little longer, he supposed.

 

                Varania had noticed how quiet Leto had become, even more quiet than before, after everyone started talking about the tournament.  She would ask him if he was going to compete, but he hadn’t been talking to her much, if at all.  He barely even ever looked at her anymore.  It was… miserable.

                Mieta had begged him not to, had pleaded with him that it couldn’t be worth it.  It had been exactly the wrong thing to say, just like Varania had said exactly the wrong thing.

                “What’s the alternative?” he demanded, glowering down at his mother.  He had gotten so tall, and it was always so apparent when he glowered like that.  He turned from her, crossing his arms.  “If I win—and I can…  I can ask for you and Varania’s freedom.”  His tone was quiet, but it carried.

                To Varania, it made her spirit a little more buoyant.  He still cared about her…  “Leto, we’d never see you again,” Mieta continued, and Varania saw her mother’s hands shaking.  She was having trouble again, and she had been sick to her stomach lately too.  “If it means that, I’d rather that we were together.”

                He stared downwards, and didn’t answer.  Varania understood his desire.  It was a chance—a real chance—out of slavery.  She had never been free; she didn’t know what that was like, so she didn’t have much of an opinion.  But, she did know that as a free person, rape would not be treated so casually as it was all around her.  And she would be able to get proper medical treatment to get rid of the… creature… inside her.

                “I’ll never be anything but a slave,” he whispered.  He wasn’t hurt by that knowledge, but he spoke softly because it did hurt their mother.  “I _know_ that, Mother.  But maybe you and Varania could be something else.”

                “Leto, no.  I couldn’t bear to never see you again,” she beseeched him.

                He leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, and stared at the wall.  “Either way, I’ll be a slave for the rest of my life.  Is it so wrong that I want…”  His voice faded for a moment, as if searching for the right words.  “I want to be something—something more, even something different?”

                Mieta fell silent, but the pain she felt was evident.  Varania, though, felt that she understood.  Her brother knew that, win or no, he’d be a slave—forever.  If the only way to achieve anything in his life was through bloodshed, she understood that he would do it.  Her brother had an insatiable desire.  She had seen it in him as a child, but only was just beginning to understand it for what it was.  It was a desire to live, to achieve, to _become_.  None of those things he could truly accomplish as a slave.  He found some validity to his life to the sound of the crowds in the coliseum, the thrill of combat.  But it wasn’t enough.  And too, he had long ago expressed that he didn’t want to fight Qunari when he was finished in the coliseum.  He had no desire to kill the ones who had liberated his predecessors, and were fighting those who had enslaved him.  Though, as an obedient Imperial slave, he would.

                The silence seemed to stretch, and yawn between the three, a deep rift forming between the small family.  Mieta tried to reach out to her estranged children, but both shied away from her the closer she tried to keep them.  Varania felt like her mother was barely there at all.  Her life revolved around her brother.  He had always been there for her.  He was her only friend, her only companion, the only one who had ever believed in her.  And she had ruined it with her foolish request.  She was determined, now, to try to prove herself to him, and believe in him.

                “Please, my son, listen to me,” she pleaded with him.  He hadn’t listened to her for years though, not really.  He respected her wishes, and did his best, but he had been doing what he thought he should since he started in the arena, and not always what his mother wanted.  Did he think spilling blood made him a man?  Well, it didn’t.

                “Mother, I have to try,” he said softly.

                She shook her head.  “No you don’t!” she insisted.  “You could _die_ in the tournament!”  Her eyes watered.  “There are _knights_ and _soldiers_ entering in the tournament, Leto!  You could _die_!”

                He said nothing, but kept staring straight downwards, eyes narrowing.  Varania saw his fingers clench.  His mind was already made up, she knew.  It didn’t matter what their mother said; he was going to do it.  More than that, their mother’s lack of faith in him was making him angry.

                “I don’t want you to die either, Leto,” Varania chimed in.  His gaze flicked to her, then back down—his only acknowledgement that she had spoken.  “But I think you can do it.”  He had only lost once, she reminded herself, and because he had been sick.

                Mieta shot her a glare.  “Varania!” she cried, as if she had betrayed her.

                The girl’s eyebrows arched.  “I believe in him,” she said.  _And slavery is killing you, Mother._   Leto was looking at her, and there was something in his eyes besides brazen disgust, which was something.  Maybe she had redeemed herself, at least a little.

                Mieta shook her head in dismay.  “No.  No, Leto, you _can’t_ do this,” she pleaded.  She grabbed on to his arm, turning him to face her.  He stared in her general direction, but not exactly at her.  “I couldn’t bear to lose you.  If you win or die, I will.”

                He flinched, as if she had struck him.  She might as well have.  “I won’t die,” he told her.

                _You can win_ , Varania thought.  She had seen her brother fight, known he had killed people, and never lost.  Didn’t that mean something?  But there _were_ knights, real knights, and soldiers, and many others in the competition.  He would have to defeat all of his opponents to win.  It frightened her, just a little, to think of her big brother facing down a knight.  She worried for him, and at the same time, believed in him utterly.  If any of the gladiators stood a chance, it had to be him.

                But Mieta didn’t see that; she saw her child throwing himself into a death match on a slim chance of winning.  And if he did win, she would be forever separated from her child.  Varania certainly _understood_ that, but she saw the logic of him entering; Mother’s health was waning, and they were both reasonably certain that it was slavery that was killing her, crushing her spirit.  Not to mention Varania’s rape, and that it could certainly happen again.  She thought of the two slaves who had disappeared over the past few weeks.  It could happen to anyone.  “Please don’t go,” Mieta begged her son.  “Promise me you won’t go.  You two mean more to me than anything else; _please_ , promise me.”  She stared up at him, the desperation bare on her face.  To Varania, she looked haggard.  Older than she was, frail, sick.  Her health only continued to worsen with the passing weeks.  It worried her, and there was only so much her magic could do.  Worse yet, with her pregnancy, it was actually harder and harder to cast, so she couldn’t do as much for her as she wanted to.

                Her own magic was so focused inward, a steady trickle of it guarding the child, she imagined, as well as safeguarding her own health.  Most people had more morning sickness than she was experiencing, after all.  Mages didn’t fall prey to as many illnesses for the same reason.

                “Mother…” he started to argue.  Varania, behind their mother, shook her head in a small warning, and inclined her head toward their mother.  Her eyes were pleading.  He mouthed to her, _I have to._   The mage wasn’t very good at reading lips—Leto was actually kind of good at it though, which came from the arenas being so noisy and having to know what his comrades were saying—but her brother’s face was expressive enough to guess.

Varania nodded once and mouthed back, _I know_.  She found her eyes watering, and understood, with absolute clarity, her mother’s feelings.  She didn’t want to lose her brother forever either, no matter the sense in it, no matter the prize to be won.  She didn’t want to lose him.  But Mother…  To her shock, he lied, “I promise, Mother.”

                Mieta threw arms around him, and wept, shaking with near-grief.  Her children couldn’t say if she believed him or not.  She could be crying because she knew her son was lying to her, or she could be weeping in relief because she believed him.  Varania watched Leto hug her back, trying to comfort her.  The mage looked down at her swollen belly, wishing it would all just go away.

                She had wished the same thing many times as a child.  She had wished many things away before in the past.  Why, she had wished away herself and all existence before, even.  She had prayed for her magic to go away.  Hopes, wishes, dreams, prayers—all went untrue and unanswered.

                All the stories Ginger and Mother had told her about wishing wells, jinn, and the like—it was all lies, nothing more.  Those things didn’t exist, and never had.  Pleasant fantasies, and nothing more.  Nothing could change things, not really—nothing but themselves.


	28. Sickness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is primarily foreboding, and setting the stage for what is to come. It's going to be a long night for Leto and Varania.

Varania walked out of the manor, grateful for the lessons to be done for the day, and was more than a little surprised to see her brother waiting for her in the garden.

                “Leto?” she inquired.  “What are you doing?”

                He frowned at her.  “Can’t I walk with you and not be questioned for it?”

                She raised an eyebrow, and he fell into step beside her.  “You usually don’t,” she countered.  _Especially lately._

                He made a face, and was silent for a moment.  “Some of the other gladiators are still mad about… what happened with Erron.”  The siblings were quiet for a moment.  A chilly breeze lifted her hair.  In the mornings, at this time of year, sometimes the ground was icy-cold and frostbitten.  Yesterday, it had rained, and there had been ice on the path and little puddles.  Today, the rain had let up to a slow drizzle, the sort that got one thoroughly wet and miserable without the grace of getting it over with all at once.  They stepped carefully, but their bare feet got muddy anyway.

                “And?” she inquired gently.

                He seemed reluctant to go on.  “They want to hurt you, ‘Nia,” he told her, and seemed troubled.

                She missed a step.  “What?”  Fear suddenly ran up her spine.  Hurt her?  “Why?”

                “Because I killed Erron.”  A brief pause.  “And they’ve already tried to hurt me.”  He frowned a little.  “All the time when we practice.”  He sighed.  “They’ve jumped me twice already too.”

                She looked at her big brother.  “And you’re okay?”

                “Yeah, I’m fine,” he said, running his hand through his disheveled dark hair.  He added, “They’re not.”  He smiled crookedly, and she found herself smiling back.  His smile faded.  “So I think they might have given up on _me_ , but I heard them talking about you.  So…  I’ll come walk with you from now on.”  He paused.  “But be careful.”

                She bit her lip.  What if something happened?  What if something detained him, and she was alone when they caught her?  That scared her, but she reasoned that she could always trust her brother.  “’Kay,” she said.  “Did you sign up for the tourney?”  A figure of speech—considering that he couldn’t read or write.

                “Yeah,” he admitted.  “Don’t tell Mother.”

                She laughed at that.  “I wouldn’t,” she promised, then sighed.  “Mother… doesn’t seem so well these days.”

                “She’s not,” he said, pained.  “She’s always hurting, and sick…”  His voice trailed off a moment.  “I can’t… do anything about it.”

                “I’m sorry, Leto,” she said, but was really apologizing for being so helpless herself.  She was a mage; she should know how to help, but she didn’t.  Healing was not a strong point for her.  Maybe if she had been better at healing, this wouldn’t be such a problem.  Or if she weren’t pregnant; all her magic seemed to just be consistently draining out of her all the time.  It was frustrating.  Even more terrifying—with her magic so redirected, and Leto saying that some of the gladiators wanted to hurt her, she couldn’t do much to defend herself, could she?  She shivered, but it was easily attributed to the chill of the day.

 

                Mieta tried.  She really did try, but it did no good.  It happened so quickly.  One day, she had been… in pain, but all right, and the next she was bedridden.  She had to be helped to get to the sewing room, and couldn’t see straight enough to even pin, so Lana had sent her back to the compound, with an escort to make sure that she made it.  The pain kept her off of her feet, and her hands shook so much that she had trouble feeding herself.  Leto hated seeing her like this, she knew, and she tried not to let him see it, but by the third day, it was only worse.  Varania had to feed her; she couldn’t grip a spoon.  She tried to heal her, and her small spells kept her well enough to move around a bit, but she didn’t have the power or skill for more.

                Her world was nothing but pain, and sickness.  It was hard to breathe, hard to see.  She felt so dizzy, even lying down with her eyes closed.  Sleep was the only solace, and her dreams were fevered.  She was alternately hot and cold.

                She wondered, in a far-off kind of way, if she would die.  Die in slavery, and be buried in the tiny graveyard in the compound without an urn or a marker, left to rot instead of burned.  Death seemed a relief, a relief to the pain.  Her children whispered around her, but she wasn’t well enough to understand when they didn’t want her to hear them.  They may be conspiring, may be planning; she didn’t know.  She was too sick to care, really, except that she would have liked to have seen Varania give birth.  It was only a few months off now.

                But… nothing mattered right now.  She tried to sleep.

 

                Her children talked to each other in hushed whispers, sitting on opposite beds, occasionally glancing at their sick mother.  She was sleeping right now, but it was a fevered sleep.

                Varania was terrified that she would die.  If she died…  She felt like they would both be orphaned.  A silly thought.  She was pregnant, about to be a mother yet—despite her wishes.  She was a woman, by rights, and Leto was a man.  She shouldn’t feel like her world would end with her mother’s death.  But she did.  She had never been particularly close to her mother, but she had still been a constant figure in her life.

                “I can’t do anything more for her,” she said, lower lip quivering.  “I can’t draw out any more of the sickness.  I’m… decent at healing, but all of it is misdirected to this… parasite.”  Her tone was scornful.

                Her brother glanced down at her belly.  “The baby,” he corrected her automatically, raising an eyebrow testily.  She resisted the urge to roll her eyes.  It was a damn parasite—redirecting her magic, hindering her, feeding off of her, and she didn’t want it.  “Do what you can.”

                She shook her head.  “I’ve done _everything_ I can.  Maybe…”  She looked down, at her hands, and then at the small scar across her arm from when she had healed Leto.  “If I… used blood magic…”

                She felt him looking at her, sensed his disapproval.  She understood; blood magic was dangerous, and led to dealings with demons.  But even so… if it could be used to heal once, it could be used to heal again, surely.  And she knew to ignore demons, to not listen to them, or be seduced by them.  So surely…  “I think I can do it,” she told him.

                He shook his head firmly.  “No.  Do you really think you can achieve anything by becoming an abomination?”

                She frowned.  “I’m sure that one—two—spells won’t get me possessed,” she said, but even sounded uncertain to herself.

                His eyes flicked in the general direction of the manor.  “That wasn’t what I was referring to.”

                He meant the magisters.  He didn’t want to see her fall to blood magic, not only because of demons, but because their master had no qualms about it.  Would she become like them if she used it?  She didn’t believe that.  They were both silent for a moment.  “Do you think Mama will die?” she asked, voice barely a whisper.

                He didn’t answer.  All was silent for a long moment.  The two didn’t want to hear it, but the only sound in the room was their mother’s wheezing breaths.  It was getting more difficult for her to breathe, and it was only getting worse.  “Yes,” he said, after a long silence had passed.

                Anger gripped her.  How dare he?  How could he _say_ that?  How could he say that about their mother!?  It was their _mother_.  She felt outraged to hear him say it.  She was on her feet before she knew it, and she _had_ had every intention of just marching out to be alone in the quiet of the early morning, but Leto was staring at their mother, and she just thought, _He’s waiting for her to die!_   Her fingers clenched into an angry fist.  How could he look at her like that?  How could he dare to call himself her son if he was so callous about her impending death?  Her hand flew, and she hadn’t even thought she had made the conscious decision to do it, and by the time her hand struck the side of his face, it was too late.  Her eyes flew open wide in shock.  One of his hands shot out, snatching her wrist.  His grip was so tight that it hurt, and he didn’t even give her the grace of looking at her when he spoke.  She had never really realized how strong he was before.  Now, to her misfortune, she did.  “Don’t.  Touch.  Me,” he hissed, and abruptly let go.

                Her sudden shock and even dismay at having acted violently toward her sibling turned back to anger.  “You could at least be more compassionate.  She’s your mother too,” she hissed back.  Her hand stung from the slap, and her wrist throbbed from where he had grabbed her.

                “You grieve your way, let me grieve my way,” he shot back under his breath, so as not to let their fighting disturb their sick parent.  With that, he rose, walked past her, and left.  She watched him go, and slowly sat back down.  She didn’t cry, but she did reflect that she should have acted differently, and _reacted_ differently.  It would be easy to just blame the pregnancy; it made her kind of weird sometimes, a little forgetful, and she had odd food cravings she couldn’t even satisfy, and sometimes sick to her stomach.  But that was the easy way, and in the end, no one had made her be angry enough to hit him, and no one had made her do that either.  She needed to apologize.

                She hurried after him, but he glared at her when she came near, so she let him be, for now.  Maybe she could talk to him later, like tonight, after he had some time to cool off.  She could talk to him before their master’s party tonight if she could manage it.  If not, then after the party.  She wasn’t too anxious to try his temper again, honestly.

 

                Marietta looked at each of the boys in turn, her scowl saying more than anything else could.  Some were simply washed off, and put a poultice on the long stripes the whip had left them with, but two others had to be healed, because they were supposed to be serving tonight.

                The mage had always disliked elves—they bothered her.  She always felt like there was something fundamentally wrong with them.  She disliked dolls too—anything that came too close to mimicking a more normal human face while still not looking human disturbed her greatly.

                As a result, she did not look at the creatures, but instead devoted her attentions to healing.  The magister had hired her for her proficiency in healing, and because she was a scholar.  She had always preferred reading and studying as opposed to learning about her magic.  She was a talented healer, and that was enough for her; it paid.  That Danarius also had use for her scholar skills played quite nicely into her pay.

                She was a middle-aged woman, the sort who should be properly married and having children, except her husband had died some years past, and she had consistently drank remedies to shed any conceived child.  She was happier a widow, with her books and her scrolls—slaves to attend to her every want and desire.

                Marry rich, her family had said.  Well, she had.  And, though she felt her judgments were not poor, she had been fooled and cheated and lost much of the fortune, so here she was… healing the flesh on a couple of knife-eared slaves.

                “What were you lot doing?” she demanded, for she had to write a report about it.

                The boys looked at each other, all except for the dark-haired one waiting for her to finish with the brunette.  There were four of them in total.  They had been found, punished, and then sent to her for treatment; they were gladiators and more valuable than Danarius’ other slaves.

                A slave girl attended the two who were not to be healed with magic, and the medicines clinked in their glass containers as the wretch rifled through it.  When the boys remained silent longer than Marietta thought appropriate, she said, “Start talking, or you’ll lose a bit more skin.  Seems to me you could all stand to lose a couple more inches of flesh.”

                One of the two getting tended by the wretch said, “We… was—were—He killed Erron,” he blurted, pointing at the quiet dark-haired one.  “And he barely got punished.”

                “It’s not your place to carry out punishment _to_ your master’s property, because another piece of your master’s property was damaged,” she said primly.  The elves were quiet at that.  “You.”  She pointed at the one who had been singled out.  “What say you, knife ear?”  
                The boy blinked, his eyes flicking up for a moment, then back down at the floor.  “For whatever their reasons, they attacked me—for the third time.  This time, in the apple orchard on the way to the manor.”

                “What happened?  I need details—all of you.  Now.”  In time, she had the whole story, though she had to ask them to backtrack several times, and each of them remembered it a little bit differently.  First, they had pushed him, and there had been a few words exchanged, some name-calling.  What had followed had been stones, and branches, and fighting.  Eventually, two of them knocked the dark-haired one back, and the third held him under the stream until he started going limp.  They had hauled him out of it and commenced seemingly trying to beat him to death, when one of the guards had heard the yelling and came to investigate.  Though, it wasn’t entirely the three of them beating up the one boy; the others had cuts and bruises and one of them had broken teeth.

                All of them had been whipped for the transgression, including the alleged victim, though he did receive two less lashes than the others.  They were all warned, by order of their master, that if it happened again, they would all be gelded, in the hopes that it would calm them down.

                The two who did not work in the manor serving were told to go, and the mage sent the first boy out.  She went to the last one, the victim, after she had written her report.

                He had been sitting quietly the entire time, his back a crisscross of the kiss of the whip, bloodied, with bits of skin dangling down.  They had all been given a simple choice for their punishment—a plain whip and twice as many lashes, or the barbed whip and a quarter as many.  She wondered which was actually more painful.  She briefly contemplated ripping the dangling skin off and listening to him whine.  She really hated elves.

                But, rather, she healed him, like she was being paid to do, and sent him off to serve at the party. Though why the magister used elves to do it was beyond her.


	29. Sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When someone you love is dying, what would you do to save them?
> 
> Warning: It gets graphic past this point, but I did warn you...

                Varania couldn’t bear to be with her mother any longer.  It wasn’t that she didn’t want to be there for her, or that she didn’t love her.  It was that in her heart she knew she was dying, and she couldn’t bear to watch.  She hated listening to the way the breath rattled in her lungs, the way she would wheeze and the gurgle noise that occasionally came with it.  She hated how her mother did not move, nor whisper, but just lied there and… died.

                She left the little hut, and stood standing just outside it, taking deep breaths of the fresh air, trying not to hear the wheezing any more.  She walked away, just to try to clear her head.  She felt dizzy, but maybe that was just her own anxiety.

                Was her mother going to die tonight?  She wanted to cry.  The tournament was in two days.  Surely…  Her mother was going to die in slavery, and Leto was going to risk everything… for nothing.  Freedom meant nothing to Varania.  She didn’t know how to live without being a slave, and didn’t know what she would do.  She would rather just be a slave, and be with Leto, if she was going to be on her own—never mind the child growing in her womb!

                When she thought she had mostly forgotten the particular way her mother breathed, she started to head back, but a sharp blow to her back sent her tumbling to the earth.  She gave a small cry, and looked up.  She recognized two of the other gladiators.  They smelled like medicine to her, and she could see poultices on them.  One of them grinned down at her, a smile of broken teeth.  “And your brother can’t rescue you this time,” he said, cracking his knuckles.

                Varania cringed.  What… were they going to do to her?  She started to back away, but the other one grabbed on to her hair, and kicked her— _hard_ —in her pregnant stomach.  Pain lanced its way through her, making her convulse.  He dropped her hair, and she collapsed into a partial ball, cringing and making small noises of pain.

                The other kicked her in the head, and she cringed away, crying out.  She screamed for help when the boys forced her to her feet, but no one came.  No one ever came to help.  And Leto couldn’t hear her.

                Was this what it would be like, if he won and Danarius granted her freedom?

                The boys kicked her, shoved her—all the while laughing as if they were having a good time.

                She didn’t know what to do.  Should she try magic?  She had been so strictly told not to.  Was it the right thing to do?  She didn’t know.  But she was so scared, and they were hurting her, and she knew no one would come to help her.

                “Stop!” she screamed, the spell coalescing around her tiny fists.  But they didn’t.  They slammed her against the wall of the hut.

                “Bitch is pregnant, but we can still fuck her,” the one with the broken teeth said.

                She even knew his name.  “Jadia, don’t,” she pleaded.  “It’s not funny and I’m scared; _stop_!”

                “Hold her down—she’s a mage,” Jadia said, as the other wrestled her downwards.  She screamed again, but no one came to help her.

                She was on her own, and it was happening all over again.  She cried.  When one of them held her down, and the other shoved her dress up to her hips, kneeling between her legs, she screamed.

                But… this time it was different.  This time, they weren’t him.  They were just slaves, like her.  She couldn’t _hurt_ them, but maybe she could do something else?

                And she whispered the words, rather than scream, and her fingers moved with the symbols, and she cast, triumphant.

                The two boys fell back, as if dazed, eyelids fluttering.  Jadia hit the ground, dead asleep with his pants around his ankles.  The other stayed awake for a moment longer, then collapsed.

                She felt giddy in her triumph.  She moved, carefully, to her feet, wondering if the beating she had taken might have damaged the parasite in her stomach.  Maybe it had—maybe her magic had protected it, or healed it.  She didn’t really know for sure.  And didn’t care, honestly.

                She looked at the two sleeping boys, and stomped down on their groins—as hard as she could.  She threw all of her 105 pounds into it, and only felt satisfied when she had stuffed both of their mouths with stones and hoped they choked on them, and trotted off practically skipping.

                Leto had no cause to be worried about her—she knew that now.  She could just send them to sleep and do whatever she wished with them.  Of course, she knew they would be back.  Their foolish, boyish pride would allow nothing less, but, she grinned to herself, she had other spells she could use—spells that wouldn’t hurt someone, but would debilitate them.  Spells like sleep, temporary paralysis and the like.  How had she not thought of that before?  They were so _simple_ spells too!

                She felt lighthearted until she arrived back at the hut, back to the sound of her mother’s dying breaths, and all the joy in her heart faded.  Yes, she had found a way to protect herself, and she could even heal the bruises and cuts she had sustained, but where did that leave her mother?  She did not have the skill to heal this illness.  The most she could do was sit with her.

 

                Two days before the tournament, and the magister feasted with his fellows, having just returned from a brief trip to out of the city—not all of his work could be accomplished in Minrathous.  There was music, but one could hardly hear it over the sheer volume of the people gathered.  The tournament would last an estimated three days, so great was the turnout.  Each night, he would feast the nobles, and toast the victors of the day.  It was expensive work, but he was a very wealthy man, so what of it?

                Years of stewing, and it was nearing its end.  He wanted to stretch out that inevitable climax as long as possible.  He could sense the end nearing, and was in no rush to get to it now, unlike his miserable apprentice Raith.  Danarius, though, was a very patient man.  He would wait; he could afford to wait.  He had learned to wait as a child—waited for his mageborn father to come home, and watched his mother die slowly of a wasting disease for which no amount of magic or otherwise could cure, only slow.  The dying had been difficult, and lasted almost two years.  The death had been easy, and came as a sort of release, and he had learned something else besides patience—death was a release, not a punishment.  He had learned early on that there was always time for patience, both in his studies and practice, and when it was time for the real thing, he had best take things slowly.  He took the same philosophy to bed too, so that elven girl learned.

                He had been… surprised that she had turned out pregnant.  Humans rarely begot elves with child, after all, and vice versa.  If they did, there would be more half-bred children, and probably fewer elves and humans both.  Even so, the girl had been a virgin, for which he was a bit surprised to learn, almost to the point of disinterest.  Almost.  That business was… messy, for one.

                He watched her brother over the rim of a wine glass—one of the best ways to watch someone else work.  His gaze trailed up his legs, his unscarred back.  The boy had entered in the competition too.  He wondered what he wanted, in a half-interested sort of way.

                His mother was sick—very sick, and might die.  But he had entered before the woman had fallen ill, so it couldn’t be a cure he wanted.

                He thought of the girl again.  If her child was a mage, he might express some interest in it, when it was older and its capabilities could be tested.  As far as he was concerned, though, it wasn’t his child unless it was mageborn, and even then, he had an apprentice, so he didn’t really require a biological heir, least of all a half-bred child.

                He scratched absently at the stubble on his chin.  He was getting tired of shaving, and decided to do something new.  He wondered if he would ever get used to it though, and had finally decided that he would never know until he tried it.  If only magic could get rid of the need to shave.  Damned elves and their inability to grow beards—he admitted to being mildly jealous of that.  He didn’t think he would ever truly have a problem with a real beard—it was the process of it becoming one that was the trouble.

                He waited until Leto came closer, and signaled for more wine.  He had been drinking quite a bit of it tonight.  He suspected he was not quite drunk.  The boy saw him, bowed his head and approached him.

                “Is your mother still ill?” he asked him idly, setting the emptied glass down on the pristine tablecloth.

                Leto blinked, surprised that he was even speaking to him.  “Y… yes, Master,” he admitted.

                The wine didn’t splash as the glass filled.  But it wouldn’t.  He had made sure the boy knew how to pour years ago, and he had been doing it since.  “And your mageborn sister hasn’t the skill to heal her, is that it?”

                He shook his head.  “No, Master.”

                Not while she was pregnant, anyway.  Women.  This is why they made terrible mages.  Of course, if they could keep themselves from getting pregnant, they would be much better off.  He had _heard_ that women can get an incredible but temporary increase in ability after birth, but he wasn’t certain of it.  Just a rumor, after all.  It could easily be exaggerated, or simply _feel_ like an increase in power after the decrease in it during pregnancy.  He watched the boy, as he straightened, holding the bottle, waiting to be dismissed.  He let him stand there for a moment, and found himself smiling when he saw the boy’s obvious discomfort.  “Would you like her to live, Leto?” he asked him.

                He frowned, either in surprise that he even knew his name, or at the question.  “Y-yes, Master.”

                The magister leaned back in the chair, taking a long sip of the wine.  He had wanted to dominate the boy months ago.  Rule him utterly, in every conceivable way.  He felt it was finally time for that too.  After all, the kid could die within the next week.  It would be such a shame if he didn’t humiliate him at least once.  He wanted to see him cry, just once.  “Let’s work out a deal, my pet,” he purred.  He raised an eyebrow.  Leto was watching him out of the corner of his eyes—a useful trick that the slaves learned by default.  “You do something for me, and I’ll heal her myself—tonight.”  The elf said nothing, but his back seemed to straighten, eyes narrowing with suspicion, as they should.  The mage’s lips curved into a sadistic half-smile, half-sneer.  “On your knees, under the table.”

                By the stricken look on his face, he knew exactly what the magister had in mind, but it didn’t take much imagination.  “Here… Master?” he asked him, eyes wide in horror.

                He smirked, and took another sip of the wine.  “Unless you don’t want your mother to live,” he said, shrugging one shoulder.  He didn’t care about the cancer eating away at the boy’s mother.  But he knew he could heal it, and didn’t particularly feel a need to.  Besides…  How much did the elf care about his family, anyway?  He thought he was being rather generous, offering the elf a cure as such.  Never mind the cost—he was a slave.  He didn’t have money, of course.  Just that body—and a nice one, at that.  He had best learn to use it regardless.

                Around them, the party continued.  No one was watching.  For the moment, they were even alone in a crowded room.  Slowly, the boy sunk to his knees, but stayed staring at the floor.

                “The bottle,” he reminded him, his tone icy.  He jerked, as if just remembering it.  He glanced at it in his hand.  _Stupidly_ , he thought, briefly annoyed.  Distracted by what he was about to do or no, this is why Danarius often thought of his slaves as unthinking creatures.  “Put it on the table.”  He did so, pushing it gently from the edge.  His hands rested on the wooden floor for a moment, and Danarius watched, sadistically pleased, as the elf’s face heated.

                “I don’t… know how, Master,” he admitted, eyes squeezed shut.

                He couldn’t believe it.  How virginal could the brother and sister really be?  He wondered if the boy was a virgin too, or had simply never been with a man.  If he was a virgin, he was going to amend that.  Not himself, of course, but indirectly.  He could always have him… bred, after all.  Considering how talented her children were, he had been trying to breed Leto’s mother for years—something the woman had begged to have happen away from her children, so she had always gone to the male he had paired her with instead.  Nothing had come of it though, even when he had her partners switched multiple times.  Perhaps two had been her limit. 

                The mage reached forward, his thumb set against the elf’s lips.  He hoped he cried as much as his sister had.

                He whispered, in a voice only his little wolf could hear, “No teeth.”  He pushed his thumb past the boy’s lips, running it along his straight teeth.  He pushed his thumb against the teeth, and they parted obediently.  Farther into his mouth, and he heard him make a tiny, helpless noise.  The sound made heat rush to his groin.  “Use your tongue, and as much saliva as you can manage.  The farther back into your mouth, the better.”  He rubbed his thumb against his wet tongue, wondering if he would whimper again.  He hoped he would.  “And use your hands—whatever you can’t fit in your mouth, put in your hands.”  He stroked his tongue, which occasionally twitched.  Too afraid to move it, but wanted to desperately, he assumed.  Good.

                “What’re you doing to your slave?” someone asked.

                Danarius barely glanced up at him, recognizing him as another magister.  “Training him,” he said, stroking his thumb along his pet’s tongue, wondering how much more it would take before he started crying.  How long before he really realized who had raped his sister.  If the bitch hadn’t told him.  Reports said she hadn’t talked about it at all.  As far as the kid knew, she had just been raped by anyone—even a guard, or a servant, anyone.  The girl should be honored he had even noticed her enough to take her to bed.  If she saw it any other way, well, he couldn’t expect too much from her, after all.

                “To suck cock?” he asked, deeply amused.

                He found himself smirking, exploring the wet cavern of his slave’s mouth.  “I can think of few better uses for him,” he laughed, and so did the other man before he moved on.

                He pulled his hand away from his face, and tilted the boy’s face up.  “Open your eyes,” he commanded of him.  Green eyes opened, staring up at him because he was forced to.  They were watery, and horrified, filled with terror and disgust.  That suited him just fine.  His thumb was wet.  His hand fell from his chin, and the elf looked back down, shivering as if it were cold.  He might be cold in that outfit.  “And remember to swallow.”  He ran his wet thumb over his exposed nipple, toying with it until it was dry, listening to the elf’s breathing.  He almost stopped breathing more than once, and when he pinched, yanking him forward, he got a gasp out of him.

                His other hand wrenched into the dark hair, hauled him under the table.  The one trouble with the robes was this, he imagined, as he had to lift the layers with one hand, keeping a steady grip on the boy’s hair with the other.

                The lad was lucky.  All his whining, the frightened looks, had aroused him; some of his work done for him.  He brought his head between his legs.  He felt the elf, reluctantly, raised his hands up, both of them.  One hand, callused from use of the sword, but covered in a layer of sweet-smelling oils that made him glisten, cupped his testicles.  The other wrapped around the base of the shaft.  It was too loud to hear exactly, but he liked to imagine that he was crying.  He certainly had looked like he was about to.

                He took another sip of the wine, smiling in satisfaction when he finally felt the boy’s mouth cover him.  It was hot and wet.  He was inexperienced, but too desperate not to try as hard as he could, and trying to get it over with as quickly as possible and those two things happened to nicely coincide.  He kept a grip on his hair, enjoying forcing his head there almost as much as what he was doing with his mouth.  His tongue was surprisingly dexterous, but unskilled yet.  He worked up enough saliva to almost drool over him, and in fact, that felt good too.

                But mostly what he liked was that he was doing it, in public, and hated it.  He may have mostly liked it because the elf hated it.  Wanted him to continue, because he hated it, and it was humiliating.  The boy should just be grateful of the long tablecloth; fewer people would even notice him, and it was loud enough that no one should hear it either.  That was generous, Danarius reflected.  In the future, he made a note to amend that in some way.  Not the immediate future, of course, but eventually, if the boy lived over the next week.  It wouldn’t do to shame him _too much_ before the tournament.

                His other hand reached for the glass of wine, sipping from it casually, as if this wasn’t happening at all.  He kept an excellent straight face, as it were, even under the most… trying… of circumstances.  It was a necessary component of his position, after all.

                He reflected, as he leaned back in the chair, his fingers curling and uncurling in the thick, black hair, that he did want the elf to _win_.  Not just for aesthetic reasons, but for monitorial gain, of course.  He wouldn’t have to pay a winner’s purse if he won.  The aesthetics was just that—aesthetics.  He had every intention of turning the winner into a personal bodyguard (something he was finding he had need of again—for some reason, not everyone liked the magisters and sent assassins sometimes; so far, nothing he and the regular guards couldn’t handle, but he had best be prepared anyway).  In fact, that was some of the appeal—an easy, high-paying job for a knight or soldier, and very honorable for them too.  Though, if he had to have someone always at his side, and follow him wherever he went, he _would_ prefer it if it were someone visually appealing as well.

                His hand in the boy’s hair released, and moved down to his face, running over his eyes and lashes, gently, trying to discover if the boy had cried yet.  He hadn’t, but his eyes were watery.  He knew that was just from occasional gagging though; he could feel it.  He ran his thumb along his cheekbones, cupped his jaw, and went back to gently stroking his hair.

                Leto’s lack of skill made it last a little longer actually, but he tried, breathing through his nose, testing his gag reflex, and even getting desperate enough to use his hands a bit more than he had originally, sucking harder, using more tongue.  Danarius wanted to come now.  Not just because he had developed a rhythm, and it was feeling good for what it was, but because he wanted the kid to swallow it.  He wanted him to swallow it, taste it, and remember what he had done.  It was, after all, a form of submission.  And the little brat had stabbed him some number of years ago.  It was about time he made up for that.

                When he did come, hard, into the boy’s mouth, he held him against his groin, his limp member still in his mouth, until he felt the boy swallow.  He smirked to himself, and released his hair.  He moved away from him immediately, and Danarius adjusted his robes.  The elf didn’t come immediately out from under the table though.  Rather, he stayed there, as if hiding for a moment, before he crawled out from under it.  Halfway out, he stopped, staring upward.  Danarius saw the boy’s face heat, and his eyes downturned.  A slave girl was staring at him in wide-eyed shock.  She was one of the ones that Danarius had owned since birth—was her name Raenya?  He tried to keep track of the ones he had owned all their lives; they were usually the most cowed and subservient.  Frankly, the magister couldn’t have asked for better timing.

                She blinked, and hurried away.  The magister turned the boy’s face toward him, so he could see him.  His eyes were a little red, as if he had been crying, or at least his eyes watering, throughout it.  If they had just been damp, he could have believed that it was only from the sporadic gagging, but the redness…

                He smirked.  He had cried.  Maybe after he had touched his face, but he had.  Maybe when he was swallowing his semen, or when he had come in his mouth.  He liked to imagine that.  He leaned down.  “When did you start crying, Leto?” he asked him, his voice barely above a whisper.  The elf stared downwards, as if sick, and pale.  He contemplated slapping him out of the stupor, but decided to ignore him for the moment.  Let him sit in shock for a time, and reflect on what he had just done.  Patience, after all, was a virtue.  He wasn’t too interested in his own question’s answer.  He went back to his wine, and finished the glass.  Leto was slowly rising to his feet by the time he was done.

                The magister glanced around the room.  People had begun to depart.  It was getting late, after all.  He rose, and gestured for the boy to follow him.  He walked appropriately, five steps behind him at all times, as he led the way to the compound.  He had intended to keep his word, after all, and the woman hadn’t much time.  But wouldn’t it be a delight if she had passed away before they arrived?

                If she had, he wondered how much convincing it would take before he could make the elf believe he had wanted to do that.  Danarius _knew_ Leto was just a little unstable.  The right manipulation, the right words, moments, a push here and there…  That was what was so beautiful about the entire thing.

                He let Leto open the door, and hold it open for him.  He strode inside the small hovel, and saw Varania sitting up on the bed, staring at him with wide, frightened eyes.  Foolish girl.

                He ignored her utterly, but did notice that Leto gave her a silencing glare.  He went to their sickly mother.  At first, he thought she _had_ passed away, then realized that her breathing was just that shallow.

                It struck him as being… oddly… nostalgic, and he knew why.

                It didn’t seem to matter the circumstances, not really—or the setting.  It all _felt_ the same.  A child in the room with their dying parent.  That was something he was familiar with.  The wind that rattled his mother’s lungs, wheezing out of her, fighting to draw another breath.  The sickness had driven her to unconsciousness, and he had sat, dutifully, beside her, because someone should be there.  He had felt that very strongly—that his mother shouldn’t die alone.  And he had been angry, _so angry_ , that his father had refused to be there with his wife.  He had said that she was just a woman, and he had more important affairs than her passing.  And, why should he covet one woman when he could snap his fingers and have a dozen—so let her die; she had clung to life for too long anyway.  For the first year of her illness, he had been dutiful and attentive, and then something began to change.  She lived too long, and he began to resent her for it, he felt.  But what did he know?  He had been twelve.

                He had tried to keep his younger sibling out of the room, to no avail; the boy had charged in past him anyway, and looked at his dying mother in silence, then ran back outside.  He had been seven; he hadn’t really understood.  He had been angry in the days to come, and silent in turns, but he hadn’t understood the frail body under the sheets laboring to breathe.  Danarius’ sister visited but once, and laid a single flower on the nightstand by the bed, looked at her, and walked out.  Even then, Danarius had watched her smile her odd smile, and if only he had known…

                He had watched the slaves bathe his mother, changed the sheets, and felt their disgust, and hated them for it.  Hated the looks they gave, and felt the rage inside him quicken at the uncaring way they handled her; as if she were a doll, a breakable doll, but still a doll, and not a human being at all.

                Danarius had understood though, and had sat in the chair beside her, for the final two days of the two years she had been dying, the only one of her three children to pay any kind of respect to her death.  And still he had felt guilty; guilty because he couldn’t convince his father to be there, guilty because he could not make his brother understand, and guilty because he didn’t want to be there either.  He had wanted to run, to flee the room and the death that lingered there, the smell of the dying and the sick, the medication, and the sickening sound of her breathing.

                And he couldn’t, because any moment might be her last, and it was unfair to ask his mother to die in that room alone, with no one beside her.  But all the same, he hadn’t held her hand, hadn’t said goodbye--nothing.  She had died, and he had sat in that chair, falling asleep, with a book in his lap, and had woken to discover her body was cold and stiff, and he had no idea if she had spoken any last words in her sleep, or if she may have reached out for him.  And, for it, he hated his brother, hated his sister, and hated his father, and most of all himself for all his failings.  He hadn’t known enough to save her.

                He wondered, if he had the same skill then as he did now, and the knowledge, if he may have given her some more time.  He wondered that every day.

                The elf may not have lasted another day.  Wasn’t Leto and his sister lucky that he was feeling so generous?  It must be the wine.  But there _was_ something pleasing about forcing the elf to do that, through something other than fear and an order.  Giving him a choice was… pleasant.

                “You’re fortunate, Leto,” he said, his hand upturning, a ball of fire springing to life above it, the light casting an eerie glow about the room.  “She would have died tomorrow, I wager.”

                The elf, wisely, said nothing, but stood in attendance.  Danarius got immediately to work, no matter the reason, treating it as systematically as if it were a math equation.  It took some time, especially under the influence of the drink, and a great deal of power.  Varania had risen, and was standing near, watching.

                He pointed to the prone woman, not so much sleeping as unconscious.  “Feed the spell,” he commanded the mage.  She nodded, and her hands came, palm out.  Her own magic added to it, drawing out the ill, and filling it in with health, like she was trained to.  The work left him tired, as if he had been running, and his muscles even ached.  Mages were rarely overweight; they burned too much energy for that.

                Varania staggered, her hand going to her belly.  He found himself looking at it for a moment, then turned away, his business done.  The woman heaved a belabored breath, then another.  She shifted, and passed into a more normal sleep.  Her breathing was regular.  …He couldn’t remember the sound of his mother’s voice, but he could remember the way her lungs rattled when she breathed those last few days.  The funny thing  about memories was that he barely remembered her at all most of the time, and vividly only in rare moments.

                “Thank you, Master,” Varania said meekly.  He sensed the questions in her voice.  Her brother could answer them.

                “Don’t thank me; I’ve no interest in your affairs.  Thank your brother,” he said, nodding to Leto, who immediately stared back downwards.  His posture spoke volumes by itself.  He moved on, out the door and into the night.

 

                Varania looked at her brother, standing in the chill nighttime air.  He was naked to the waist except for a gilded collar, and wearing almost nothing below it too.  She knew that it was just one of the outfits for nights like this, but seeing her big, strong brother in it was almost humorous.  If not for the dire look on his face and their uneasy relationship at the moment, she might have teased him.

                “Leto,” she began, reaching out to him.  Her fingers touched the gilded bracers on his wrists.

                He pulled away.  “I… need to go,” he said.

                “Wait,” she whispered, taking a step after him.  She was almost surprised when he stopped and looked back at her.  “I’m sorry… about this morning.”  She meant every word, and only wished that she could convey the depth of her sorrow over the matter, and her regret.  “I’m really sorry.”

                He looked down, and swallowed.  “It’s all right, ‘Nia.”

                “I love you,” she told him, feeling desperate.  She felt suddenly like her family was slipping away from her.  Her mother was saved, but still slipping away.  She felt like the sickness would only come back, and that it was her mind that was truly gone.  She felt like she hadn’t told either of them that she loved and cared about them enough, not nearly enough.  With Mother almost dying, she felt that very strongly.  She realized that Leto could die this week, and he was still upset with her from when she had asked him to hit her to cause a miscarriage.  She didn’t want him to die with them fighting, with her not telling him that she loved and cared about him.  Did he even realize how much he meant to her?  He was her only brother, her only sibling.  He had raised her, and loved her when she felt like no one else did, not even Mama.  And was always there for her, no matter what.  She loved him so much.  And she realized that she was going to lose him forever if he won.

                He paused for a long time, and she heard him sigh.  “I love you too, ‘Nia.”  He sighed, shaking his head a little.  He looked pale to her, under all the oil.

                “Leto… why did—“

                He cut her off before she finished the question.  “Don’t ask,” he snapped under his breath.  She drew back, a bit alarmed at his tone of voice.  “Go back to bed, all right?”  That time, his voice was softer.

                “I’m not a child anymore,” she told him.  “If you did… something… or… made some kind of deal…”

                He shook his head, angry.  “Goodnight.”

                “Did you kill someone?” she asked, throwing out the words as quickly as she could muster.

                He paused, his back to her.  He glanced back, over his shoulder.  The light was dim inside, and he didn’t turn his head enough for her to see all of his face.  “Yeah,” he said, his voice blunt.  With that, he turned and left, faster than she could think to say anything.  She stared at the closed door, wondering.  What had gone on?  Why had their master come?  What had he _really_ had to do?  He wasn’t bloody, but she guessed that didn’t mean much.  And had he just said so to shut her up?  What had Leto had to do?

                At the same time, she knew it was best if she didn’t know.  Her master was sadistic, and cruel.  He could have asked for anything.  Maybe he had had Leto kill someone, or maybe something worse.

                It was interesting to note that, though she didn’t know, in a way, he had killed something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something about the way Danarius looked at Fenris during that scene at the Hanged Man (among other things) always made me believe he could have been sexually abused. A psychology student friend of mine thinks it likely began in his childhood/sometime in the beginning of his memories--when he was too young/naive to know it was wrong and part of why he was so hurt years later was because he realized it was--and had likely been mentally groomed and conditioned for it. I think Fenris/Leto need/s hugs.


	30. Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the tourney progresses.

                Raith was bored.  Watching one-on-one fights one after the other got dreadfully dull.  The first few weren’t so bad, but later on, it was just boring.  His suggestion had been to divide everyone up into a few separate teams and simulate a battle, but have the victors also attack one another after the point, the last one standing winning.  This _would_ have ended the entire thing at once, and would have likely been much more exciting.  However, instead it was one battle after another while an announcer rang off their names and titles.  The first day was the grandest, the most public match.  The second day would also be fairly public, but the third was invitation-only, and would be a series of matches against the victors of the previous days.  Three days of being bored out of his ever-loving mind.  Originally, they were just going to do as many as possible every day, but it was far “grander” and more organized to have it done this way.

                His gaze wandered from the combatants in the sands below, to the thousands gathered in the stands.  They seemed more interesting to him, they who stood out in the sun, jumping and cheering, screaming for their favorites.  He watched from his privileged seat underneath a silk canopy, shading them from the late winter sun.  Without it, as the afternoon wore on, it would have been intolerable.  Tevinter had the mildest of winters.

                The people in the stands were primarily human, but the elves from the alienage _had_ been allowed to come, and why not?  He saw the scattered surface dwarves about too—they were almost all merchants or smugglers.  It was interesting how the three groups mostly kept to themselves, and on the borders of these groups, people at first seemed uncomfortable, but as the day wore on, seemed to forget themselves.  Out of all of them, the dwarves, as ever, were the most comfortable with any given group.

                He viewed them all as being quite bloodthirsty.  Their cheers were loudest at the sight of blood, after all.  The interesting bit was that the poorer-looking they were, the more bloodthirsty they seemed to be.  The arena at normal times were just gladiators.  The losers were whipped for their loss, publicly—one lash per every one of their team who fell.  The crowd screamed for that too, and counted along with them.  It was barbaric.  The entire _thing_ was barbaric.  They were so _obsessed_ with the sight of blood, and the crowd was deafening when someone _died_.

                The entire scheme was brilliant though.  The knights brought with them squires, a contingent of servants, sometimes their families, slaves, and they needed rooms, drink, food, women—and that was just the knights!  The soldiers and sellswords who came may have only brought themselves for the most part, but they required much of the same.  And of course the gladiators who came to compete—their masters brought them, and they required all and often more than the knights.  All of it amounted to revenue for the city, and, ultimately, his master.  Sure, he put together a hefty purse for the winner (or the winner’s master), but it was almost paid for, when he owned much of the city, after all.

                In addition, it entertained the populous outside of the gladiatorial season—fall.  Of course, they _could_ have had the slaves fight all year ‘round but then what would the populous look forward to?  No, it was often best to keep them looking forward to something, to be excited about something that was so easy to control.  Besides, the summers were just too hot for them to be out in the sand in heavy armor; half the slaves would die from heat stroke, he imagined, and winter was cold enough that the slaves would only fall prey to illness, given that they were mostly naked and the physical exertion coupled with the cooler weather and frequent rains.  Wintersend was a good time for the tourneys, and always had been.

                The late winter tournament had been a nice reprieve, something rare they could experience so out of season.  It was a small wonder that so many had turned out to witness it.  He imagined that the streets must be bare right now.  It would be… interesting to see the busy streets deserted during the daylight hours.

                More interesting than this tournament anyway!

                He had never been interested in the coliseums.  He thought, _Apprenticing for over half my life, and this is what it has amounted to?  Bah!_

                A couple elven slaves stood in attendance of the gathered magisters; so well-trained they were scarcely noticed, which was the point.  They were only really noticed when his glass seemed to fill itself, or when he smelled the heavy perfumes on them, which he thought clashed badly with the smell of the arena—sweat, blood, and warm sand.  He should have been talking with the magisters there, forming alliances, getting to know them.  The magisters didn’t have friends; they had allies—allies who would often stab them in the back to get ahead—sometimes literally.

                He listened, sure enough.  The talk was more interesting than the fighting sometimes, but the talk kept drifting back to the fighting.  Who would win?  Who was betting against whom?  Whom was a fool to put their money on Ser Armor-Clad Sword-Wielder of Psychopath?  Why were they a fool to do so?  Well, because Ser Psychopath tends to favor his right, and sometimes drops his shield two inches when he dances about for too long.

                It was horrifyingly dull.

                And the women!  The women were even _worse_.  They picked their favorites, despite many of them being magister’s wives, and batted their lashes, waving their favors, cheering their champions.  They spoke of how gallant the knights were, how dashing, or handsome.

                It was ludicrous, because he had heard the same women judging the slaves equally, but their language had been much more vulgar.  They would talk about their skin, their muscled bodies, _their penises—_ all in front of their _husbands_ , who didn’t even seem to care.  They seemed to see it as simply judging stock.  Funny thing was, the arena often evened the odds between the knights and the slaves, and there wasn’t much difference between them, for those few minutes anyway—not in armor, not armed.  And this was one tournament that the slaves were encouraged to wear armor.

                Fact of the matter, those gladiatorial slaves had women _flock_ to them, even in the damned cages.  They would reach out to touch the victors, offering to lick the blood off of them.  Not all of them were homely or depraved—rather, beautiful women would bare their breasts to them, offering themselves.  Why, he had seen a daughter of a high-ranking Altus family stride right up to that dark-haired boy—Leto—and lick blood off of his face, and whisper something in his ear.  He didn’t have to imagine what it was; it happened often enough:  Even highborn ladies sometimes liked to bed the gladiators.  The best of them were bred.  He suspected that in a year or two, his master might decide to find a suitable match or three for Leto, for that matter.  Lucky bastard, even if those women would most likely be slaves.  The other women—and some men--in question, though, would pay Danarius for a night, a few hours, with one of his slaves.  To his knowledge, despite Leto’s steady victories, Danarius had refused every offer for him.  The offers only continued to climb in coin—that may have been the point, but he had best cash on that before the boy fell in battle, took a bad injury, or marred that pretty face of his.

                He smirked to himself.  He should have whored the boy out before the tournament, fact of the matter.  He would only lose, maybe even die.  He should have tried to get some extra coin out of it.  He hoped the kid died—slowly.  Hoped he were maimed somehow—maybe a mace’s blow to the leg.  Then he’d be worthless, even to the brothels.

                These days, Raith had little to no time to even visit the brothels.  His master insisted he spend every waking moment teaching that runt Varania, and when he wasn’t doing that, researching.  By the end of the day, he was so exhausted that he just fell into bed.

                Well, anyone who made it to the final rounds in the tournament would have their choice of the women in the stands, he guessed.

                Apprenticing had given him no time to consider marriage either.  He wasn’t so certain that he wanted to anyway.  His master had done quite well without a lady of the house, and seemed to blatantly refuse the concept of marriage, something a few of his peers frowned upon, naturally.  To each their own, as the saying went.  However, it was agreed, unanimously, that anyone of an Altus bloodline, like Danarius, really should reproduce to keep the line going.  He had always insisted that he had a brother who had several children, but so far none of them were mages; it was quite the talk at the Circle how his once prestigious family line seemed to be running out.  Naturally, many other families, both Altus and even more Laetan had offered themselves and their daughters to him, all to no avail.

                He wondered, idly, if his master had any illegitimate children.  He owned several brothels, but Raith had never _seen_ him visit one, but that meant little.  He could also have mistresses around the city, carefully keeping them from the manor.

                He _suspected_ a number of people around the manor of the cause behind Varania’s pregnancy with one in particular, but it was only a theory.  His master said nothing about it, and Raith wasn’t about to mention it either.  Varania certainly wasn’t talking.  He supposed it could have been anyone, really.  A guard, a servant—anyone in the manor.  She was a little young for Raith’s tastes though.  Elves didn’t have much curve even as adults so Raith was normally more attracted to humans, or sometimes a very curvaceous and feminine dwarf.  Elven women just made him feel like he was with a child most of the time.  That Dalish girl had been one thing—her breasts had been small, but she did have some nice hips.

                The magister had told Raith that marriage only opens one up to weakness.  He had told him, if he must marry, marry mageborn and perhaps even another magister or from a magister’s close kin, but nothing below Laetan, born from a Soporati family, like himself; they can look after themselves and serve as a dalliance, or even a hostage if things turned sour.  Anything else is only a weakness, something his fellows could exploit, use against him.  It was why any relationships he had, he kept secret, and ended quickly.  Raith imagined that many of them ended in a mysterious death or disappearance.  He had heard a tale that one of his master’s mistresses became catty, insistent, demanding marriage in addition to the baubles and silks.  Some trinket had inevitably been reported stolen from another magister one eve, and turned up in her possession.  She had been seized, but they couldn’t hang her, for she pled on the defense of her belly.  It was true, though whether or not it was Danarius’ child was always a matter of debate.  She had been sentenced to slavery in Seheron instead of death.

                He glanced at his master out of the corner of his eye.  Was the tragedy that killed his father and made him a magister really an accident?  He wondered…

                It was also quite generous to give his younger brother, who should have inherited nothing save some stipend to make him comfortable, as he wasn’t a mage, so much land in the country, a vineyard, slaves, horses—anything he could ask for.  To get rid of him?  To make him quiet?

                He pulled himself from his private thoughts; they weren’t suitable by any means.

                The day dragged on.  By the end of it, the winners were announced, and those winners would continue onwards.  The crowd cheered for every one named, and booed at the losers.  Raith was just glad it was over.

                He was eager to be back indoors, back at the manor, where a feast awaited them.  He was beyond disappointed when his master _insisted_ to go to that horrid almost-literal dungeon below the coliseum, to see to his slaves, who would be held there for the duration of the tournament.

                There were only three—two of them human, who Danarius always kept separated from the elven ones save on the sands.  He couldn’t imagine why he would be so interested in it, though he had an idea.  That boy, Leto, he assumed.  The one his master referred to as his pet wolf.  He trailed after him, more irritated than anything else, but they weren’t alone.  A few of the other magisters were yelling at the slaves in attendance to those locked in cages, seeing to it that they were well-taken care of until the end of the tournament.

                The prisoners were kept in a different area, and the holding cages for the slaves were different—cleaner for one, because sometimes women or occasionally men wanted to come down to them.

                Each was kept separately, and Danarius went to the other two before Leto, looking at them, speaking little.  He stopped and gave orders to the two slaves in attendance to his three—simple orders; food, keep them clean, that it better not get cold enough for them to get sick, and that none of the three were allowed women, or men.  Raith didn’t miss the glowers from two of the three slaves who had overheard the remark.  Leto just didn’t seem to care.

                Danarius dismissed the two, and moved on to his “pet”.  Raith stayed back, but within earshot, arms crossed, eager to be underway.  The scene reminded him all too clearly of that afternoon in the market, when that same elf had stabbed him in the leg.  But now, there was no knife, and even if there was, Raith suspected he had been too well cowed to do such a thing.

                “I’m glad you’re entering, my pet,” he told Leto, privately.

                The elf sat on the stone bench, looking for all the world like he had never moved from it, like he had just been cut out of the same stone as the bench.  “I’m glad I could please you, Master,” he said.

                Danarius’s eyes narrowed dangerously.  “Look up,” he barked.  The teenager lifted his head, staring past his master more than at him.  The mage looked at him, scrutinizing him.  “If you’re being flippant, I’ll have your tongue cut out.”  It wasn’t a threat, not exactly—just a reminder.

                “Yes, Master,” he said, in the same tone of voice.  “I wasn’t being flip; I swear.”

                The kid had such an expressive face.  Raith could sense despair in his eyes, even from this distance.  Despair, misery, loathing, and… fear.  That made sense; this place was miserable—all the more reason to be away from it sooner.  “Come here,” his master beckoned.  Leto rose stiffly to his feet.  He had been sitting so long, not moving, that his legs cracked when he rose.  He walked to the bars, standing at a comfortable distance from his master, still looking past him, at the wall behind his head.  “I think I’d like it if you won.”

                Raith found himself smirking.  He wouldn’t have to pay that purse!  Still, the slave could ask a favor— _any_ favor.  He wondered what he could possibly want.  Did he even have the mental capacity to think of something genuinely worthwhile?  He seemed more like a rabid dog than a man, after all.  And Raith would, honestly, hate to see years of their sweat, blood, and sleepless nights be poured into that ungrateful elf anyway.  “Then I would be happy to please you further, Master,” he said, voice still utterly bland.

                The apprentice saw his master smirk.  “I’m sure you are.”  There seemed to be more to that than what was said, but Raith wasn’t certain of _what_.  Something that had transpired between them, or maybe just something that the man knew about.  Who knows?  If Raith had learned nothing, though, it was to not jump to conclusions if possible, especially when it came to the magisters.  Believe only what you see, and be suspicious of that too.  Take everything with a grain of salt, as it were—rumors were to not be ignored exactly, but only taken into account.

                That didn’t stop his own opinions from forming though.

                The elf looked vaguely troubled.  “Have I… done something to displease you, Master?” he inquired, as if hesitant to even speak, but had no doubt heard the tone of his master’s voice.

                Danarius was silent a moment.  “No.”  The briefest of pauses, as if in thought.  The magister’s gaze roved over the boy almost intimately, and the elf took notice of it.  “Not once.”

                Leto finally bowed his head, eyes lowered.  His voice came out half-strangled.  “I exist only to serve you, Master,” he said mechanically.

                The magister stared at him, and to Raith’s eyes, if the bars hadn’t been in the way, he may have struck him.  He wondered why.  He had certainly _sounded_ like a perfectly obedient slave.  Had Danarius _wanted_ him to become angry, or abashed, or something else?  Whatever he had wanted, this wasn’t it.        

                “Yes.  Yes you do,” he said placidly, and turned away from him.

 

                Mieta felt crestfallen.  Her own children—lying to her.  Leto had promised her— _promised her_ —that he wouldn’t compete.

                Had she ever really believed that though?  She stared at the empty bed.  She had certainly wanted to believe it.  She had prayed that his promise had meant something.  But it had been a lie.  She realized now, that it had always been a lie.  He had never intended to back down from this.

                She understood.  It was horrible, but she _understood_ her son.  He wanted to help, and she knew that.  Knew that, whatever he was doing, he was doing it for his family.  Whatever he might think, the sickness just couldn’t be from something as simple as depression.  She knew that she was depressed and downtrodden since capture, but, surely…  Well, she couldn’t convince her children otherwise.  And when she was most insistent, then Leto only ignored her, and Varania suggested, gently, that it might be from the change in climate, which was common enough.

                She didn’t want Leto to take this burden upon himself.  It wasn’t his place to do so.  It wasn’t his responsibility, and it shouldn’t fall to him.  It should never have turned out this way.  What if he died?

                It made her want to cry.  Born free, to die a slave, slain for a crowd’s amusement to the tune of cheering?  How terrible, how diabolical.  And they would just toss his dead carcass in a cart, buried in a ditch somewhere, fed to the lions—it didn’t matter; she wouldn’t even see him.  She couldn’t even give him the dignity of a proper grave.

                Or what if he came back injured?  It would have to be something really awful if a mage couldn’t heal it.  He would never fight again.  He might even be considered useless.  Then what?  She feared that; the old and the expendable somehow disappeared from the slave compound.  She had often caught herself wondering what must happen to them.  Horrible things, things not suitable to think about.  This was a place of dark magic, trickery, and lies.  They never even saw the bodies.

                She didn’t know which was worse.  She supposed… in the long run, coming home injured.  He would be miserable up until the day he died.

                Mieta’s stomach wrenched thinking about it.

                Or what if he came home comatose?  That was almost as bad.  They certainly wouldn’t give him very long before he would be killed outright.

                She prayed, _prayed_ , though to what god, she didn’t know, that he would come back to her alive and in one piece, whole—no matter any other outcome, alive and whole.

                She hoped that the last conversation she had had with him was not the last one she would ever have.

                She hadn’t realized, at the time, his intentions, and had besought him something, while Varania was away.  “Your sister needs you,” she told him.  He had glanced away, but didn’t answer.  “You’re all she has.”  Mieta felt heartbroken to say it aloud.  “I couldn’t be there for her when she was growing up—you were.  She’s grief-stricken, though, and she needs you to support her.”

                He was silent, and looked like he wanted to say something for a moment, then apparently changed his mind.  “I’m done being her support,” he said coldly instead.

                Mieta could barely believe that he had said such a thing.  “How can you say that?” she demanded.  “She’s your _sister_.  And she loves you.”  Why couldn’t he see that his baby sister needed him?  Varania looked more saddened with each passing day at the growth of her belly.  She needed her older brother.  Mieta wanted to be there for her, and had tried to, but Varania had shied away from her.  She had accepted the comfort, but wouldn’t open up to her the same way she did with Leto.

                His eyebrow sort of twitched, she noticed, as if he were thinking of something else, something that made him angry.  Had the two gotten into some kind of fight?  She had noticed that they were acting strangely toward one another, but they were both teenagers; she had been expecting that.  Mieta wished that her children would talk to her more.  “Is that so.”

                Mieta stared up at her son, shocked.  “Yes,” she said.  “Please, Leto, _talk_ to her.  _Comfort_ her.  She needs you more than either of you know.”

                He fell silent for a moment, frowning in thought, and then sighed, defeated.  He shook his head in woe.  “I know,” he admitted, but his tone was testy.

                The mother knew when not to push her children.  This was one of those times not to push.  She let him be, and he had been silent, speaking very little to either of them.  She couldn’t call any of the interactions she had had with him after that a conversation.  And now… now…

                _Please, my child, be safe_.

 

                Raith felt like today was just another repeat of the day before.  The matches were the same, as far as he was concerned.  No knights today, but plenty of commons showed up anyway.  Not _quite_ the crowd as the day before, but about the same.

                He had spent all of the night before giving one final review to all the separate documents the winner would have to sign.  The fine print practically signed away their soul, and freed he and his master from any legal obligations, should anything go wrong.  Not to mention that the magister would _almost_ own even one of the knights, for life, if they won.  Cleverly worded, it gave them a permanent, fairly easy job with good pay.  Only the slaves’ paperwork wasn’t so cleverly worded.  That detailed that if one of the slaves should win, then Danarius would pay for the slave on a previously agreed price, the winner’s purse would go to the one who owned them.  But the favor, that was for contestants only, and was so stated.

                He had found not a loophole, not a word out of place.  Everything was exactly as it should be.

                The first half of the day was all the remaining soldiers.  The second half would be the gladiator-slaves.  Raith couldn’t wait until it was all over, and he could go back inside.  He had certainly _tried_ to weasel out of going, but his master had none of it, as usual.  Something about making appearances and practicing what he had been studying.

                And Raith did make an appearance, and he did his best to study what he had learned.  Basically, being as arrogant as befit his rank and his master’s, as knowledgeable as he had to be.  The talk he heard was much the same as the day before.  He imagined there couldn’t be too much to talk about when it came to sweaty men swinging weapons at each other.

                One of the mages was commenting that he would like to rain some fire on the combatants, maybe add some spice to the fighting.  Danarius agreed that it would, but such a thing was strictly not allowed.  In regular arenas, sometimes a mage was there to liven things up a bit, but that was all.  Mages, even slaves, didn’t fight in the arenas.  There would be too much room for mishaps.  An arrow flying high and striking someone in the crowd was one thing, but dozens of burn victims quite another—that led to rioting, and other lesser countries, he sometimes felt, were only looking for a weak spot sometimes—and they didn’t need it with the war going on in Seheron.

                He contemplated what he might say for a time, then waited for the right moment.  His master and two other magisters had fallen to discussing the current prices on a trained gladiator.  One of them made a scathing remark about the Chantry’s tithing.

                “… wouldn’t be so damn expensive, except for the tithing,” he was saying.  “Fifteen percent is entirely too high.”

                Another snorted.  “Nothing compared to army-trained gladiators.”  Those were deserters, primarily.  The army made a profit off of them as well, to train their replacements mostly, and the Chantry still demanded a tithe.  But the training was often _worth it_ was the trouble, apparently.

                “Your boy—the one with the black hair—cost me over two hundred sovereigns when he killed my best gladiator,” the man closest to Danarius said, scratching his beard.  “That him, by the way?”  He gestured to the sands.

                The magister glanced down.  His expression was unfathomable.  “So it is.”

                “My offer still stands,” the man was saying.  “Even if he loses—two hundred sovereigns—provided he can fight.”

                Danarius snorted.  The clash of swords sounded, even above the crowd.  “My little wolf is worth more than that.”

                The other two both laughed.  “He’s cleaned us both out before,” the third man said with a nod.  “Me, twice, in fact.  Hamstrung one of my slaves once—damned bastard.”

                “Two-hundred thirty,” he said.

                The mage shook his head.  “No.”

                “Two-fifty.  He’s not worth more than that.”

                “He’s a prodigy.  Six hundred.”

                He whistled.  “That’s too high, even for you.”

                “I imagine that by the end of his career in the arena, that’s what he will have made me.  Or what he’ll be worth—either way.”

                Raith frowned.  What an odd way to put it.  Did he mean as breeding stock?  True, slaves were _bred_ for this, but surely that was too high as well?  He couldn’t stop himself.  “Six hundred for a stud is a bit high too, Master,” he said.  He quirked a smile.  “Hardly even a haggling price.”

                But the magister only looked down, and watched his slave fighting.  He was using a hammer.  They used blunted weapons a lot in the fighting.  The elf chose a weapon that could kill while still being quite blunt.  Raith suspected that he was bloodthirsty.  Well, he had gotten a taste of it at a young age—perhaps it had just taken hold.  “If he wins, he’ll be worth more than six hundred,” Danarius said, more to himself than those gathered.

                “How much coin are you spending on that lyrium anyway?” a Senior Enchanter asked, the third man.  Raith knew the answer to that, but the question hadn’t been directed to him.  His own answer was:  Entirely too much.

                Danarius gave him a figure without even blinking at the thought.  Before his apprenticeship, Raith had never even seen so much money, but his master spent it without thinking about it sometimes.  He supposed that it happened when you were rich, and he just seemed to get richer.  He invested a lot of that money, though, back into the businesses he owned; the ships, for one, were always needing maintenance.

                Raith wondered when he could bring up his ruse to escape the arena.  The crowd roared.  The elf had knocked his opponent against the wall, and the mage had heard the armor crash, and imagined if the man didn’t have broken bones, he would be bruised.

                The gladiator started to rise.  The elf waited, standing steady, ready for him.  The other fell back down, promptly, and yielded in shame.

                Raith imagined that many of these slaves would be beaten for losing so.  The crowd should like that, if they made it public.

                Later on, someone died, impaled on a spike along the outer wall of the arena.  One of the mage’s ladies grew faint.  Her lady-in-waiting caught her, but she was still quite pale.  Raith volunteered to escort her outside, so her lord husband could continue to watch.

                She smiled sheepishly at him.  “I’m afraid I’ve no head for this blood sport,” she said.  Her servant had a sun shade made of a delicate silk and lace to shade her lady from the harsh sun.

                “It is barbaric,” Raith agreed.  “Shall we have a walk, my lady?”  He offered her his arm, and she accepted.  He had no intention of going far, just down to a nearby pastry shop, where he of course bought her something to eat, rationalizing that she had only fainted due to hunger.  Of course, it was the hunger and the gore—not her own weak suppositions.  How had this woman managed to marry into the Circle, anyway?

                Raith disliked it, but he wasn’t averted to it.  And of course, she was a woman, but so many were just as bloodthirsty as the men, if not more so.  He wondered how much the woman knew about her husband, the blood magic for one.  Likely nothing.  She wasn’t mageborn; why bother telling her about it?

                Anyone who wasn’t a mage served no purpose, except that which a mage deemed them worthy of.


	31. A Winter Victory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the past will not simply die, but keep coming back to bring different forms of pain to everyone.

                Aramael had always been sneaky and inquisitive, even by Dalish standards—who were somewhat known for being sneaky in the forest.  It wasn’t a forest, but the same principles still stood, and he had snuck into the Grand Proving.  Was it really sneaking if he hadn’t had to hide, though?

                Aramael was barely fifteen, and was, as far as he could tell, the last surviving member of his clan—who had been massacred by slavers, which was a blunt way of putting into words the pain, trauma, and suffering that it had been.  He had survived more due to cowardice than luck or skill—too scared to do anything but run and hide.

                Revenge was the thought that kept him going, and finding out if anyone else still lived what motivated him most mornings.  Any path he could take either route had led him to Minrathous, so there he stayed.

                He liked the coliseums—not so much for the bloodshed, except that people often were looking elsewhere and the _magisters_ would talk about the most _interesting_ things when they thought no one was around to hear them.  That, and with all the crowds, it was easy to cut purses.

                He crept up the steps, and took a long route to where the magisters sat, in their shaded pavilion.  He passed a well-built, perfumed slave, maybe two years older than he, on the steps, and he smiled, steel-gray eyes inviting, and the slave paused, returned the look, and let him go.  The thing about the magisters having so many slaves—the slaves didn’t _care_.  One way or another, they didn’t _care_.  If their master died, it meant nothing to them; slavery under one master or another was still the same thing.  And leaked secrets was much the same to them.  The servants and guards were always another matter, but even then, the servants didn’t care too much either if he paid them, and the guards would look the other way for a bit of coin too—hence all the purse cutting.

                His bare feet made little to no noise as he trudged up the steps, keeping always to one side.  He made it onto the pavilion, but hung around near the back, far enough away as to not rouse the guard’s curiosity—who were really more interested in the fighting going on anyway, and out of the way of the slaves.

                He listened to their talk, trying to glean what secrets he might from them, but the din of the crowd, even here, was just too loud.  Back to the wall, he crept closer, casually, as if he were supposed to be there.

                The slaves were too busy to notice him, the guards too preoccupied.  The high-ranking mages were only watching the sands down below.  They were commenting on the fighting, and one of them swore loudly, and half the crowd booed, and the other half cheered.  Aramael glanced down at the sands, then back at the magisters.

                One of them smiled.  “Seems my little wolf moves to the final round after all,” he commented.

                Another one of them made a face.  “You ask me, I’d say it was rigged, but that was my slave he was fighting,” he complained.  “What’s the point, though, if your own slave wins?”

                The other smirked.  “For you?”  He laughed.  “There isn’t.  For me, well, think of the gold I save.”

                The others chuckled.  “Entertainment,” another offered.

                A fourth laughed hollowly.  “And one of my slaves dead—let’s not forget that,” he criticized.

                “They’ve been using blunted weapons and armor,” the first one pointed out.  “It’s hardly my slave’s fault yours is dead.”

                “You shouldn’t have let him use a hammer.”

                He laughed.  “So long as it’s blunt—it is in the rules.”

                The third one made a face.  “That you made up.”

                “Oh, if only it was always that easy,” the second said.  “Rather than having to go through months of revisions and screenings before even a simple rule in the games are changed.”

                There was some general agreement, and they started discussing politics as the next round was readied, which was a subject that bored Aramael to tears, frankly.  He did manage to piece together that at least two of them were magisters, and the others seemed to be Senior Enchanters and the like—he only had a loose understanding of Circle politics and ranks.  He had asked questions when he had gone to bed with a Templar a few weeks ago.

                He was about to slip away in defeat when the final round progressed, with great hoopla and fanfare.  The crowd was deafening.

                The two combatants entered the field, announced as previous victors.  It was the final round.

                “Your slave is going to die,” one of the magisters commented after seeing who he was going up against.  “Ser Jared is an anointed knight.”

                “Titles don’t win battles,” the first one said, his voice clipped.

                One of them shook his head.  “He’s just going to destroy him,” he said with a sigh.  Aramael’s eyes flicked to the sands as the combatants began their deadly dance.  “Should’ve let me fuck him when I offered.”

                The first looked at him flatly, then back at the sands.  “You don’t deserve him.”  A brief pause.  “Besides, he’s a virgin.  If you want to fuck him, you’ll have to at least double your offer.”

                “How do you know that?  He have a chastity belt?”  He laughed.  “Tell ya what, he _survives,_ I pay 50% more.  Doesn’t have to win.  Just survive, and still look good.”

                “I’ll never understand why you like raping slaves,” another one muttered.  “It’s like fucking a dog.”

                Aramael glowered, but looked back down at the sands.  They fought, dancing around one another.  They dodged and stepped, and parried, and seemed to only be sizing one another up.  It seemed like it would be obvious, Aramael admitted to himself.  One of them was a human, a free man, an anointed knight, with a sword and shield with his house symbol painted on it in bright colours, and in heavy plate; the other was a slave in light armor and leathers, with a warhammer.  Aramael guessed that, without armor, the knight was at least 200 pounds, and head and shoulders taller than the elf.

                The elf gave ground, he saw, but was reserved.  A part of him wanted him to win, because he so rarely saw his own race win against humans.  He wanted to cheer for him, to help him, to encourage him.  He wanted to see an elf triumph, even just once.

                The late winter sun beat down on the combatants, and the plate mail had to be heavy, he imagined—and hot.  Stories and songs spoke of battles raging for days in plate mail, but Aramael knew that that was laughable at best.  In full plate, even the best knight could not hope to fight without reprieve for over half an hour; it was just too heavy to do more.  Granted, he had had a bit of a rest while the other fought in the battle just before this one.  Still, with the sun and the heat of the late afternoon and the hot sands…

                The repulsive man that raped slaves rebutted, “I like watching them cry.”  He kind of smirked.  “Especially the gladiators, when they think they’re so strong and nothing can ever happen to them.  They all say they won’t cry, and they all do.”

                “And now we all know why your gladiators are terrified of you,” another said, and they laughed.

                “Danarius, same deal,” he went on, trying to get the man to agree.

                “Double it,” he insisted.  “If he loses, you can have him tonight.”

                “And if he wins?”

                The magister Danarius smiled pleasantly at the other.  “Then you won’t touch him.”

                The man made a face.  “C’mon.  How about if I can fuck him _after_ the Ritual.”

                “I don’t even know if that will be safe,” the magister said with a frown.  “It wouldn’t be for a few more years either, until we know it is.”

                The man rolled his eyes, and started to say something, but cut himself off.  “Oh!”  Aramael looked back at the sands.  The elf had taken a blow from the shield, knocking him down.  _Get up,_ he wanted to scream.  Many of the crowd were.  “If he’s just beaten and bruised, I’ll take him as is.  Any broken bones, though, and I expect him healed before you deliver him to me.”

                Danarius laughed.  “Confident, aren’t we?”

                The elf rolled to the side, barely in time to avoid the swinging sword, pulling himself to his feet in the same motion, and leaping forward, using his own momentum to swing the hammer toward his foe.  “But if he wins, I still want to fuck him.”

                Danarius rolled his eyes.  “No.”  A pause.  “I won’t punish him for winning.”  The knight could not dodge in time, but he sidestepped and brought his shield up, which absorbed much of the blow, but Aramael saw it splinter even from this lofty distance.  The shield being the knight’s greatest asset, it was a devastating blow.

                “Punishment?” he inquired innocently.  “He’s a slave; I’m a magister.  He should be _honoured._ ”

                Some people even believed that.  Danarius only blinked.  “I know my pet well enough to know he will hate it.  So, yes, punishment.”  The knight was not so crippled by his tattered shield as one would expect though; he had been trained to compensate for its loss, and it might still take one or two more hits at that.  The knight fell into defense as the elf attacked, trying to think of a way around his attacks now that he had lost his main defense.

                The other man laughed, as did the other two.  “After the Ritual, then.  I’m serious.”

                “I’ll think about it,” Danarius said testily.  The hammer swung again, and the knight dropped to avoid its mighty swing.  Lacking a target, the hammer sailed through the air, its heavy end thudding into the sand.  The elf stepped to get a better grip on the heavy hammer, and the knight came forward.  The elf blocked with the handle, and stepped around him, bringing up the weapon again.  It was heavy, in the sands.  And the elf had not rested enough in the brief reprieve.  But the knight was in heavier armor, too—and maybe it was enough to balance the two.

                “What did you do to finally figure out the spell?” one of the other mages inquired innocently.  The combatants were locked again in a flurry of blows and dodges.  The elf moved with the large, awkward-looking weapon as if it were a part of him, wielding it as naturally as someone wielded their own arm.  It was almost captivating for Aramael.  Most of the elvhen strayed from weapons like that; they were smaller than humans, both in height and stature and such weapons were simply impractical.  But this elf was different.

                “Do you recall when the slavers brought in those Dalish several months ago?”  Aramael looked back at them, his eyes widening.  “I learned that I needed someone willing.”  He pointed vaguely to the sands, where below his slave rent the knight’s shield with another blow of the hammer—now only so much broken wood and splinters.  “Hence, the tournament.”

                “But that didn’t write the entire ritual,” another objected.

                He shook his head.  “No, of course not.  But it changed everything when I was studying it.”  Down below, the fighting continued on, and if it were not for the magister’s conversation, Aramael would have liked to watch the dark-haired elf more.  He knew part of his skill was natural talent, but it had been honed and perfected like the Dalish could never have done, he was sad to say.  There were too many other chores and crafts they needed to do.  They had hunters, and some fighters, but no one who had the time or resources to _only_ fight.  The elf in the sands had done nothing but train all his life, and it showed in the way he fought.  The dance of battle was as much a part of him as the air he breathed.

                The rapist pig smirked.  “And how did you make them ‘willing’, Danarius?” he inquired knowingly.

                Danarius looked at him innocently.  “I don’t know what you mean, but they were _begging_ for it when I did it.”

                The others laughed at their repulsive joke.  Torture, Aramael thought with disgust.  He had tortured them until they had consented.  That was the sickest kind of “willing” he had ever heard.  But was he just mentioning a date, or had he done such things to the Dalish?  He wondered…

                A cracking blow to the knight’s chest plate sent him toppling over, and the elf slammed the hammer down on him again when the knight tried to get up.  The elf waited, patiently, for the human to make up his mind—as if to say, “You know what will happen if you try to get up.”  The head of the hammer rested heavily on the knight’s stomach, and the elf stood there with all the patience of a wolf that knew its prey could not hope to escape.

                The man reached for his sword, having fallen just beside him.  The elf lifted the hammer, barely a foot away from him.  Aramael could guess their facial expressions, and wanted to laugh.

                The knight lunged forward, but the elf acted faster, slamming the hammer into his chest again, knocking him back down.  And that time, he stayed down.  Aramael wanted to cheer, and felt kind of happy,  and vaguely racially prideful, for an elf—even a slave—to have triumphed over a human.  Especially with a weapon like that!  So unsuited to the elvhen, but he did it so well.

                Danarius seemed pleased—more than pleased.

                Aramael knew he had better get going.  He crept back out, and ran into the slave from before again.  The slave gave him an intimate look, and tilted his head a little.  The Dalish smiled lazily, and followed him down the hall.

                The day was turning out to be pretty profitable after all.

 

                Danarius would have liked to say that there had never been any doubt.  He would have _liked_ to say that, except that many instances had given him cause to doubt, when he looked at the roster and saw that his pet wolf would be going up against a certain knight he knew, on point of fact, would kill him.  The man was big enough to rival a Qunari in size, and could probably lift a grown horse without magic.  He had been training since he was old enough to walk, and lived and breathed the training.  Ser Irend, though, an anointed knight, and he feared a better swordsman than Leto, got in a drunken brawl the night before the tournament, and jailed.  He _could_ have used his influence to get him into the arena regardless, but he chose not to; he didn’t like the look of the man.

                Even the Black Divine had come, for a brief time, and the two exchanged pleasantries and a few words, guarded words and veiled daggers, all of it.  That was all politics really was.  How droll.

                Ser Irend being Leto’s only _true_ competition, his little wolf had cleaved his way to a sweet victory.  Danarius recalled, but couldn’t recall from where exactly, that a victory won in winter—in the past known as the dead season—was a dead victory, but he just couldn’t remember who had told him that.  Regardless… in a way, it was appropriate.

                So, sweaty, exhausted, but with an overall sense of triumph hanging about him, he knelt before his master.

                “What do you wish of me, Leto?” he asked him, sitting tall in his high-backed chair, almost a throne.  There was a gathering of others to witness this, both out of curiosity of what the slave might desire, as well as out of a sense of ceremony.

                The elf did not look up.  “Freedom:  For my mother and sister:  Mieta and Varania, and my sister’s unborn child,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

                He almost laughed.  “Is that all?” he said, an eyebrow quirked.  He could have anything in the world, and that was all?  _Dead victory…_   “Granted, but only after the ceremony.  Until then, they can stay in the compound.  If your mother continues to work, I’ll pay her what I pay my servants.”  He smiled to himself.  Generous, he would appear, to his fellows.  It was _always_ good to appear generous, perhaps kind, to a gathered crowd, not all of them mages, and not all of them even nobles.  There were commons, as well in the stands, who strained to hear the exchange.  A man relayed it to them in a booming voice, and they cheered his generosity, and the boy’s sense of values.  That suited his purposes _just fine_.

                They would need some kind of money after he sent them on their way.  What would they do otherwise?  He didn’t care, not really, except as a fleeting amusement.  Freedom would mean little if they were starving, after all.

                There was one more thing he knew about the ritual, and he would have to meet the parameter, quickly.  He was to be the catalyst for it, and the specimen had to, in some ways, match the catalyst.  That is to say, Leto was too pure and the experiment could fail if that wasn’t remedied.  Innocence could destroy pieces of the spell.

                “I’ll give you one more thing too,” he said, not bothering to hide his own amusement.  “A night, maybe two, in a whorehouse.”  That was received with much laughter amidst the magisters, and more when it was repeated to the commons.  Leto had stilled, and seemed genuinely uncomfortable at the prospect, and continued to be uncomfortable when he insisted the boy ride in his carriage—Raith took a separate one back to the manor.

                He let the kid stand in the entryway to the whorehouse, not some back alley place, but a high-class, expensive one, a place he owned actually.  He talked to the headmistress about what he wanted of the boy.

                “Someone barren,” he said with a flick of his wrist.  “A very pretty girl--elven.  And the boy, I fear, is a virgin, so I need her to charm and seduce him, to set him at ease.”

                The middle-aged woman thought for a moment, and nodded her head sagely.  “I have just the one, messere.”

                He paused, and considered.  “A man as well,” he added.  “Same qualifications.”  He didn’t want him paired with a human.  He rarely allowed it with his slaves.  If they mounted a human, he wondered if they would begin to think they could be more than property.  Not that humans weren’t slaves too, but he kept none at his manor, by design.  He had fields, of course, and there were humans and elves alike, each segregated, each carefully manipulated to hate one another.

                She frowned, and folded her hands under her breasts.  “Best male whore I have is a human,” she insisted.

                He shook his head.  “Absolutely not; I want Leto to mount him too.”

                She laughed.  “Do you intend to watch, messere?” she said, shaking her head a bit as she looked over her books.  “I’ll tell them what you want.”  She frowned.  “He’s in an appointment right now.  But I have a half-elf.”  She looked at him, raising an eyebrow.  “Would that do?”

                He considered.  Half-elves were the lowest of the low, lower even than elves.  Even elves disliked them, because of what they represented.  “Yes.  Let the girl have him first.  If he’s too tired to get to the man, let him stay an extra night; I’m in no hurry.”  Not to mention the boy had technically saved him a substantial amount of money; he cared not for spending some of it.  Less than it would be if he didn’t own the house, but still—he lost money by occupying the whores for so long.  And anyway, his pet wolf was probably exhausted.

                She nodded a bit, and checked the books again.  “The girl has an appointment tomorrow.  Do you want me to cancel it?”

                “No, send him to the boy in the morning if he’s still there.”

                She flipped the page.  “He has an appointment later that day as well.”

                “Cancel it, if you must.”  
                She nodded, and bowed.  “I shall, messere.”  And the arrangements were made. 

                As Danarius passed his little wolf, he glanced at him.  “You should thank me,” he told him.

                Leto was staring down at the floorboards, looking like he wanted to be anywhere else.  “Th-thank you, Master, but I… am not worthy of this.”

                He paused, frowning.  “A boy your age who has no interest in a whore he doesn’t have to pay for?” he mused.  He saw his face heat.  “One would think you would be eager to lose your virginity.”  A brief pause.  “Or are you not interested in women?  I bought you a man as well.”  His face turned positively crimson under his tan, but he said nothing in response.  He took a step closer to him.  “How is it you’re a virgin with a face and body like yours anyway?”

                Leto started to look at him, then averted his eyes, and looked like he very much wanted to take a step back.  “My sister is a mage, and I am from Seheron, Master,” he said, as if it explained everything.  Maybe it did.  Superstition, after all, was strong amidst the uneducated.  It didn’t help that he had gotten so tall, and his hair was so black it was blue, and his skin had just drank in the sunlight.  Too tall for an elf, really, he thought.  He looks like a shallow reflection of a Qunari, with finer features and no horns—wrong hair colour though, but that was easy to imagine.  Black was only an opposite of white—all colour one, and the other an absence of light was all it was.  And he preferred heavy weaponry too, imagine that.  _Hmm_.

                He looked at him, for a long moment, and contemplated, for the briefest of moments, taking the boy back to the manor.  Thought about stripping him, shoving him down on the bed—any bed.  Thought about mounting him like a stallion, his fingers gripping his hair, his cock impaling him.  Would he whimper again?  Would he cry again?  Or if he hit his prostate hard enough, would he like it?

                Footsteps ended his thoughts, and he turned away. 

                Unexpectedly, the memory came to him:  The big mansion in the country, the dead leaves of fall crackling underfoot.  Looking down a ravine, and watching a doe, struggling with all that she was, bleating in pain, as three wolves bit, licked, and tugged on the mess of entrails she drug behind her.  It was a victory for the wolves, and his father had called it a dead victory, and explained the terminology.  He hadn’t thought he had really been listening.  He had been entranced, in a horrific sort of way, at the beauty of the winter forest, the waterfall at the bottom of the ravine, the river, and the dying deer and the wolves that ravaged her. 

                He had spotted a tiny, helpless faun partially obscured by the brush only a short distance away.

 

                The whore stopped in her tracks, pausing like a timid doe that had heard a predator.  Her bare feet stopped on the carpet as she came to rest, briefly, blinking away her momentary confusion as her honey eyes widened in astonishment.  Cherry lips parted in a small gasp, partially of delight.

                This was him; she knew it.  There was no mistaking his ebony hair, or sage green eyes, and wasn’t he handsome too?

                She hesitated but once, and strolled up to him, wondering what he would do or say when she spoke to him, when he saw her for the first time.  He did not look at her, though, when she walked up to him. 

                He was staring downward, miserably.  Was he embarrassed?  She couldn’t imagine why he would be a virgin, like she had been told.  It seemed silly to her, but she had serviced a much uglier virgin man older than he.  But he was so _cute_ —why would he be a virgin?  She thought about it, then decided it must be superstition, about Seheron or something.  Or maybe he wasn’t really a virgin and when asked had simply declined to say anything about it, and they had just made assumptions based on his mannerisms; you couldn’t tell with a man, not really.  That sounded likely too.  Still… she’d like to think he was a virgin.

                She wondered if he had a sister or a brother, if Mieta had even not miscarried.  Was she still alive?  She had so many questions for him.  And, she delighted, the _entire night_ with him.

                The slave-whore took his hand gently in hers, and gave a light tug.  He followed her, still not looking at her, as she cheerfully led him to her quarters, her heart pounding fiercely in her breast.  She could scarcely believe this strange coincidence.

                The room was a big place, actually.  It was nicer than even the one in Seheron.  The sheets were a fine linen, and the bed was enormous.  She didn’t clean it; another slave did.  She had floor to ceiling windows, and drapes, and anything she could possibly desire.  Slaves had brought in a tub, with steaming water for a bath, knowing he must be tired and filthy from the tournament.

                She couldn’t wait to get him in it, to undress _this_ pretty package.

                She shut the door behind her, and clasped her hands behind her back.  She stood up tall, and looked at Leto, his back to her, still staring downward.  She giggled, and his head finally raised.  He turned, and looked.

                She was wearing a long silk gown, held together by silken cords with golden tassels.  She wore a gold torque, and peacock feather earrings, a net of pearls holding back her long brown curls—the red had faded from her hair as she got older.  She was considered an extremely expensive whore.

                But he wasn’t looking at the jewelry, or the silk.  He was looking at her face, her hair, and her honey-coloured eyes, his brow drawn into confusion.  She grinned up at him, rocking back on her heels, eager for him to recognize her, and wondering at the same time if he would.

                “Lura?” he wondered, eyebrows raising in astonished disbelief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think it would be pretty freaking awful to see your childhood friend a slave in a whorehouse, and awful to be that childhood friend. And awful to see all your friends and family murdered while you were too terrified to do anything to help, knowing that the only reason you lived was because of your own cowardice.
> 
> Aramael will not be significant again for a long time, but remember him.


	32. Reunited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which old friends are reunited, knowing it was only chance, and knowing their time is short.

                She giggled again, and propelled herself into his arms, wrapping her arms gleefully around his neck.  “Leto!” she called, rising on her tip-toes to hold him tighter.  His arms wrapped around her, slowly, then pulled her closer.  “Oh, Maker, I never thought…”  And she laughed, and soon he was laughing with her.

                She let go of him after a long, tender moment, and held him out at arms’ reach, to better look up at the man he had become.  His face made her heart melt.  To think he had once been promised to her—she had so liked listening to her parents conversations when they didn’t know she was near.  If only…

                Her hands strayed to the clasps on the light leather armor.  “I have a job to do,” she said, raising an eyebrow.

                He flushed suddenly, his hands catching hers.  “We don’t have to,” he insisted.

                She giggled again.  “Oh, but I _want_ to,” she insisted right back, this time in the language they had spoken in their childhood.

                She saw the look on his face, as he tried to puzzle through her words, and her heart sunk.  She remembered it, because she used the Trade tongue when she bedded foreigners, but perhaps Leto had less use for it.  “I don’t… speak it very well anymore,” he admitted, letting his halting words and Imperial accent explain that for him.

                She pressed on anyway, taking his wrist in her hand.  “Let’s at least get you in the bath anyway.  And… see where it goes from there.”

                He took a step back, out of her reach.  Her arms fell to her sides.  “Lura, can we talk first?”

                She shrugged, and gestured to the tea table.  She sat down, back straight, crossing her ankles.  “Sit.  I have tea.  Do you want some?”  She didn’t wait for his reply, but poured instead.  He must be thirsty.  He hesitated, and sat down on the cushion, despite the dirty leather.  She hardly cared, after all.

                He accepted the cup, and sat, holding it for a moment in both hands.  Then he set it down and peeled off his gloves.  He set them on his leg, but she reached over and snatched them from him.  She grinned, holding the pair in her hand like a prize.  He frowned, and she tossed them carelessly over her shoulder.  He rolled his eyes.  “Danarius bought you?” he asked her.

                She shrugged one shoulder.  “He owns the House of Jade, sure, but Mistress Alesand bought me.  I’ve never actually met the man.”  Her eyebrows raised.  “I’m surprised he didn’t kill you, considering that you stabbed him when we were three.”

                He laughed, and she smiled.  He had a pleasant laugh.  “I’m a bit surprised myself,” he admitted, and picked up the cup of tea again.  She took a sip from her own, encouragingly.  He took a hesitant sip, and swallowed with a small grateful sigh.  “I haven’t had tea…  I can’t remember the last time I had tea.”

                She looked at the cup in his hand, and felt very much like this could easily turn into a pity-fest.  She didn’t like slavery any more than he did.  He had to fight, and possibly kill people.  And she had to fuck people.  True, any diseases she caught were cured by the resident mage, and she could be worse off.  She was also promised that if she were good at what she did, when she got older, she would be put to work with something simple and easy, rather than just being sold off to a shoddier whorehouse.  But she still had to spread her legs for anyone with the money to get there.  “I have cakes too,” she offered, lifting one of the sweets from the tray.  She held it to her lips, and took a nibble, then reached toward him.

                He shook his head.  She set it down, and licked the crumbs off her fingertips.  “I had… a friend some years ago that would steal things from the kitchens, and share them with me.”

                She frowned a little.  “A girl, I take it?”  She felt saddened.  Of course he would have found someone.  It was foolish to think otherwise.  And, being that he was a _gladiator_ not a _whore_ , he could find someone to “marry”, even if it wasn’t a legitimate marriage, those sorts of things weren’t forbidden to him.  “Where is she now?”

                “Dead,” he answered, and looked away.

                She paused, and looked down at her cup.  Now she felt almost guilty for her previous thoughts.  She took another drink.  “How is your mother?”

                A gentle breeze came from the open window, despite the late season.  She liked the breeze from the ocean; it gave her a sense of nostalgia she rather enjoyed.  “Sick, oftentimes,” he admitted.  He paused.  “I won their freedom today—my mother and sister.”

                She smiled for him.  “Leto, I’m happy to hear that.  And the baby was a girl?” she said.

                He blinked, and then realized what she meant.  He nodded dully.  “Yes—Varania.”

                Lura ran a finger idly over the rim of her cup.  “’Varania,’” she echoed.  “Is she pretty?”

                He glanced at his once-upon-a-time fiancée.  “Yes,” he said, then paused again.  “She’s pregnant.”

                The whore’s eyebrows arched in surprise.  “Oh, my.  Isn’t she a bit young?  I would have thought…”

                “Danarius raped her,” he said, voice utterly flat.  He looked down.  “I’m certain it was him.”

                She didn’t know what to say.  She straightened, and set her cup down.  She looked at him, and knew he had suffered so much already.  She wanted to do something for him, even for a while.  “I’m sorry, Leto.  That’s awful.”  She looked down, uncertain of what to say to him.  It had been so long.  She had thought he had been dead all this time.  She had known him a long time ago, but it had been so long that it was a wonder she even recognized him.  It was strange, she had to admit.

                He looked at her, and to her eyes, he seemed oddly lost for a moment.  “I don’t know what to do,” he confessed.  “I’ve won her freedom, and my mother’s, and I still feel like I haven’t done anything for them.  My mother will still be sick, and my sister will still be pregnant and hate her child.”

                She shook her head.  “They’ll be happier, I guarantee it,” she told him.  “It’s a noble thing you’ve done, Leto.”

                He shook his head a little.  “My mother said that to a knight once.  He died trying to keep us free.”  He paused.  “He failed,” he added, unnecessarily.  He shook his head, in more pain than she had realized he could be in.  She didn’t know if she should go to him or not.

                “Leto…” she said, and she rose, and walked the short two paces to stand before him.  She took his hands in hers, and held them to her heart.  He stared up at her, with more sorrow in his eyes than she could bear to see.

                “Both our fathers died trying to keep us free, and Ser Newlyn too, and all failed.”  He shook his head.  “So many people died that day, and the following days.”  He stared up at her, his eyes pleading with her to understand.  What he didn’t realize was that she did understand.  But she didn’t want to think about it.  Seeing her old friend, though, reminded her of everything that had happened to her, everything that was wrong in the world, and she wondered if she might cry.  “Your mother died.  My sister was born a slave.  My mother almost died a slave.”  His voice broke then, but he didn’t cry.  “I had to…”  He shook his head in despair, and looked down.  “To keep her alive…”

                She embraced him, wrapping her arms around him.  She didn’t need to know what he had had to do.  Something that hurt him, pained him beyond what she dared to imagine.  “Oh, Leto,” she whispered, and wished with all her being that she could take it away from him, the memory, the pain, all of it.  “Slavery has not been kind to either of us.”

                “It never is,” he whispered back.  After a moment, he pulled away, and looked with some distress at her silk gown.  “I believe I’ve ruined it.”

                She looked down at it, and laughed.  Sweat, a little bit of half-dried blood, and dirt.  She wiped at her eyes.  She had begun to cry, and hadn’t realized it.  She held her hand out to him.  “Now I need a bath.”

                He looked at her, hesitant as a virgin should be.  But then she smiled, and danced away from him.  He cocked his head to the side, watching her quizzically.  She removed a long headdress from a box, a silken veil with intricate beadwork.  She put it on her head, and plucked the flowers from a vase.  “We were engaged once, years ago,” she said, as she gathered the flowers into a bouquet.  “You know, I barely remember it.”  She turned toward him, drawing the veil over her face.  “But let me be your bride, just tonight.”  She flashed a winning smile, and as she approached, he stood up, looking at her.

                She felt… like that moment had drawn them close again, that moment of sharing.  As if the past fifteen years had been lived in freedom in Seheron, instead of in slavery in Tevinter.  And, she could pretend, just for a while, that it was true.  That her every fantasy was true.

                Her parents were alive, and had smiled at her wedding, and gave her to Leto.  His parents had accepted her into the family with open arms.  She wasn’t barren, and was a virgin bride in white silk and a veil, with flowers.  A gathering of people to see them off, and they took their vows.  There was a wedding feast, and now night was falling, and they were alone for the first time as man and wife.

                “You’re beautiful,” he whispered.  Reality was that she was a slave and a whore and hadn’t been a virgin since she was twelve; her silk gown was meant to be sexually alluring and was sheer in places, not to mention that Leto had ruined it when they embraced…  And her parents had died a long time ago.

                She blushed.  “You’ve become a handsome man,” she told him.  “I always knew you would be.”  She stood before him, and looked up at him through the veil, the flowers against her bosom.  Slowly, hesitantly, he lifted the delicate veil off of her face, back over her hair.  She wanted to pretend that he was the only one who had ever done that.  She ignored that the veil had been a gift from a client, a token of a night they had spent together.

                She tilted her head up to catch his lips when he bent to kiss her.  She was dimly aware of the flowers getting crushed between them in their embrace.  Lura wanted to pretend that it was her first kiss.  It was awkward and clumsy, and his breath was only sweetened by the tea and was otherwise awful, but it was the only one she had ever wanted.  And that meant more than words could say, for she had kissed hundreds of mouths—some inexperienced and gauche, others learned and skilled, some passionate, some uncaring, some uncouth and foul, and others almost romantic.  But this, for all the awkwardness and bumping teeth, and too much saliva, was exactly what she wanted.

                She dropped the flowers carelessly, as she did with all her troubling thoughts, when he lifted her into his arms, as if her weight were but a trifle to him, and carried her, like a groom carried his bride across a threshold.  “About that bath,” he whispered.

                She giggled.  “You need it.”  She inhaled deeply, her face against his neck.  “But I like the smell of your sweat.”  He set her down in front of it, and she stood on her toes to reach all the straps and buckles on his leathers, but it peeled away.  She let it drop to the floor, and he gently pulled the veil from her head, and seemed to want to gingerly set it down, but she grabbed it from him and tossed it aside carelessly.  They didn’t have enough moments of carelessness in their lives.

                She let him fumble gracelessly with the ties on the dress, delighting in the way his callused fingers roved over her body, exploring her every curve with all the curiosity that befit a virgin.  Men had been doing that to her for many years now, but her heart raced as if it were the first time.  She was glad to be the one to do this with him, glad it was her, and not another.  It could have so easily been someone else, after all.  Thrilled that they could have this moment, even in slavery, and excited to know that they had all night to be together.  Lura did not believe in the Maker; she had never learned about such things, not really.  But it was an awfully strange coincidence, all the same, even if coincidence was all it had ever been.

                “I thought… your back…” he tried to say.

                She sighed, looking downward, and leaned her back against his chest, as if to hide it.  “They’re still there,” she said, referring to the scars.  “They’re a lot paler now, and you can only see them under close inspection.  But they’re there.”

                He stepped back, and looked, and his lips pressed against each of them in turn, as if he could kiss the hurt away.  Kissing a child’s wound to take the pain away, and that’s what they were to each other—just a way to take the pain of their existence away, even for only a little while.  Nothing but a distraction and a daydream come to life, knowing it would only last for the shortest few hours.

                When they were both naked, she took his hands, and led him into the bath.  They took things slowly.  She insisted on washing him, for one.  She attacked him with soap, good-naturedly, and made bubbles, and when the soap was gone, insisted he still needed to be washed, playfully, amidst kisses and touches.

                “I can’t get any cleaner,” he muttered against her mouth.  She giggled as his lips crushed hers with an anxious need.  She wriggled out of his grasp, and slipped below the surface.  Her lips parted, and took his swollen member into her mouth, for as long as she could under the water.  She was trained to hold her breath for a long time, after all.  When she was fourteen, she had a client who had made… specific… requests, so she had had to learn.  She came up gasping, but smiling at the look on his face.  She climbed into his lap, her wet arms wrapping around him.  Sometime before, she had lost the torque and the earrings, but the net was still on, despite everything.  Tendrils of her curls hung free of it, traitorously slipping past it.

                His hands cupped the side of her face, kissing her.  She used her hand to steady him as she lowered herself over him.  He breathed a soft sigh against her lips, and she pressed her small, firm breasts against his hard-muscled chest.

                Water splashed over the side of the tub, wetting the floorboards.  Thankfully, the carpet wasn’t at this area.  Even so, she didn’t care, not tonight.  Any other night, with any other man, and she might have, _gently_ , suggested they move to the bed or anywhere else in the room.  Mistress Alesand made faces if they got the carpets wet.

                It wasn’t that he was the best lover she had ever taken to bed, it was that she wanted him; wanted him like she had never wanted another man she had bedded.  And a part of her loved him, would always love him.

                She couldn’t have him; she knew that.  Except for tonight.  Tonight, they belonged to each other, like it should have been.  After that, it was back to reality… but tonight…  Tonight was beautiful.

                They lay, wet and exhausted, and laughing between more kisses, on the floor.  The pearls were lost somewhere in the tub, and her hair was tangled and stuck to her shoulders and face, and he seemed to have every intention of tangling it some more.

                He rolled back over her.  She grinned up at him, wholly excited for what she felt.  “My, ser, ready again?” she cooed.

                He kissed her.  “You remember that you used to play like you were a princess?” he whispered, nuzzling against her neck.

                She laughed at the stupid childhood memory.  “And you, my prince?”

                “A knight,” he muttered, plunging into her.  She moaned, and writhed, and kissed him until she couldn’t, applying every trick she knew in a desperate attempt to please not only him, but herself.  For once, herself too.

                Her only real lament was that virgins were inexperienced and didn’t last as long as she would have liked, but he seemed to be ready again quickly enough.  She lay in bed with him, now, wet with sweat instead of water, her finger running along his naked chest.  His eyes were closing as he held her close to him.  She smiled to herself, cuddling closer still.

                She sighed against his chest.  “If everything was right in the world, and we were never slaves, this could have been our wedding night,” she told him.

                He was silent, and she realized that he must be asleep.  He was probably asleep before she had even said anything.  She closed her eyes, content to sleep with him, for once.

                She had just closed her eyes, it seemed, when she heard a soft knock at the door.  She opened her eyes, and looked around the room.  It was still dark.  Dawn was hours off, in fact.

                She slipped from Leto’s arms.  He stirred but a little, exhausted, and didn’t rouse.  The floor was cool against her feet.  The fire had died out sometime in the night, and the open window wasn’t helping.  She slipped on a thin robe and belted it at her waist as she moved to the door.  She cracked it open, just enough to see who it could be.

                It was Shanamyn, the half-elf.  His ears were as round as any human’s, but the shade of his violet eyes more than the shape was elven, and his nose suggested elven breeding--strongly.  The rest, though, was pretty human in feature, except for his stature and his build.  His brown hair just graced his shoulders.  Some nasty incident when he was younger had left him with a scar across his neck, they said, and he wore collars and strips of fabric to cover it.  Clients who had seen it bragged about it.  His head cocked to the side a little, and inclined toward her door.  “He asleep?” he asked, voice low.

                She smiled a little.  “Yes—exhausted, I fear,” she admitted.  “Go to bed.  I’ll send him to you before my appointment,” she promised him.

                His bow lips curled into a frown, arms crossing and indignant.  “Tomorrow?”  He made a face.  “I have an appointment that will be cancelled tomorrow if we wait until then.”

                She sighed, glanced back at Leto on her bed, and stepped out into the hall.  She closed the door behind her, and stood with her back to the door.  She peered down the hall, and whispered, “I know him.”  She shook her head, scarcely believing it herself.  “We were engaged before we were sold as slaves.”  She laughed hollowly, just a little.  “Can you believe it?”

                He paused, and when she looked up, he seemed sad.  “I’m sorry, Lura,” he confessed.

                She shook her head a little.  “It’s hard,” she admitted, crossing her arms, as if it were cold.  The hallway was temperate enough.

                His brow wrinkled in thought.  “It’s... required of me that I have sex with him,” he said, guiltily.  “But it’s not against the rules if we do that, and he comes back to you tomorrow night.”

                She understood; that was all she would ever have with him, and he was giving her what he could.  She also understood that he had to take his sweet time until well after dark, to the point where it wasn’t worth sending Leto back to the manor, and he would have to stay another night.  But it was worth it, she supposed.  She wanted another night like this one with him.

                “You’re very kind,” she told him.

                He shook his head a little.  “Only in comparison,” he said hollowly.

                She frowned.  “What… do you mean?”

                But he had already turned to go.  He looked back over his shoulder.  “I’m only kind in comparison with the rest of the world,” he said, and shrugged one shoulder dismissively as he walked away.  She thought, _He looks lonely._

                She hurried back into her room, and tossed the thin robe aside.  She sidled back up to Leto, slithering back into his arms.  She felt safe, oddly.  Comforted.  Clients would sometimes stay all night, if they paid for the whole night.  Sometimes they fell asleep, and she would have to dutifully play the lover.  But this… she wanted this.

                And she could pretend, for a little while, that it _was_ their wedding night.  That this _was_ their bridal bed, and she had been a virgin.  She could pretend that his seed would quicken in her womb, that she would give him a son one day.

                But all those dreams had been crushed, one by one, long ago.

 

                Lura’s appointment wasn’t until the afternoon.  In the morning, she woke him by licking his half-erect cock, and soon had her legs around him.  She cleaned them both up, and they dressed, he in his dirty leathers, and she in another silk dress.

                She came out of the kitchen with a tray of pastries and tea, and decided, it being a warm winter morning, they could eat, quickly, in the garden.  She told him that they had to stay out of her room for a bit while it was being cleaned, and she giggled when he looked away, embarrassed.

                “It’s much prettier in the spring and summer,” she promised him.  “But I like winter mornings.”

                He had been very quiet all morning, and was looking at her as if he were thinking about something.  She let it be, for now, but did wonder what he was thinking of.  He looked around the garden.  They were alone at this hour.

                “Do you remember Seheron?” he asked her.

                She sighed, and shook her head a little.  “No.  I don’t really remember anything,” she said.  “Except walking, and the dark—I think that must have been on the boat.  And…”  Her brow creased in thought.  “And you stabbing the magister; I remember that.”  She knew that her mother had died sometime during all of that, but she couldn’t quite remember how.  She wasn’t even certain of what her mother looked like anymore.  It had been so long ago…

                She had thought he had meant to bring something up, but instead just fell silent, and was so still it was like he had fallen asleep with his eyes open.

                She made sure that they were back in her room and out of sight soon enough, and everything had been picked up and put into order.

                When he declined sex, she accepted that, and taught him how to play cards.  She said, “Sometimes I won’t have a client for a while.  Cards help to pass the time.  A friend of mine has a chess set too—it was gift from a client—and she taught me to play.”

                “Strange gift,” he commented.

                She giggled.  “Not at all,” she said, smirking.  “She has black hair, and he calls her his ‘black queen.’”  She rolled her eyes.  “Pillow-talk.”

                He seemed saddened, though.  They played for a bit in relative silence, then he asked, “Do your clients often give you gifts?”

                She shrugged, abruptly uneasy.  “Sometimes.”

                He looked away.  “I wish you didn’t have to do this, Lura,” he said.

                She didn’t know what to say.  “It could have easily been worse, Leto,” she admitted.

                The elf shook his head in some small amount of anguish.  “That’s all anyone ever says,” he muttered.  “But it could have been better.”

                She looked down, studying her cards.  “Maybe,” she said.

                As the time passed, and they talked, and later she climbed into his lap, and they held each other, more for comfort and familiarity than anything, she noted the time.  “I’ll… take you to Shanamyn,” she said with a small sigh, squirming out of his arms.  She held a hand out to him, and he accepted it.  She didn’t let go of his hand as she walked with him, slowly, out of her room, into the hall.  “Shanamyn is a half-elf,” she warned him.  “He’s… kind.  He’ll… take care of you.”

                He pulled her to a halt, and she looked up at him.  “Lura?”

                “I’m so jealous,” she whispered.  Then she looked up, all troubles seemingly forgotten.  “But I’ll be back soon, and he promised me that I get to bring you back to my bed again tonight.”  She winked, and kissed him briefly on the mouth.  “So don’t tire yourself out.”  She took both his hands in hers.  “But if you do, I really just want to spend time with you, Leto.”

                He looked so much like he wanted to say something, but didn’t know quite where to start.  By the way he was looking at her, she feared it was nothing but grief-stricken words.  She let go of one of his hands and led him gently down the hall, to the other wing, where the male whores were.  It looked exactly the same as the other wing, except that the carpets were in different shades.

                She felt heavy-hearted about this regardless.  Life wasn’t fair.

                She had no choice but to leave Leto with the half-elf, and looked back as she walked away, to her damned appointment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like how that entire chapter was basically just sex, but it was nothing but a pity-party.


	33. Half-Breed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The art of sex, from the lips of a whore.

                Shanamyn smiled pleasantly up at Leto.  He was surprised by how tall he was; he was usually a hair taller than any elf he met.

                “Hello, come in,” he said, holding the door open.  Hesitant, the warrior stepped through.  The door closed with a soft clicking sound.  His room did not mirror Lura’s.  His was distinctly more masculine, with bolder colors and different woods.  But at least the sheets were clean.

                “I trust Lura took good care of you?” he said, moving around in front of him.

                “Mm,” he mumbled without really answering.

                Shanamyn let it go.  If he didn’t want to talk, that was fine, but he had promised Lura to try to draw this out until after nightfall at least.  It would certainly help if he would talk!  “Are you hungry?”

                “No,” he answered.

                He snorted a laugh.  “First word you say to a whore is ‘no’?” he snorted.  He didn’t respond.  Shanamyn looked at him, studying him.  He looked distracted and decidedly uncomfortable.  Oh, dear…  “If Lura didn’t tell you, my name is Shanamyn.”  He sat down, back rigid, on the sofa.  “You can sit down if you like.”  He frowned a little when Leto didn’t move.  His eyes flicked downwards.  He had dealt with racism since birth.  He was used to it.  Elves treated him with as much disdain as humans.  He got by as a whore because he was good-looking and some people liked to do things to “humiliate” him.  He wondered if that could be it.  He raised his eyes to look at him, but kept his head down.  It was best to get right to the point.  “Do I bother you?”

                The elf blinked, and turned his head to look at him.  “No.  I was just…”  His voice trailed off.

                The half-elf noticed that he was staring at him.  At his ears, at his too-human face.  He could even grow a little bit of facial hair, with some cultivating—not that he relished that.  He looked awful with facial hair.  Some of the human men here had magnificent mustaches and liked to tease him, playfully, when his own would only grow in patchy and strange-looking.  “I see,” he said, and glanced away.  His eyes slid closed for a moment, then back open.  “I… will tell the headmistress, and see if we can arrange something else.”  If he were going to be this uncomfortable with him, he really couldn’t do his job.

                He rose on stiff legs.  Most people had a choice, he reminded himself, and knew what they were getting when they bought him for a few hours.  He sighed a little and started past him, giving him a wide, respectful berth.

                “Wait,” Leto called, his voice halting.  The half-elf paused, his hand on the door handle.  He looked back at him.  He seemed hesitant, embarrassed even.  “You’re…  It’s not that.”

                He raised an eyebrow.  What else could it be?  He forced a smile.  He had a good forced smile; it even reflected in his eyes and no one ever saw the difference.  “Do you need something?”

                The man hesitated.  “It’s not you,” he insisted.  The whore frowned.  “It’s… being with a man…”  He looked away.  “And being told I _have_ to.”

                His hand fell away from the door frame, eyebrows raising in shock.  “You were…  Oh, Maker,” he breathed in open astonishment.  “That’s horrible…”  It was just like when he was told what he had to do when he was nine, and his mother sold him to the slavers.  It was equivalent to being a prostitute, in a way.  “I’m so sorry.  I…  I didn’t know,” he confessed, and suddenly worried that he had said something unnecessary or unwanted.

                Leto looked down, and seemed as miserable as could be.

                Shanamyn sat back down, curling up onto the sofa like a contented cat.  “Sit down, please?  It makes me feel awkward with you hovering like that.”

                The elf looked at him, tried to smile and failed, and sat down opposite to him, but seemed uncomfortable on the worn leather chair.  Not as if the chair itself was uncomfortable, he just wasn’t used to this sort of thing.  And why would he be?  A slave, he had been told.  He had thought this was payment for some victory—it was known to happen—and the slave in question had simply chosen both male and female.

                “Can I offer you something to drink?” he said, anxious to repair the gap that had grown in their conversation.  “Tea?  Water?  I have some wine somewhere.”

                He only looked away, and shook his head, as if lost in thought.  He sighed, and stared up at the ceiling.  “Is there any way we can get this over with?”

                “So eager to go back to your hovel?”

                Leto glowered, and Shanamyn wondered if he had offended him.  He had grown to be pretty flippant over the years—it came from years of general abuse hurled in his direction.  Sarcasm was how he had learned to cope.  “My family,” he snapped.

                The half-breed blinked and bowed his head.  “I’m sorry; that was rude.”  He cleared his throat, and raised his face again.  “You know, if I can keep you in here until nightfall, you can stay another night with Lura,” he said, steepling his fingers together.  “Still eager to leave?”

                At that, he considered, and looked down at his hands.  He said nothing.  No answer, no inclination as to his thoughts.  Shanamyn was about to fetch some rose oil and insist on giving him a massage, but Leto began to speak, and he stilled.  “Is it very difficult for you—being half-elven?”

                He frowned a little.  That wasn’t a question anyone ever asked; no one cared.  “I… suppose, but I’ve no point of comparison,” he answered with a shrug.  “If you’re asking me about racism, then, yes, it’s difficult when everyone hates you.”  He made a face.  “Except dwarves, I suppose, but they don’t care.”

                “The Qunari wouldn’t care either,” Leto said, his voice barely above a whisper.

                Shanamyn’s brows rose.  “It is almost treasonous to say something like that,” he said.

                Leto didn’t seem to have heard him.  “But getting to Seheron would be…”

                The half-elf straightened.  “Now _that_ is something we would _both_ be punished for, just for talking about.”

                Sage eyes blinked.  “No, it’s… my sister,” he said, a bit reluctantly.  “Her child will be half-elven.”

                Shanamyn’s eyes softened in sympathy.  “If it lives,” he reminded him.  “Most of us don’t.”  Leto seemed saddened by this, but it seemed to be more personal than anything Shanamyn had said.  He cleared his throat a little anyway.  “Your niece or nephew might look more elven than I do though,” he said with a sardonic grin.  “My mother was human.”

                He paused.  “Both parents are mages,” he said, a bit unwillingly.

                The half-elf let out a low whistle.  “In any other country, that child would be taken away from the parents immediately,” he reflected, and cocked his head to the side.  “They belong to the Chantry.”  He made a face.  “I suppose they think it’s owed them.”

                Leto snorted in open disdain.  “Even in other countries, slavery exists—they just call it something else,” he said.

                Shanamyn cocked his head to the side in thought, and hated to have to agree.

                It took some coaxing, but Shanamyn did eventually pry the other out of everything but his pants, and bade him lay down while he gave him a lengthy massage.  He took his time, getting every bit of exposed skin with the rose oil, and he needed it.

                “Do they have you fight naked sometimes, out in the sun?” he asked offhandedly.

                “Not _naked_ , no, but sometimes I might as well be,” he said placidly.  “Why?”

                “Your tan is very even,” he answered, straddling his middle as he worked out the tension in his shoulders.  He liked his shoulders, rather a lot actually.  A little more oil, a lot more rubbing and kneading, and he managed to pry off his pants to get to his legs too, and started at the toes. 

                When Leto cringed, Shanamyn chuckled.  “You’re ticklish,” he teased.

                “Don’t touch my feet,” Leto complained.  But Shanamyn perched on his legs to keep them pinned down and did it anyway, all the way telling him to relax, and it wouldn’t tickle so much, which proved true.

                “Maker’s breath, you’re tense,” the half-elf commented.  This was the first massage in a while that he had had to work so hard at.  “Stressed?”

                A pause.  “I know nothing else.”

                He sighed, but understood well enough.  A master that insisted he go to a whore house, and get it every way imaginable and he could only wonder at the horrible implications of _why_ his master would want that, a pregnant sister that was also a mage, whose child would be half-elven…  And he imagined that was just the tip of the mountain, as it were.  “Where are you from?”

                Another very distinctive pause.  “Why would I be ‘from’ anywhere else but here?”

                Shanamyn snorted a laugh.  “Your accent.  It’s not from here.”

                He frowned.  “My mother claims I lost my Seheron accent years ago—and speak more like a Tevinter,” he admitted.

                Shanamyn was briefly distracted by his thighs, before he said, “That’s it then; you didn’t lose _all_ of it; I’m good at picking up accents.”

                “What’s yours?” he asked him.

                “My mother was from Orlais,” he said quietly.  “I have a touch of it, I suppose, but I don’t remember being there if I ever was.”

                There was a long pause, and he wondered if Leto might have fallen asleep for a while, by the way his breathing had deepened.  “I remember Seheron,” he said, voice lilting a little as if he had just uttered a joke.  Shanamyn sensed that it was a macabre sort of humor.

                “Oh?” he asked, his fingers firmly working out the horrid tension in his thighs, beyond the sturdy muscle.  The rose oil sank obediently into his skin as he worked, making it silk-smooth.

                “Oh yes,” he whispered, and the halfling detected a note of bitterness in his voice.  “I remember my mother singing and dancing, and carrying me.  I remember my father laughing.”  Another brief pause.  “And I remember being captured, and my father being beheaded.  I remember a knight named ‘Newlyn’ whose face I don’t recall, but who died for me and my mother.  And we were both enslaved regardless—so he failed.”

                Shanamyn closed his eyes briefly, for all the pain and sorrow in the world.  “Were you raised in the Qun?”

                Another pause, this one for thought.  “I don’t remember.  But I don’t think so.”

                That would mean it was one of the odd cities that used to exist in Seheron, but war had ravaged them to extinction.  Refugees went to either the Tevinter forces or the Qunari—which just depended on the individual, but most fled to the Qunari, who gave them shelter.  He only knew himself because, well, people would say the strangest things in bed.  Sometimes, he was careful to inquire about it; one of the few servants in the house that was nice to him was Seheron-born and a refugee, and often worried about his homeland, so Shanamyn tried to find out what he could.  … None of it was good.  The more years that went by, the more war-ravaged Seheron became.  For the Qunari, it made a good port, a go-between to Par Vallan.  But to the Tevinters, it was the last outpost, the only thing keeping the war out of their major cities, and they defended it passionately.

                The terrible thing about it was that Shanamyn had no love for the magisters and their cruel ways, but was more afraid of the Qunari and their beliefs than he was of the magisters.  One was a veiled evil, the other a cruel religion—convert or die.  And conversion would mean giving up everything that made each person an individual.  All were equal in the Qun, but _everyone_ was a slave to it in one way or another.  Shanamyn would rather be a Tevinter slave than a follower of the Qun.  At least a slave was never told the way they had to _think_ —though it may be because their masters did not judge them capable of the action; the Tevinter masters only cared what a slave _did,_ not thought _._ It was the difference between the evil he knew, and the evil he didn’t know.

                Shanamyn crawled over him, a hand on either side of his waist, knees straddling his legs.  He knelt, his lips against his back.  He knew it must be strange to him.  It was worse that he had been a virgin the day before.  How awful.

                He almost felt like a rapist for doing it—almost.  He kissed, and nuzzled, careful to keep his touches to his back and shoulders.  At first, the elf seemed to be grimacing, enduring it rather than enjoying it, because they both knew it wasn’t really an option, and they had wasted plenty of time already.

                When he was more relaxed, and a little more responsive, he used his hands, just light touches, a brush of fingers, that was all.  He traced the muscle in his back with his fingertips, and left a trail of kisses from the base of his neck down his back.  He bent, and kissed the side of his hip.  He saw the face the elf made, and moved away from it, crawling back up to his shoulders.  He pushed his face against his shoulder, nuzzling into his neck, which he was satisfied to see tilted back to allow access.

                He was careful not to leave a mark, just light touches, nothing more.  Gently, he urged him to roll over, onto his back.  He almost kissed his lips, but Leto jerked away at the last moment, with an apologetic look.  Shanamyn thought little of it, but found himself being a bit disappointed, and he still felt like a rapist for doing this.  His victim had just consented, that was all.  Consent was different than willingness.

                He touched his chest, lightly, with his fingers and his mouth, and only when he was more responsive, and seemed less tense, did he stray near more sensitive areas, like his nipples.  Still, light movements, gentle movements.

                Shanamyn raised his head, a stray lock of hair falling across his face.  “Tell me if you don’t want me to do something, all right?” he told him.

                Leto snorted, and laughed in a nervous sort of way.  “I don’t even want to be here—I’m sorry,” he added quickly.

                The halfling shrugged a shoulder nonchalantly.  “I understand,” he told him, which was true.  “Then just tell me if you’re uncomfortable, or if I’m doing something you don’t like.”

                He nodded in consent of this, and the half-elf ran his hands down his thighs, but carefully avoided his groin.  He reasoned that he wasn’t _quite_ ready for that yet.  He was still very tense.  More light touching, kissing, all of him but a few special areas.

                Finally, he lifted his head, one hand loosely around his cock.  Everything about his demeanor was a question, from the way his eyebrows arced, his lips curved, and his neck bent.  “No?” he asked him, his voice low.

                Leto was full of hesitance, shyness, and nervousness.  He saw the long hesitation and moved away from it, going back to his chest, even his arms, his neck.  He nibbled delicately on the lobes of ears, biting the tip, gently—something most elves seemed to like if done right.  He did it right.  He curled his body up to him, stretching along him.  His hand traced his ribs.  “I’ll let you fuck me first of course,” he mused.  He laid his head against his chest, over his heart, and listened to the steady cadence.  Even under such pressure, it was steady.  It must be the training he had, with the sword—the control.

                He would have kissed him, even wanted to because it calmed most of his clients if nothing else, but he didn’t think Leto would have wanted him to, so he didn’t.  He so rarely had clients who were this attractive.  He wished he would relax.  _Please,_ he begged silently.  _Just relax and enjoy it and it will all be over soon!  The more you fight it, the longer this will take!_

But he didn’t know quite how to make him understand that.  He had never had a client who was _unwilling_ before in a way that wasn’t just some method of foreplay.  It made him feel like…  Well, like a rapist.

                Shanamyn wasn’t certain that he could do this with such an unwilling client.  Leto got uncomfortable when he went to touch him, and most of the small noises he made seemed to be some kind of strained tolerance more than enjoyment.  He just didn’t know what to do.  He _could_ stick a finger up his ass and find his prostate.  _That_ would get him aroused, but it might earn the whore a punch to the face, and he wasn’t willing to test it with someone who had been a virgin yesterday.

                “I’m sorry,” Leto said, as if he had read his mind.  Had he been so expressive?  “I’m not making this easy for you.”

                The half-elf lifted his head, and looked down at the other man.  “I’m sorry I have to do this when you don’t want it,” he said, truly regretful.

                “Can’t you just… lie… and say you did?” Leto said, and glanced away.

                He was silent for a moment, wondering what the best way to tell him the truth was.  “Mages have ways of… telling… when you’re lying.”  He left unsaid that that was a form of blood magic.  Leto sighed at the sad truth of that.  “And even if they couldn’t… they’d… be able to tell—with you at least.”  Leto looked at him, clearly not understanding.  Shanamyn didn’t blame him; he hadn’t understood before he lost his virginity either.  The whore struggled for a moment to find the gentlest wording possible, the best way to tell him.  “When you…  When a man has sex with another man…  One man is in the receiving position.”  The half-elf made a somewhat obscene gesture with both hands.  Leto gave him a flat look.  He shrugged helplessly.  He made a very small circle with his thumb and forefinger, and pushed two other fingers against it, then through it, having to widen the small circle as he did so.  He twisted his wrist, and jerked his fingers out of the circle, but left it.  He pointed at it.  “You… can kind of tell.”

                Leto stared at him, and his face went through a series of facial expressions, ranging from bored, to disgusted, to curious, and finally settled on incredulous.  “Why would anyone do that?” he demanded, genuinely not understanding.

                Shanamyn actually laughed.  He covered his mouth with one hand, stifling his laughter.  “Oh, you poor thing—you’ve no idea,” he said, feigning pity.  “Well, let me explain it to you.”  He crossed his legs, sitting beside him, very instructionally.  “Men have this wonderfully amazing happy place.”  He jabbed him in the stomach, not sure if he was annoyed or pleased at how muscular it was.  “It’s called your prostate.”  He grinned.  “There are a few common ways to make you _very happy_ with stimulation to it.”  He cocked his head to the side, and studied Leto’s facial expression.  His face was so expressive, especially his eyes; there was no way he could ever hide what he was thinking.  He was listening, but with a sort of horrified fascination.  “The first one, and Lura might have done this to you—is _here_.”  With no other way to really describe it well, he quickly tucked his hand between Leto’s legs, and his hand cupped his package, gently.  Leto’s face began to turn pink, then red, rapidly.  Shanamyn thought it was kind of cute.  He applied pressure to the correct area.  “Here.  But it’s not the _happiest_ of the ways to do this.”  He let go quickly, and rolled out of bed.  He knelt at the chest at the foot of the bed.  He flipped the lid on it.  “Another way is… to use this.”  He found the small case, and retrieved it.  He closed the lid, and slid back on to the bed.  He flipped the case open, and held up the small device between two fingers.  It was a long silver rod with a gentle curve at one side.

                “Ah…” Leto said, looking at it quizzically.  He was sitting up now, legs curled under him, but still quite naked and seemed to have no real qualms about it, so at least there was that.  But, then again, sometimes gladiators fought almost naked, and they both knew they had the same parts anyway.

                Shanamyn grinned wickedly.  “Want to try it?” he offered, knowing full well that a lot of men were terrified of it just based on its description.  He himself didn’t like it at all; it made him think of horrible things.  “You see, what you do is, you stick this rod down your dick.”

                Leto’s eyes widened in something deeply akin to horror.  “ _What_?”

                He heard himself chuckle at his expression.  “Some men…”  He shrugged.  “Like a pipe shoved down their piss hole.”

                “ _Why?_ ” he practically shrieked, and tried not to cringe in abject terror.

                He put the tool back in its case, clicking it closed.  “You’re underestimating how awesome it is to have something stimulate your prostate,” he said, voice utterly flat.  Then he brightened, setting the case down on top of the chest.  “Another way, of course, is to have a toy… or fingers… or a penis up your ass,” he said with all the fake bright he could muster.  The elf was staring at him as if he had suddenly announced that he were, in fact, a turkey.  He decided to ignore this and forge on ahead.  “But, you shouldn’t take _my_ word for it—you should try it.”

                “I…”  He looked very much like he wanted to argue it, then he sighed, defeated.  The boy didn’t have much fight in him when it came to rebelling against his master’s orders, that was for sure.  “I… have no choice.”

                Shanamyn sighed, feeling miserable himself.  “I don’t want to make this rape, Leto,” he begged him, crawling toward him.  “It feels good; I promise.  I wouldn’t lie to you.”  Shanamyn looked up at him, by his stance making himself look weak and defenseless, but trustworthy.  Leto didn’t believe him, or any of it for that matter, and that was plain by his expression.  “I’m sorry.”

                Leto sighed, and looked away.  He looked back at him.  “If we have to do this…  Can you answer a couple of questions first?”

                The half-elf looked hopeful.  “Certainly.”  His lips curved in a half-smile.  “Anything—really.”

                The other made a variety of facial expressions as he tried to think of how to word his questions.  “It really doesn’t hurt?  Because it sounds painful.”

                Shanamyn shook his head.  “If you do it _wrong_ it’s painful.”  He winked.  “We’ll do it right, and I promise you, it won’t hurt.”

                Leto looked dubious.  “I think you’re just saying that.”

                He shook his head.  “Promise.  If it hurts, you can punch me in the face.  Hard as you can.  Promise.”

                Leto looked at him, raising an eyebrow.  “I could break your jaw.”

                “I’m confident.”

                “Deal,” Leto said.  He shifted a little, pulling his legs up.  “So…  It doesn’t make you…”  Shanamyn raised an eyebrow when his voice trailed off.  Leto looked embarrassed.  “You don’t lose…”  He struggled.

                Shanamyn nodded as he suddenly understood.  “Bowel control.”  He bit his lip, trying to think of the best way to put what he knew about that.  “Only if you do it _a lot._ Like, _a lot_.”

                Leto looked at him flatly.  “And you would know because…?”

                “Are you asking me if I’ve ever shit myself from fucking too many men?” he demanded.  The half-elf laughed.  “Yes.”  His face reddened, but not a lot.  It had been years ago.  “It was awful at the time, but now I just think it’s hilarious.”  He shook his head a little.  “But, like I said, you have to do it _a lot_.  And using too much lubrication will do it too.”  He paused.  “You may have to run to the privy after, but that’s more of a comfort thing than a necessary thing.  Most of the time.”

                Leto looked at him, as if debating how much he could trust him.  “Speaking of which, where is the closest one?”

                Shanamyn jerked his head to the door.  “If you have to run down there—to vomit out your depraved soul or whatever—down the hall, first door on the left.”

                “My… depraved soul?”

                The half-elf nodded thoughtfully.  “Well.  By the _Chantry’s_ strict standards of celibacy…”  At the expression on Leto’s face, Shanamyn explained, “I once serviced a priest.”

                “You’re kidding.”

                “Nope,” he said, grinning widely.  “I saw the robes.”  He seemed pleased with himself.  “I was happy to participate in the breaking of his vows.”

                Leto didn’t know whether to be appalled or laugh.  “You…”

                Shanamyn’s grin widened, all straight, white teeth.  “He had me quote versus of the Chant of Light during sex.  Don’t look at me like that—I’m serious.”  He shrugged.  “Some people... are into some very interesting things.”  He pointed at him.  “Now lie back down—your chest needs more rose oil.”

                With great reluctance, Leto did so.  Shanamyn crawled back to him, kneading his muscles expertly, but noticed the way Leto would flinch and shy away.  He really couldn’t do this if he wouldn’t relax.  Feeling defeated, the half-elven whore sat up, shoulders slouched.  Leto propped himself up on his elbows.  Shanamyn looked at him, his voice pleading.  “Please… Please relax, and let me touch you?”

                Something about what he said made the elf still, and shift.  “All right,” he said, but he sounded as defeated as ever.  Shanamyn didn’t know what to do.  Just… try to arouse him, he guessed.  He put his hands on his shoulders, gently lowering him down, against the pillows and the sheets.  He straddled him.  Soft touches hadn’t done it for him.  Maybe something else would.  He nibbled on his neck, which he quickly discovered was sensitive, on his collarbone, his shoulders, back to his neck.  His hands roved over him, gently but firmly.  He had taken control like this before, but… at the same time, not like this.

                He lapped at his nipples, his hands groping his sides.  He licked along his ribs, and traced his abs with his tongue and his fingers.  He traced the curve of his muscles, down to his groin, and this time, had no choice but to not shy away.  He used his mouth, his hands, everything he knew.  He took him into his mouth, trying every trick, every maneuver that wasn’t painful—he wasn’t sure how Leto felt about pain.  He didn’t have much of a gag reflex anymore, and swallowing was easy.  His lips touched the base of his cock.  Carefully, his tongue snaked out of his mouth, touching his testicles.  He pulled his head back, just a little, and back down.  He was hard, and thick in his mouth and throat.  This was the easy part, after all.

                He took a deep breath, and moved his head away.  He climbed over him, one hand still between his legs, keeping his member steady.  Shanamyn didn’t really need preparation—he saw too many men for that even if he wasn’t always receiving, and he didn’t mind the stretching feeling anyway.

                Leto gasped, a small, almost unwilling sound as he lowered himself onto him.  He was slow, more for Leto’s benefit than his own, as he lowered himself down.  Every movement was slow, calculated.  Sex had become a science to him, rather than an art.  Everything was measured, calculated.  Two and two made four, as simple as sucking a man off.  He still _enjoyed_ it, a bit anyway.  He was trained to enjoy it—the stimulation helped, a lot.  Sometimes it was hard, though.

                _Two and two make four.  Ride him until he starts to crest, then stop, and roll, pulling him on top._   An order, a method, a script.  He knew what to do.  Every first customer got the same script, and they never knew the difference.  Why would they?  What did Shanamyn care?  Every client was almost the same in bed, and if he were on top, at least he didn’t have to fake his moans as often, and masturbate less.  Everything was scripted in his mind, and he had been acting out the same play for audience after audience for years.  Down to the way his hips moved, his cheeks flushed, down to the way his head rolled back, and he screamed.  All of it was rehearsed, fake—but probably more beautiful than the real thing.

                A whore and a slave would never really know, that was the tragedy of it.  He knew, in a scientific kind of way, what sex was.  But the spirit behind it, the passion, the love, even the lust, was completely lost on him.  He was an actor, the bed his stage, and the man he was riding his audience.  Nothing more, nothing less.

                He was a good performer, though, and always had been.  He would not have lasted otherwise.

                He grabbed on to him, as if entrenched in passion, and rolled with him, pulling him on top of him.  His legs wrapped around his middle, shuddering as he looked up at him.

                “How can that feel good?” Leto had to ask, even as he thrust into him.

                He twisted his hips, bending his back so it would hit the right place on the next thrust.  It did, and he cried out, a little more genuine that time.  “Oh, you’ve no idea,” he said, twisting in the sheets.  “Mmm.”  He pounded into him for a while more, and Shanamyn continued to act, to writhe, to angle.  He sucked on two of his fingers, as suggestive as could be.  “Sorry,” he said with a shrug of his shoulder.  Then he smiled a little.  “But you’ll like it.”

                Leto squirmed a little, and he didn’t move his hand just yet.  “Now?” he said, nervous.

                How nervous?  Oh, he hoped he didn’t wilt!  Damn it all…  “This is the best time,” he told him, and jerked his hips, hard, fast, using his other hand against the headboard for support, making damn sure that Leto didn’t wilt inside him at the thought.  If he could distract him enough, or just make it feel good enough…

                He got his hand in position, but the pace of the thrusting made the elf slip out of him.  In the pause, he looked down, as if uncomfortable at the thought of putting it back in him.

                Shanamyn smiled encouragingly.  “I promise.  It doesn’t hurt.”  He cupped the side of his face with one hand.  “Not me, and it won’t hurt you either.”  His fingers ran down his chest, but couldn’t quite comfortably reach.  “I want you back in me,” he whispered, and made his eyes beg.  Leto hesitated, maybe even sensed Shanamyn’s act, but said nothing of it.  But he did push back into him.  A few more thrusts, and Shanamyn, gently, put his finger against Leto, trailing it down his buttocks, and then…  Leto’s fingers clenched, and movement ceased.  Shanamyn kissed his cheek.  “Wait.  Give me a moment… please?”  He dug his fingers in farther, searching expertly.

                “Ah…” he breathed.  “How can…”

                And the half-elf smiled, content.  He had found it, and Leto _did_ like it.  Most men did.  Some didn’t, but most really did.  “Move with me,” he told him, voice gentle and suggestive, and the elf followed the suggestion.  Why wouldn’t he—it was a good one.  A second finger, and Leto squirmed a bit, but didn’t hate it.  Shanamyn was actually liking this a little.  It was… interesting.  Most people came wanting one specific thing—either Shanamyn on top of them, or under them.  Rarely, if ever, both.  And never having done either before.

                A third finger, a little more squirming, heavy breathing.  Leto’s head touched Shanamyn’s shoulder, and he continued to grind into it.  Knees getting weak?  Maybe.

                “Let me up,” he breathed in his ear.  He didn’t respond at first, but, slowly, rose.  Shanamyn’s fingers slipped away, his hand falling carelessly against the bed.  Shanamyn scooted back, away, sighing a little when he fell out of him.  He waited a moment, in reprieve, swiping his sweaty brow.  He crawled over Leto, straddling him as he lay on his stomach.  It was a good position for his first time, especially if his knees were already weak.  He did lament not being able to see his face though—his face was just so expressive, even during sex.  Especially during sex.

                Shanamyn stroked himself, trying to work some of his pre-cum over him, but their sweat should really be enough.  He hesitated, then thought better of it.  The rose oil was on the dresser by the bed, and he could just reach the bottle.  He coated himself in it, quickly, and capped the bottle again.  He tossed it to the foot of the bed.  He leaned over him, kissing his shoulders and his back, as he positioned himself.  He took his time easing into him.  Took his time sheathing himself completely inside him, giving him lots of time to adjust.  He was impossibly tight—but he would be, he reminded himself.

                He had to time it, which he disliked completely.  Every thrust was careful, no movement without thought.  Nothing lost to passion.  He had to be careful, _so_ careful.  His arms wrapped around him, almost lovingly as he pushed into him.  Leto was panting, gasping, some of it in stark disbelief.

                “I told you,” he laughed, kissing the side of his face.  “But I like you on top better…  Would you take me like this?”  He didn’t know why he said that, but he felt… comfortable with the elf.  They had talked, really talked, before they began.  He felt like…  Maybe, in a different life, they could have been friends.  Not lovers, but friends.  Leto hadn’t cared that he was half-elven, not really.  So few people didn’t care…

                “Yes,” he whispered in reply.

                A few more minutes, and he pulled out, quickly, shivering when he actually wanted to come.  But spilling his seed _inside him_ might be more than the elf could handle right now.  Thankfully, Shanamyn had been well-trained, and could fuck without giving into such carnal desires.  As requested, Shanamyn got on his knees, and Leto climbed on top of him.  His movements were much less careful, much less precise—all the passion that was supposed to go into sex that was completely lost on Shanamyn.  But the half-elf’s arms gave out anyway, ground into the bed as they were.  Soon after, between both their efforts, he fell into the blankets, Leto on top of him.  The halfling heard himself panting.

                “Can you do something for me?” he gasped.  “Please?”

                Leto hesitated, his hands gripping his hips, his dick grinding inside him, making Shanamyn’s toes curl.  “What?”

                The half-elf panted, swallowing.  “Pull my hair—grip it in one hand… and choke me.”

                “ _What_?” he cried.

                “Please…  Don’t hurt me though…  Please…” he gasped.  The elf was hesitant, and it made him too gentle about it.  His grip was too loose, on both accounts.  Shanamyn swallowed again.  “Do you know how to choke someone?  Do it.”  And Leto hesitated again.  The half-elf sighed, feeling saddened.  He was about to toss his head, tell him to forget about it, but the elf’s grip suddenly tightened in his hair, hauling his head back forcefully as he pushed harder into him.  His fingers around his neck tightened, until he couldn’t breathe, the elf’s hand completely covering the scar on his neck.  He gagged, and coughed, sputtered, and felt the world go fuzzy.  His hearing dimmed, and his moans were genuine.  Movements were fast, and deep, and he felt like maybe sex didn’t all have to be measured and scripted.  All of his senses were dulled, far away, and there was nothing but the feeling of the elf’s cock pounding into him, that one sense dominated everything, and felt so exquisitely _real_ compared to the dull world that his other senses occupied.

                And then he came, and the grip on his throat eased, and he realized that Leto was lowering them both down onto the bed, and pulled away from him, limp with ejaculation.  A wet, warm liquid ran down Shanamyn’s legs, and he smiled to himself.

                “I liked that,” he breathed, his eyes closing as he rested.  He took a deep breath, followed by another until his breathing was normal again.  He rolled over to look at him.  “You don’t… think I’m some kind of freak, do you?”

                Leto stared at him, and he seemed annoyed if nothing else.  “I’m brother to a mage.  I’m from Seheron.  And I’m willingly going to undergo a ritual to carve lyrium into my flesh.  No, I don’t think you’re a freak.”

                Shanamyn’s lips curved into a smile.  “I’d like to see that, after the ritual is over.”

                The elf sighed deeply.  “It sounds… painful,” he admitted, and Shanamyn saw all the doubts and fears in him in that moment.  He was afraid of the ritual, afraid of what it meant, what it would do to him.  The half-elf decided that it would be best not to ask about it.  People so rarely liked to be reminded of their fears, after all.

                “You’ll look sexy,” he said with a wink.

                Leto frowned.  “I’ll look like a lyrium mine,” he corrected him.

                Shanamyn laughed, and wrapped his arms around him.  “You will be a stunning lover, given practice, and I don’t say that to everyone.”

                The elf rolled his eyes.  “I bet you say it to all your clients.”

                “I don’t,” he insisted, and it was true.  Usually it was something even more corny and outrageous.  “I usually say something like ‘you were deeper inside me than anyone has ever been’ or ‘I loved that thing you did with your hips’ or ‘you were coming out of my mouth’ or something stupid like that.”

                “People really like it when you say things like that?” he wondered quizzically.

                “Oh, yes.  Everyone wants to know they got a good grade on their performance—part of my job is to build a person’s self-esteem,” he said very matter-of-factly.  It was what made him a talented whore—it was so much more than being good in bed.  “I was just truthful with you.”  He snorted a laugh.  “After all, _you’re_ not paying for this.”

                Leto made a face, his fingers trailing along the half-elf’s hip.  “Why did you…”  He flushed a little.  “I mean to say, I was… inside you… a lot longer than…”

                Shanamyn kind of laughed.  “I’m glad you asked,” he said.  It meant he was interested, and curious.  He might want to know some time in the future if he were ever with another man, and Shanamyn was personally only too happy to tell him.  “It takes practice to be able to do it for a long time without getting sick.  I didn’t want you to feel queasy.  If I went in too deep for too long, you’d be sick for a couple of days.”

                “Oh,” he said, and glanced away.  _Adorable_.

                The half-elf ran his toes along his calves.  “You know, the strangest thing anyone has ever wanted to do with me… this night aside…”  They both chuckled at the truth of that.  “Has been someone wanting me to roleplay…  And, well, this is what they had me say…”  He frowned a little, and mimicked a throaty cry, “’You are the ancient Tevinters and I am the elven nation—conquer me.’”

                “That’s _horrible_ ,” Leto said.

                “Isn’t it?” he said, smirking with a sort of contemptuous delight.  “I’m pretty cynical, though, so I just think it’s kind of funny.”

                “Indeed.”

                Shanamyn looked up, and a grin broke out on his face.  “You’re trying not to smile,” he accused him.  “You’re just as bad as I am!”

                “I am not,” he denied, but halfway through the statement, the partial smile broke out.  Shanamyn laughed, closing his eyes.  For the first time in years, he thought, _I wish it didn’t have to be like this._

                He wished the elven nation had never been enslaved.  He wished he wasn’t a slave, and a whore.  He wished that Leto wasn’t a slave.  He wished that slavery just didn’t exist.  And he wished that no one ever had to do anything they didn’t truly want to do.

                Just as quickly, the thought passed.  This was reality, and wishes didn’t come for the wishing.  He had best live in reality, not a tale.

                He supposed he must have fallen asleep.  They had been talking.  They had talked about other things, and Shanamyn had told stories about some of his crazier clients—he had several.  And somewhere along the line, he had fallen asleep.

                He woke when Leto stirred, a rapping on the door rousing both of them.  Leto’s eyes opened, scanning the near-darkness of the room.  Shanamyn yawned, and rolled out of bed.  He didn’t care about dressing himself—what was the point?  Nearly everyone here had seen him naked anyway, after all…  He worked well in threesomes, so the headmistress frequently recommended him, but several of the other whores disliked him being involved (they had no choice in the matter).  It sometimes made him feel self-conscious around the others, socially at least, so he avoided them.

                He pulled the door open just enough to peek out.  It was Lura, smelling like violets with her hair done up fancy.

                He noticed her gaze trail to his terribly bare neck.  He had barely noticed the ribbon coming undone.  Slowly, his hand came up to cover his neck, self-consciously.  Everyone knew about it, but not everyone had seen it.  And no one knew the truth about it.  He lied and lied about it.  He lied to his clients, he lied to his master, he lied to the other slaves, the servants.

                “Um,” Lura said, apparently shocked out of what she was going to say originally.

                The half-elf glanced downward, wanting to slam the door in her face and hide.

                Leto had said not one word about it.  His eyes hadn’t even lingered on the horrific scar where his mother had tried to hang him, hang him like a murderer, a rapist, a thief, for the crime of his birth.  Hang him from a tree, and let the Maker take him.  The bough, though, had broken under his weight (his mother hadn’t known much about the process), but not before the rope had cut into him, strangling him, crushing his neck, and he had lain under the bough, still gagging and too dazed to realize he could pull the rope around his neck slack…

                Lura, though, stared at it, though she tried not to.  Shanamyn was good at pretending that he didn’t notice; he had to learn.  Showing people that he noticed bothered other people, so he had simply learned to cope.  His entire existence was based around not bothering others.  With Leto, he had almost forgotten about it.  He hadn’t shied from it, not even when his hands wrapped around it, not even when he had seen it for the first time.  He hadn’t stared, had barely looked at it.

                “Lura,” he said, voice soft.  “I’ll wake Leto.  Give me a moment?”

                She nodded, her gaze flicking back to his neck though most of the nasty scar was hidden by his hand, then back at his face.  He closed the door, his hand already coming to cover his neck.  Mages had tried to heal it when he came to the House of Jade, but it was too far gone.  He had almost ended up as just another errand boy, a scullion, but the headmistress had a good eye for her whores, and instead that was where he ended up.  She had claimed that the scar would interest the same sort of folk who would be interested in a half-breed.  She said it with such pleased contempt that it made him feel like the only people who would ever want him were perverted for wanting him.  Most of the time, he believed that.

                Leto hadn’t made him feel that way.

                He walked over to the bed Leto slept on, and shook his shoulder, gently.  Sage-coloured eyes opened, and looked at him.  Shanamyn still had his hand over his neck.  “Lura is waiting,” he told him.

                For the first time, the elf’s eyes fell to his neck, at his hand hiding his neck.  He sat up, and caught both his wrists, pulling them away from what he tried to hide, firm but gentle, even when Shanamyn tried to stop him.  “Don’t hide who you are,” he told him, voice soft.

                Shanamyn wanted to cry hearing him say that.  How could he not try?  He had to hide.  He had to hide the scar, the ugly mark across his neck.  He wanted to hide his half-blood heritage.  Wanted to hide all of it, away.  How could he not understand?  Why did he not see that it was worth hiding?  “Wise words,” the half-elf said bitterly.  “Spoken by someone who doesn’t understand them.”

                Leto raised an eyebrow.  “I’m too tall for an elf.  I’m from Seheron, and my sister is a mage.”  He shook his head a little.  “I’ve tried to hide who I am.  I can’t, so I gave up.”  He swung out of the bed, and moved to his discarded leathers.  “You should too.”

                Shanamyn looked away, but didn’t know what to say.  It was easy for the elf to say that, he thought.  He felt like he should say something, anything.  He wanted to, but didn’t know what to say.  He could think of nothing more to say, no words that needed saying.  And, before he could think of something, Leto was dressed and heading toward the door.

                “Wait,” the half-elf cried, pained.  Leto paused, looking back at him.  “How do you stop hiding?”

                Leto looked at him for a long moment.  “You begin by accepting yourself for who you are,” he told him, and opened the door.  Just like that, he was gone, back in Lura’s arms, and Shanamyn was alone again.

                He hugged his arms to himself.  _Accept yourself for who you are._

                He touched his throat, and wondered.  Accept that too?  Accept that his father was an elf and his mother human, and stop hiding from people because he was afraid of how they would react to it?  It sounded difficult, even frightening, after years of hiding, and avoiding, of accepting that he was nothing but some kind of perversion.

                He wondered if he ever could be anything more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that you know which way I swing...


	34. An Innocent's Cry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which preparations for the Ritual are underway and Leto begins to see the hell in which he has trapped himself.

                Varania felt her eyes begin to water when she saw Leto, sitting alone on the bed looking anxious and lost in thought, and she simply could not contain herself any longer.  She threw her arms around him, and wept.  She had heard the expression “tears of joy” before, but never thought they were actually true, and now, her cheeks wet, she found that it was no myth.  She was fiercely proud of her older brother.

                “You did it,” she whispered.  “You really did it.”

                He hugged her back just as fiercely, and maybe he did really forgive her.  “Was there ever any doubt?” he asked, doing his best to sound over-confident, but she knew him.  He was scared, and she knew it.  It was in his eyes, the way his shoulders seemed too stiff, and the faint tremor in his voice—and the way he held onto her, knowing that their time was now numbered.

                 “Too much doubt,” she laughed.  Her brother didn’t like to be reminded of his own fears; he was a man, after all.  “We were so worried, especially when you didn’t come home for so long, but we all… heard about it.”  She hugged him a little bit tighter, her swollen belly getting entirely too in the way for her liking.

                Their mother looked on, and waited for the siblings to part, before she held her son close to her, grateful, fearful, proud, sorrowful.  “I can’t believe it,” she breathed.  “My son.  My incredibly talented son.”

                “Mother…” he complained, his face flushing with embarrassment as his mother fawned over him.

                “What do you have to be embarrassed about?” she chided him in the oblivious way that only a devoted parent can.  “You’ve… won.”

                He sighed, and then swallowed.  “You… won’t be slaves anymore,” he told them, and closed his eyes for a moment, as if he couldn’t believe it himself.

                But Mieta took a step back, and folded her arms under her breasts, looking up at her son.  “But… Leto…” she said, her brows drawing up in concern.  She couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence, couldn’t bear to put the thought into words.

                But they all knew, and he looked away.  Varania looked down.  His sister and mother would go free, and he would stay behind in slavery… forever.  They would never see each other again.  They might as well never exist for each other after that.  “Thank you, Leto,” Varania whispered.  She shook her head.  “You’ve given up so much for us.”

                He looked up then, at her.  He really had; he had given up what he loved the most exactly for what he loved the most.  Freedom was never something any of them could have attained on their own.  Without his victory, they would have all lived their lives in slavery, but may have been able to be together for a few more years.  What he had really given up was his family.

                “When… will they allow us to leave?” Varania asked him, a question she had been wondering for some time.

                Leto was silent for a moment before he responded, “After… the ritual, it seems.”  He paused and looked at their mother.  “They’re going to pay you, like a servant, until then, he said.”

                Mieta frowned.  “How long until this… ritual?”

                He shrugged one shoulder absently, but seemed distracted.  “It will take months to get the lyrium here, so I’ve heard.”

                Varania touched her stomach.  She did want Leto there when she gave birth.  She accepted that finality, and one small grace of all this was that he may be there for it.  She hoped so.  She didn’t know… if she could really make it without him.

 

                The large stained glass windows were open to let in the sea breeze, making the room, to one properly clothed, pleasantly cool and fragrantly scented with the smell of the sea and the incense.  To Leto, who stood completely naked, the room was uncomfortably cold.  A pot of white paint squatted on the floor beside him like a beetle.  The apprentice dipped his brush into it, returning to his work on the elf’s arm, all of his concentration on making the lines straight, and perfect.  A large map lay on a writing desk, awkwardly positioned so that Raith could see the design, for reference.

                The only sounds in the room was the breeze rustling the curtains, a page turning, the scratching sound of pen to paper, and occasionally the apprentice cursing or otherwise muttering to himself.

                They only had one chance to carve all of the lyrium into him.  One mistake, one shaking hand, would ruin it, and the boy might die.  In truth, any mistake in the ritual could kill him.  Moreover, the ritual itself could very well kill him.  All the test subjects had only been tested with small amounts of lyrium.  This would cover quite a bit of his body.

                Danarius wanted no mistakes.  Raith would be the one doing this work, and Danarius would be the one controlling it.  So, Raith practiced.  If he made one error, or hesitated once, he had to clean it all off, and start again.

                Two hours a day.  Danarius planned for him to be painting these lines in his sleep if need be.

                A knock at the door made the magister look up from his writing.  Raith did not, for all his attention was on Leto’s chest now.  The elf stared straight ahead, stock-still.  He might as well be a statue, except for his eyes, which tracked the messenger as he came in, carrying a small intricately carved alabaster box.

                The slave gingerly set the box down in front of his master, bowed, and was excused.  The door shut.  The magister sat up, and opened the box.  He selected a vial, and rose from his chair, stalking over to his pet and his apprentice.  He held up the small vial of lyrium, tapping it against the elf’s cheekbone in thought.  It was purple, not even a hideous shade of purple, but…  “No,” he said, displeased.

                Raith looked up.  “Isn’t purple lyrium used to make bombs?” he asked, as if solely to nettle Leto.  Leto’s eyes widened, just a little, green eyes tracking the purple vial.

                “It is,” the magister affirmed.  Leto looked concerned at this idea.  “I don’t like it much for him, though.”  The elf visibly relaxed.

                He put the purple vial back, and picked up the red one.  He liked that one better, but still wasn’t entirely happy about it, but couldn’t quite think of why.

                “It looks like blood,” Raith offered.  “Like we were painting him with fresh blood.”

                Danarius nodded—that was it.  He would just look messy, and maybe a little possessed-looking.  Frankly, he had seen enough possessed mages and non-mages alike to drive a lesser man to a lifetime of nightmares.  He had no interest in making Leto look permanently possessed.  “He’ll look as if he is possessed,” the magister muttered.

                Raith laughed.  “And likely will be if you use the red; it has made _everyone_ who has ever used it go mad,” he said with obvious amusement.  Leto’s concern for his own well-being escalated, but he had no true cause for it, as Danarius had already dismissed the idea.  Red lyrium was hard to come by anyway.

                “Perhaps the blue…”  He switched the vials, and went back to him, and began to smile.  The apprentice looked up.

                “I like that one better, and blue is easiest to come by anyway,” he offered.  “Not to mention the safest.”  They both laughed at that; the cyan lyrium caused damage to even dwarves, and in its raw state, it killed mages outright, which is why it was all going to be refined before it was even shipped.  Leto seemed relieved to see that it was not to be the purple or red—which was understandable, considering that one was used to make explosives and the other was a known cause of madness.

                “I’ll send the order immediately,” he decided, and called for a page.  He sent his message out quickly, and continued to watch the painting in the same manner that one would observe birds in the park while reading a book.

                When he was finished with the paint, Raith looked back at Leto, glad to be finished.  “His face looks blank, compared to the rest of him,” he decided.

                “If we put any more on his face, he’ll look like a damned Dalish,” Danarius reminded him.

                Raith’s mouth twisted in a frown, but he nodded in agreement.  There was even a bit in his ears—literally everywhere except parts of his face.  It was probably safer that way though.  “He already looks like a damned Dalish,” the apprentice muttered, looking at the other markings, which were oh-so very much like the Dalish tattoos.  They had a word for it—what was it?  Danarius couldn’t recall, and didn’t care too much for that matter either.

                “That’s part of the joke,” Danarius mused.  And Raith laughed.  Leto’s eyes flicked to the floor.

 

                It wasn’t very often in the slave compound of Danarius’ estate that two of his slaves should be pregnant at the same time.  It was difficult enough for elves to conceive—and carry to term--and the same rapings to “breed” them tended not to go on in the city as in the country, as such—it was undisciplined and too barbaric for this place.  So children were special.  They had _always_ been special to the elvhen, for even without their lost immortality, they still reproduced slowly compared to the other races.

                It was said that most of the first elves captured and subjugated were primarily children.  They had not been a warrior race.  Before mankind came, they had never known war, sickness, or even death outside of rare accidents.  Their ancestors would weep to see what had become of them:  They knew old age, death, sickness, and many knew and studied the arts of fighting and warfare.  Worse, their ancestor’s descendants often had no idea what they had lost, nor how far they had fallen.

                Ahline was almost ready to give birth herself.  She was several years older than Varania, though, and therefore the others had seen her as much more likely to carry to term.  Her child would be born into slavery, the same as she had, and the same as its father had.  She thought little of the matter.  There was no sadness without a point of comparison, after all, and she had none, save the stories she cared little for.  They were things to entertain children, nothing more.  She felt that children deserved their brief reprieve and their innocence before the crush of the work they would endure all their lives bore down on their shoulders.  It wasn’t an unfortunate thing to her, merely inevitable.  She had always had a master, and could not think of life in any other terms.

                In the meantime, her own work was horrendously slow.  She had to go to the privy frequently—something she had been warned about by the older women, and even then, it was just difficult to get around.  She was anxious to give birth, though frightened by it to some degree; it was her first child.

                If she were not so close to her time, they would have set her to work scrubbing the floors, but she simply couldn’t get around like that, and even the mostly unreasonable headmistress saw that.  So, rather, she was given lighter chores, like the dusting.  She had to be careful with that, though.  If she broke anything, she would be severely punished.  Still, so long as she was careful and took her time, that was not an issue.

                All the same, she considered herself to be fortunate—most of Danarius’ household slaves did.  It was unlikely that she would be sold, and she was allowed to lie with whomever she will (other masters had strict rules about such things), and bear a child of that union.  In some places, it was often cheaper and easier to buy a slave that was older than to allow a child to be born, so sometimes they were killed in the womb.  Ahline did not consider it barbaric or crude; she hardly batted an eye over the matter.  It was practical is all:  A pregnant slave could not work as hard, after birth she would be weak, she would have to nurse the child, and the child would have to be taught.  It was simply easier to buy a slave.  But the magister was kind enough to allow her to have her child, and so she was not unhappy here.

                She hadn’t _quite_ decided on a name for the child yet.  She was toying around with the idea of a few names, but just wasn’t certain about any of it.  Perhaps, after her mother?  She didn’t know her father—he had been shipped off to fight the Qunari before she was born.

                She felt the babe kick, and stir.  It had been restless the past few days.  Sometimes, it hurt or was merely uncomfortable, but it was all comforting at the same time.  She felt contented to bring life into the world.  Even amidst the world of sorrow she knew only as “life,” there had to be light in the world, and it came in the form of her unborn.

                Ahline dusted the halls, staying carefully off of the expensive rugs whenever possible.  She came to a large entryway to the courtyard and sighed to herself.  There was a lot in here that required dusting, though no rugs.  The polished marble gleamed in the late afternoon sun, reflecting the fresco above it.  A few weeks ago, a painter had been in to look at it.  Danarius apparently wished a different scene above it.  She couldn’t imagine why; it was lovely.  All climbing vines, flowers, sunlight piercing through the painted leaves with such realism that one almost lost themselves in it.  It had been the outer garden, actually, before Danarius decided to have all the vines pulled up and burned.  Again, she couldn’t imagine why.  The magister did a lot of seemingly odd things on a whim.

                Change, she supposed.  A desire for change—humans were like that.

                She felt suddenly dizzy.  She stumbled for a moment, and felt something run down her legs.  The liquid was involuntary and unexpected.  Alarming at first, but once she understood what it was, she felt… well, nervous and excited all at the same time.  She had to get to help.  Yelling was not something generally tolerated inside the manor.  It was a large place, they had told her, and yelling echoed.

                So she had to find someone to help her.  She had to find someone to help her to the slave compound, who would get the midwife for her.  She had just begun to turn when her legs crumpled weakly, too shaky to stand just yet.  She heard footsteps, then they quickened.  Someone knelt beside her.

                “Ahline,” a voice said.  “I’ll get the midwife, and help you back.  Will you be all right?”

                She looked up.  It was Leto.  She had never really had much interaction with him before.  She was a couple of years older, and had been shy enough as a young girl to avoid the others, and then she had been put to work later on.  “Um.  Yes, but hurry!”

                He was up again and dashing off in an instant.  She crawled away from the puddle of liquid, a little disgusted.  The pains of childbirth had not started yet—she was lucky that Leto happened across when he did.  She waited, and time seemed to go by slowly.  She was worried that the contractions might start before he got back.  She didn’t know _too much_ about the actual birthing process.  The older women had tried telling her about it more, but she felt sick to hear of it, so they had not continued.  Now, she wished she had paid more attention!

                Though, she was in luck; he was back quickly, and with the midwife from the infirmary.  The woman observed Ahline for a moment, and said, “We need to transport her to the compound—“

                Leto didn’t answer her, but he knelt beside Ahline, and, gently, lifted her into his arms.  She was pleasantly surprised that he could lift her at all, honestly.  She felt like she must be impossibly heavy with the child in her womb.  He didn’t complain that her dress was wet, and he carried her as if she weren’t even there.

                “I will be there shortly,” the midwife said, satisfied, and the woman hurried off.

                Leto struggled with the door briefly, and Ahline laughed.  “Let me do it,” she said, and the two maneuvered, chuckling at one another, as they had to work together to open the door.  He let her shut it—gently, and strutted out into the sunlight.

                It felt strange to be carried like this.  Ahline hadn’t been carried since she could walk.  It was bizarre to let someone else do it for her.  She wanted to believe that Leto was strong enough not to drop her—he was a gladiator, after all—but she still felt apprehensive that he might anyway, or trip or something.  It made her nervous, and tense, and he must have noticed, but whether he guessed the real reason, or thought it was just because the baby was coming, he said nothing about it.

                He nudged the slave quarter’s gate open with his foot, and just let it swing shut behind him.  He didn’t hesitate, and he brought her to the hut she shared with two other women.  They did not have to fumble with this door—none of them shut properly from the outside, and the leather thong used to keep the simple door shut was secured on the inside, after all, so it could be opened with a foot.  She felt a momentary pang of loss.  Her mother had died years ago, birthing her brother, who had gotten sick shortly after and died himself, as if it had all been for nothing.  It would be so comforting for her if her mother had been alive to be with her today.  At the same time, it scared her, just a little.

                Would she be one of the women that died?

                Leto gently set her down on the bed.  “Is there… anything else I can do?” he asked her, brow creased with worry.

                She smiled, glad he had done what he had.  “Could you get me a bucket of water—I think that would be a help,” she suggested.  He nodded, and picked up the half-empty bucket by the door, and left on his errand.

                Her child’s father was a slave to another master—a midnight foray as it were.  The young man certainly _knew_ , but being able to see her at all was infrequent.  And, as she had suspected and feared, he stopped coming when she got bigger.  Ahline doubted he would even come to see his own child.

                Leto, though, returned with the midwife in his wake, and a few other slaves for assistance.  Leto was sent outside, and Ahline smiled to him for his help.

                When it was done, and she held her newborn son in her arms, she asked the midwife if Leto could come in.  Surprised, she sent a slave to go fetch him.  He came, though it was well after dark.  He hesitated in the doorway, but she sat up, and said, “Come in—it’s all right.”

                He walked inside, nervously, and went beside her.  “You’re all right then…  I had thought…  It sounded like…” he tried to say.

                She laughed gently, though felt exhausted.  “Like I was dying,” she finished what he did not wish to say.  “Look.”  She offered her son, tilting her bundle so he could see it.  “You helped with this.”

                He flushed, and glanced away.  “I did nothing.”

                “It was enough,” she objected, and her mouth quirked a smile.  “Why don’t you hold him?”

                He blinked in surprise, and started to object, but she was already shoving the babe into his arms, and he couldn’t.  Reluctant, he took him from her.  She helped him hold the infant.  It stirred only briefly before falling back asleep.  He watched the newborn with all the fascination of one who had never been that close to a newborn child.

                “He’s like a miracle, isn’t he,” she said, her voice soft.

                He shook his head, but not in disagreement exactly.  Rather, he said, “I don’t care what those mages say about magic.  If this isn’t that, I don’t know what is.”

                And she laughed, blushing.  “Flatterer,” she accused him.

                But he looked at her, his face utterly serious.  “I wasn’t joking.”

                Ahline only smiled.  “Why don’t you hold him for a while.”  She leaned back on the bed, and closed her eyes briefly.  “Think about miracles and magic, and hold him for a while.”

                The last thing she saw before her eyes closed was Leto, smiling softly down at the sleeping infant.

 

                Raith felt like dumping the entire pot of paint over Leto’s head and being done with it.  There were particular points that were difficult to paint just on one side, but everything had to be _perfectly_ symmetrical, and the rule was that if he made but one mistake, the paint on that branch must be washed off completely, and he had to start again.  The unfortunate part about the markings was that it was so exact.  It had to cover different points of the body, some chakra points, pressure points, and other such.  And, naturally, one of those points was, well…

                “Stop squirming,” Raith muttered.  Leto wasn’t _squirming_ exactly, but looked very much like he _wanted_ to squirm.  His hands were curled into fists and to say he looked a bit uncomfortable was like saying the Proving Grounds were a bit bloody.

                Raith was uncomfortable too.  He was on his knees, in front of Leto, painting over the place he _would_ have pubic hair, if elves actually had any of that.  And the lines went down further too…

                The door opened on silent hinges, and Raith did not look up, too entrenched in his concentration to do so.  He looked up at his master when he dipped the brush back in the pot.

                “I’m having a problem,” Raith said, getting right to the point before Danarius inquired as to his work.

                Danarius crossed his arms.  “What is it?” he asked, his tone tired and halfway suggesting that Raith always had one problem or another.

                Raith was reluctant to go on.  He felt like all he ever did was uncover problems and blunder.  And now…  Raith rose to his feet so he could look his fellow mage in the eyes.  “The markings,” he said, gesturing to the elf.  “The ones on his genitals, I mean.  The foreskin gets in the way.”  He shrugged helplessly, but that was the truth of the matter.  “And if he ever has an erection, it will change the shape of the markings.”  He did not have to say aloud that the shape was significant.  Every arc and curve was planned for a purpose.  A change to them could mean a change in the way the lyrium would work.  It was just like any proper but complicated spell.

                The magister, of course, understood the implications immediately.  “Hmm…” he mused, brow creasing in thought as he looked at his slave in the same way a man would gaze at a puzzle.

                Raith glanced at Leto.  “We could have him castrated.  That would fix everything,” he suggested.  He noticed the way Leto’s eyes widened, and he saw him cringe.  It was _almost_ comical.

                “We could,” Danarius said, a little reluctantly.

                Raith liked that idea the more he thought about it.  They could cut everything—the testicles as well as the shaft.  He would never be distracted or able to be seduced.  He was a man grown already, so they wouldn’t have to worry about the fact that he would never be as strong as he would have been otherwise.  It would eliminate some of Raith’s work—the most uncomfortable bit at that.  “I’ll make the appointment this afternoon,” Raith volunteered.  Leto looked pale.

                Danarius kind of chuckled, looking at Leto’s expression.  “I don’t think my slave would like that very much,” he said.

                Raith assumed that his master was joking.  “I think he may faint.”

                The magister looked up and down the elf’s body, along the markings, thinking.  “It would leave a scar,” he said finally, sighing.

                “A skilled enough healer could heal it without,” Raith offered.

                He frowned.  “It would change everything.  We would have to find a different set of markings—something suitable to a eunuch.  This one is for a man.”

                “It wouldn’t be so difficult to draft a new pattern,” the apprentice said agreeably.

                Danarius paused, and considered.  Leto swallowed hard, and looked more than a little terrified at the prospect—inwardly debating on falling to his knees and begging him not to.  Anyone with half a grain of sense would be.  “What if he were circumcised instead?” Danarius wondered aloud, and glanced to his apprentice.

                Raith’s mouth twisted into a frown.  His instinct was to argue that it wouldn’t be the same, but then he thought about it.  Most of his problem was with the foreskin.  If it were removed…  “I suppose… that would solve most of the problem,” he admitted grudgingly.

                The mage nodded, pleased that a simple solution could be found so quickly.  “See that it’s done,” he said, and took his leave.

                Raith bowed to his master, and looked back at Leto, and couldn’t help but smirk.  “I think I’ll go make that appointment now.  It’s urgent, so it will be done before this evening,” he said, his voice mocking.  “You stay here, slave—and don’t move until I return.”

                Leto bowed his head.  “As you wish, messere.”

                Raith smirked again, and strolled past him.  There was a man who handled such things in the city, but usually the ones he saw were much younger.  The servant returned little over an hour later, looking tired.  He handed Raith a scroll of paper, and the apprentice read it eagerly.

                He set it aside and he leered at Leto, who seemed to want to shrink back.  “Go get yourself cleaned up, slave.  He’ll be here within the hour.”

 

                When it was done, Danarius sent his slave, who was by that time limping and in obvious pain, to the infirmary, where the mage there could heal it faster than it would take on its own.  He was kind of proud of his little pet; he hadn’t even cried.  Oh, the elf had grimaced, and gasped, and sweat, but had stayed obediently still throughout (the magister had simply asked the man doing the cutting about it).  Danarius had _most_ of his foreskin removed—as much as could be removed feasibly at least--to make the markings easier to make.  The man doing it had complained about the magister’s requests, but he was nothing.

                Danarius paid him, thanked him for coming on such short notice, and sent him on his way.

                When Leto returned from the infirmary, the magister told him to strip; he wanted to see him.  Leto seemed even more embarrassed than he had before, and his face was red when he stood before him naked.

                “He did a good job,” he confessed, looking at the place that he had been cut.  “It should hurt for a few more days though, my pet...”  He paused, looking at Leto’s pained expression.  “There wasn’t any other way, except castration.  Surely, you would prefer this?”  His tone was light and innocent.  He did hold a particular enjoyment with tormenting certain people—Leto being one of them.

                “Yes, Master,” Leto whispered, the most he could presently manage.

                “We’re going to try something new now.”  Put that way, it sounded sort of foreboding, he reflected.  The truth wasn’t nearly so dark.  “Raith, do you think you can manage it?”

                Raith looked on, confident.  “Yes—I’d like to try it.”

                Danarius sat down in his chair.  “Then begin, and I hope this makes it easier for you.”

 

                “What are you covered in this time?” Varania asked him.  It was only a few weeks before they said she would birth the child, and she was more than ready for it.  She wanted it _gone_.  She felt so _heavy_ , and when it kicked, it made her more than uncomfortable.  She felt unbelievably large.  Too large, in fact.

                “Henna,” he muttered darkly, scratching at his arm.  When it was done, they had made him go lie out in the sun so the henna could darken.  Not one of his worst chores, though.

                She frowned.  She had heard of henna.  “Isn’t it like a fake tattoo?”

                “Yeah,” he said, then added, “And it’s itchy.”

                She chuckled, and looked him up and down, wondering what the network on his torso looked like, and at the same time not caring enough to ask.  It wasn’t something he liked to talk about anyway, so she had given up a while ago.  “It looks kind of neat,” she offered.

                He scowled.  “I hate it,” he said flatly.

                “Will you hate it when it’s lyrium and permanent?” she wondered, idling picking at a loose thread on her dress.  The lyrium had come in earlier this week, and Danarius and Raith spent nearly all their time refining it, not trusting the cultivation of the magister’s life’s work to anyone else.  Just because it was there, though, didn’t mean the ritual would be coming any time soon.  Leto had commented that it had to be done in small amounts at a time, and each finished product took some time.

                He made a face.  “I don’t know why I wouldn’t.  I think I look stupid.”

                She smirked.  “I’m going to start calling you ‘Dalish.’”

                “Very funny, ‘Nia,” he grumbled.

                She paused, watching him walk by.  “… Are you scared?” she asked him, voice low.  “I would be scared.”

                He stopped, and looked back at her.  His eyes searched her face for a long moment.  “’Nia, I’m terrified,” he whispered.

                She realized her throat was dry.  She licked her cracking lips, wondering if it had been the wrong thing to say.  “So am I,” she admitted.  “For you, and for me, and… all of us.”

                He went to her, clasping her shoulders, making her look at him.  “You’ll be happier, ‘Nia.  It’ll be better,” he told her.

                She shook her head.  “I don’t want to be pregnant,” she whispered, staring down at her stomach in plain disgust.

                He looked down too.  “It won’t be long,” he told her, completely missing or choosing to ignore the point.  She briefly considered correcting him, and reminding him that she wanted the babe _dead_ , but thought better of it.  They were only just getting back onto speaking terms a few weeks ago.  It wouldn’t do to bring _that_ subject up.

                “You make it sound so easy,” she said instead.  “I’ve heard all kinds of nasty things about birth—from Ahline.”

                He raised an eyebrow inquiringly.  “Like what?” he asked conversationally, sitting down on his bed, stretching.  Some of the henna cracked.  He picked at it uncomfortably.

                She made a face.  “Like…  Like the placenta,” she said, shuddering in horror.  Ahline had told her all of this so matter-of-factly, but she suspected the older girl secretly delighted in horrifying Varania so—not cruelly, but more in a teasing manner.  “And that when a woman gives birth, it squeezes all of her organs down there, so she usually shits herself, but there’s so much going on that she doesn’t notice.  It’s just disgusting.”

                He snickered, and she hit him in the shoulder.  “What?” he demanded, and she hit him again, and again, until she was laughing against her will while he made snide remarks about the birthing process.  “Just make sure that when your water breaks, you’re outside; it’ll be bad enough without it being all over the floor.”  And other things like that--each comment she hit him for.

                “You might as well live at the privy after the birth—Ahline was telling me about all the bleeding and chunks falling out afterwards…”

                “I’ve heard sometimes when you’re pushing, you’ll piss.”

                And so forth.

 

                Raith had spent so long on this project of his masters that he hadn’t seen any sunlight in what felt like weeks.  True, he was mostly a being of the indoors, but that didn’t mean that he didn’t appreciate the natural light of the sun on occasion—and sort of craved it after so long without.

                Thus, rather than the usual room he painted Leto in, he instructed the elf to meet him in the big banquet hall with the skylight.  It was pleasant, and all the sunlight actually helped quite a bit for the painting itself.  It was murder to his back and neck though, and there was nothing that could be done about that!  Well, perhaps a girl with some aromatic oil, a couple of candles…  Raith stopped himself from daydreaming and focused on the task at hand.

                The elf shifted on occasion, and Raith frequently snapped at him for it, but standing with locked knees like he was for too long _would_ make him faint, so Raith never became _too_ angry.  But when he made him mess up a line, he would cuff him for it; that was infuriating.

                Of course, he had to heal any damage he caused pretty much immediately, because any kind of swelling or cuts interfered with his work.

                Today, like most days, Danarius dropped in, unannounced.  Likely, he planned to keep Raith on his toes—making sure that his apprentice was never slacking off, or anything of the sort.  Well, Raith had worked too hard to slack off.

                The two mages spoke for a time, of the ritual at first.  Later, their conversation drifted to the estate and the many intricacies of keeping it running smoothly.  Danarius asked Raith about the testing he was undergoing, to become a magister.

                An infant’s cry broke their conversation.  A slave—a creature Raith rarely took much note of—had been scrubbing the floor at the far side of the room before.  Her child had been strapped to her back in a stained sling.  The woman stiffened as the two mages turned their attention to her.  All the color drained from her face as she tried to shush the crying child.

                Raith hated screaming children.  Hated it.  He hated the way they sounded, the way they didn’t seem to stop.  Simply hated it.  He had come from a large family—his mother had had children younger than he, and they had screamed and bawled.  He had an older brother, who had married, and she had given birth to two screaming children too.

                Danarius, though, was silent throughout, and seemed to teeter between strangely haunted and angered.  His expression settled on, not anger, but annoyance.  The woman rushed out, through the servant quarters, to quiet the babe.  The mages resumed their conversation, and in time, the incident was, if not forgotten, no longer noted.

                But the woman came back, of course.  And with the infant not old enough to be left with the old woman the slaves used to watch their children, the infant had to be with her, naturally.

                It was quiet enough at first, and, as was only ordinary, they took no note of the slave.  Masters rarely noticed their slaves, after all—exactly as it should be.

                But then the infant began to wail again, causing Raith to _drop_ the brush.  The paint splattered on the floor.  The apprentice twitched in annoyance, grinding his teeth in frustration.

                Danarius, though, seemed, oddly, calm.  He glanced at Leto.  “Leto,” he said, drawing the elf’s attention.  The woman backed away, and the door opened and closed again.  Danarius shook his head, and Raith cleaned up the paint, and the moment passed.

                This time, the two mages were so deep in their conversation—a matter of politics, other magisters specifically—that they hadn’t noticed the woman came back in again.  Nor had they noticed her resume her task.  But they certainly noticed the infant’s cries.

                Danarius whirled toward the woman.  “Stay there,” he commanded of her.  She was ghost-white, and frightened as a rabbit.  Still, the infant wailed.  She tried to shush the babe, but it would not be quieted.  The magister’s gaze shifted to Leto.  “Leto.”  He stared at him.  The elf stared downwards, and seemed tense.  Danarius looked back at the woman.  “Kill the infant.”

                Leto’s head snapped up, eyes going wide with shock.  “What…?” he gasped.  The woman’s lips parted, closed, and she shook her head, backing up a step.  Women could be strangely protective of their young.

                “Kill it,” his master repeated.  “Do as I say.  If you hesitate again, you will kill both the mother and the child, now go.”

                “I… need…” Leto whispered, throat dry.

                Danarius did not require him to finish the sentence; a knife Danarius usually kept on his person flipped in his palm, extended hilt first toward Leto.  The elf looked sickly.  The woman stood frozen in shocked horror.

                Leto’s eyes closed, as if in pain.  “Please… Reconsider, Master,” he pleaded.

                Raith watched his master’s jaw set, and saw him backhand Leto across his face.  His ring sliced open the elf’s cheek.  Blood dripped from the wound.  Around it, his face was red where he had been slapped.  Leto bowed his head, and took the knife, and blinked a little when he held it in his hand.  He recognized it, Raith assumed, and he should.  It was, originally, his after all.  But it was a pretty blade, and the steel was good.  Danarius was also the type to enjoy such melodrama.

                Somehow, it didn’t make it at all silly that Leto was naked and covered in white paint.

                It looked primal, ritualistic.  Barbaric maybe, but not silly.  The woman quivered in fear for a moment as Leto approached, then she started talking.  Her voice was high with fright, and shrill with desperation.  “Please, Leto, this is wrong,” she insisted, and when Leto didn’t stop his advance, she looked to the two mages.  “Please, the babe is just sick…  That’s all…  Please…!”

                She had the child in her arms now, and looked ready to flee, but not quite willing to bring the mages’ wrath down upon herself.  Leto had come closer to her now, only a few feet away.  The two spoke in low tones, and Raith couldn’t quite hear them.  The elven woman was begging with the young man, it seemed, and Leto was resolute, though he did plead softly for something from her.  He must have talked her to reason, or simply begged it of her, because she angrily pushed the infant into Leto’s arms, causing him to drop the knife.  The blade clattered on the floor, and seemed to narrowly miss cleaving off one of the elf’s toes—which he was heedless of.

                The woman stood, tears glistening on her face, as Leto knelt to the floor, the infant cradled in his arms, still balling.

                It kicked, and flailed its arms, crying, even as Leto knelt in front of it.  Even as the mother wailed along with it.  It only stopped screaming when Leto plunged the knife into the infant’s chest, burying the blade up to the hilt in one fluid motion.  The crimson blossom flowed over the stained wrap of cloth, soaking it.  The woman trembled for a moment, her wail trapped in her throat, and she fled, out the servant’s quarters.

                “Raith,” Danarius said.  The apprentice looked up.  “Tell the guards to find that woman, and have them cut off one of her fingers from each hand, just to the first joint, for her transgressions.”

                Raith rose to his feet to accomplish this task.  He glanced over his shoulder.  Leto had not moved.  He knelt, naked and feral-looking, before the infant’s corpse.

 

                Varania had heard about the incident with the baby.  Everyone was talking about it.  She couldn’t make herself understand why her brother had done something like that, and he simply refused to talk about it.  She knew he slept little at night over it, and saw many of the other slaves glaring at him when he was near.  Mealtimes were the worst of it, because he couldn’t escape it, and she of course was guilty by association if nothing else.

                She wished he would talk about it with her.  She understood that their master was a cruel person, and, furthermore, understood that it must have been an order Leto was following out.  But Ahline preached a different story, offering her mangled hands as proof, all the while insisting that Leto had wanted to do it.  Else, he would not have.

                Varania had caught him crying, once, at night.  Mieta slept like the dead most nights lately, but Varania was a light sleeper, dependent on the circumstances.

                He hadn’t cried in the hut.  Rather, he had left it, and gone to the orchard.  And, though Varania was great with child, she waddled after him when he was gone for a long enough amount of time.

                She pretended not to notice the tears, or him trying to hide them.  She pretended not to notice the way he was shaking, and pale.  He sat beside the small stream, staring at the water, his arms wrapped around his legs, occasionally hiding his face.  She eased down to sit beside him, and he did not reject her company.

                They sat in silence for a while, and he composed himself.  He still trembled, though, and his eyes were wet.  “It wouldn’t hurt as much if Ahline did not accuse me as if it had been my idea,” he whispered.  “I pleaded with him not to make me do it.”  He took a long, deep breath before he lost control of his voice.

                “With… our master?”

                He shook his head.  “No.  Not _your_ master, Varania,” he said, very firmly and with feeling.  “I pray you never have to call someone ‘master’ again.  You aren’t a slave anymore.  He’s just… holding you here to… to make sure I do anything he says.”

                Now he was trying to change the subject.  It was an equally painful subject, but it was an old one.  “You didn’t want to do it, Leto,” she told him.

                “Then why did I?” he wondered aloud, sounding hurt.  “It was an _infant_ , ‘Nia.”

                She didn’t know any words to say that would bring him any comfort, except what he already knew:  That he was only carrying out orders.  “It’s not your fault that our—that the magister is cruel.”

                “Is it?” he whispered.

                “What really happened?” she asked, gently.  He had been so unwilling to talk about it.  Days had gone by, and he had been, emotionally, a wreck since the incident, and seemed physically ill any time he looked at Ahline’s bandaged hands.

                He, at first, seemed disinclined to speak.  But, to Varania’s surprise, he did.  He told her that Raith had been painting him, as usual, but in the banquet hall this time.  Danarius had arrived, and they talked for a while.  Ahline’s baby interrupted their talk three times, and the magister ordered it put to death, and gave the order to her brother.  He had tried to plead with the magister not to do it, but he would not listen, and, furthermore, said that if he did not do as told, then he would have to, ultimately, kill both Ahline and her baby.  So Leto did as ordered.  He had tried to tell Ahline that if she did not let him kill the child, that Danarius would order her killed as well, but she did not believe him.  She had been in the room while Danarius gave the order, but she did not believe him.  He killed the baby, and had felt numb and empty ever since.

                Varania hugged him as best she could, considering her pregnant belly.  “I still love you, Leto,” she told him.  He leaned his head against her shoulder, miserable as she had ever seen him.  She didn’t know what to say, so left it to silence.

                Varania had been listening to people whisper, though.  They whispered rumors of Leto—horrible things, things that couldn’t be true but still they said it.  They made snide remarks that he would gladly kill Varania’s newborn when the time came.  If he heard those remarks or not, she didn’t know.  It would be cruel to tell him if he didn’t know already.  She knew how much this incident had scarred him.  She only hoped that he could recover from it, in time.  But the others’ scathing comments and glares were not helping.  Her brother _wasn’t_ a murderer.  It _wasn’t_ his fault.  She knew that, and believed it with all her heart, even if he didn’t yet.


	35. Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which new life enters the world through uncertain, and frightening, means.

                Though almost two weeks had passed, Ahline still glared at Leto, and he had resigned himself to the fact that she would never forgive him, nor would she ever say it was not his fault.  Varania knew that her brother had tried to apologize and talk to her half a dozen times, and the last time, she had slapped him with her mangled hand, and he had avoided her since then.

                Leto would spend his days in a numbed stupor, saying little, smiling less.  His fears, self-doubt, and sorrow were relieved daily when he trained, but only temporarily, and then he was back to this broody sulking that Varania was beginning to consider to be “normal” for him, considering that he had been doing it for years every time he grew depressed and quiet.  She worried that he would default to this when she was gone and he was alone.  She didn’t want to think of him as being forever isolated and alone, with all the slaves despising him for acts that Danarius had forced him to commit.

                Varania woke, shifting and uncomfortable.  The unwanted weight on her stomach ached, and she could not find a comfortable position to sleep.  She sat up a little, and slid out of the bed, her bare feet touched the chilly packed earth floor.  She tiptoed out to the privy.  She saw Leto roll over when she opened the door, watched one of his eyes open, look at her, then close.  Only when he was exhausted did he ever sleep through the door opening.  It being the off-season for the arena, he was not so tired as he was in the fall and spring; he wasn’t fighting in the arena any more anyway.

                She finished her business at the privy, irritated that she had to go so frequently, what with her unfair pregnancy.

                Her heart sinking with the thought, she wondered if the abomination growing in her womb was male or female.  She imagined what the child might look like, or _whom_ , more specifically, and feared if it would look like its father.  She didn’t think she could ever even bear to look at the child if it did.  Still, maybe it could be stillborn, or perhaps it would catch a cold and die in infancy…

                The young mage froze, stopping still in her tracks like a frightened doe.  Something warm and liquid ran down her legs.  It wasn’t urine, or blood for that matter.

                She paled.

                The baby had come early.

                She waddled—pregnant women don’t really walk; they waddle—back to the hut, yelling and waking her brother and mother in her panic.  Mieta rose quickly, suddenly all business, sending her son to fetch the women who would be in attendance, and the midwife from the servant’s quarters.  He stopped on his way past to give her a one-armed hug.  She wanted to cry.

                She was absolutely terrified.

                She felt like she was going to die, or worse.  What was worse?  She didn’t know.  She felt… panicked, and everything happened so fast and so slow at the same time.

 

                The early afternoon sun shyly peaked from between sheep-like clouds over Minrathous, warming the gentle winds that stirred the branches in the trees.  Danarius had a meeting that he had tried to avoid and couldn’t in the morning and so the painting was delayed later than was usual, as Raith had to attend to a few of the magister’s usual morning duties.

                The magister sat in attendance to the painting that afternoon, but wasn’t paying too much attention; the entire process had become boring to watch the second or third time it had been done, even though Raith could do it all by memory now.  As was his custom, Danarius had privately listened to all the rumors and stories that went about his manor and its grounds, from a variety of servants that he paid a small sum extra to gather them.  He liked to know _everything_ that went on in his manor, and he did the same twice weekly with the city, and once weekly with both world news and Tevinter news; the practice paid for itself, often as not.

                One bit of information was bothering him:  The girl, Varania, had gone into labor in the night.  His own past was haunting him, and wouldn’t let the matter rest, though he knew he had more important things to think about.

                Damned paperwork never seemed to _end_.  That was the trouble with owning property and land, though—mostly the land.  He had given the wheat and rye fields to his younger brother, but kept the vineyard, and glad of it; he didn’t need the headache. 

                He debated, for the first hour, about asking his little pet about his sister, but never felt overly inclined to bring it up as the painting went on.

                He looked up, to check the careful progress.  Raith’s brush strokes were very confident now.  He had been practicing for weeks though, so they had better be.  His hand was sure, and he was doing it much more quickly.

                The magister’s gaze trailed to Leto’s face, which seemed pale.  He probably hadn’t slept much last night.  He decided that it must be that, and let the matter go, and never mind about the girl either.

                It was probably nothing.

                Just because Roschelle died didn’t mean Varania would.  That would be… stupid, for one.  Unlikely, for another.  He was foolish to think about it, and this was more important anyway.

 

                Night fell again, and Varania was still held fast in the grip of labor.  Mieta had to leave her during the day, and a part of the mage hated her mother for it, but not her brother, who stayed up with her all night, who held her hand.  The midwife had tried to keep him out, and he had demanded to know how she intended to keep him out, when his baby sister was in so much pain.

                At least she knew he cared about her.  He held her hand all night, even when she squeezed hard enough that it obviously crushed his fingers.  He talked to her in soothing tones, brought her water, mopped her brow, hugged her when she needed it.

                “I love you, sis,” he told her, over and over again.  By the second day, she was terrified that she was dying.  He had to leave to be painted, and she had cried, and begged him to stay, and he couldn’t.  “I’m sorry.”

                “Leto, don’t leave me!” she had screamed, reaching out for him.  She watched his heart break in his eyes, looking at her.  She was shaking, and weak and exhausted.  She was so scared that she was going to die.  “I don’t want to die alone.  I want you with me—please!”

                “You won’t die,” he said, but his eyes held uncertainty.  “I love you.  I’ll be back in two hours—I promise.”  He hugged her, kissed her temple, and she held him, fingers digging into his tunic.  He had to plead with her to let go.  They would beat him if he were late.  She wept when he left, and was so frightened that she wouldn’t live to see him return.

                She was tired.  She was so tired.  She felt like the life was draining out of her.  _I can’t do this.  I’m going to die.  Please, Leto, come back before I die.  Please come back._

 

                Leto had never been so close to being late, arriving somewhat disheveled having obviously run to get there on time.  He had been acting positively unsettled, even jumpy, since his arrival.

                “Is it your sister?” the magister finally asked.  The boy looked like he hadn’t slept in two days.  Leto hesitated, but was reluctant to speak and move with the paintbrush on him.  “Raith.”  His apprentice pulled back, obviously annoyed at having his work interrupted, but willing enough.

                Leto swallowed.  “She’s been in labor since the night before last, Master,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

                Danarius paused, staring past him more than at him, not seeing the boy at all.  He thought of Roschelle.  A tiny voice inside him asked, _Is it me?_ But that was just as ridiculous.  His seed had nothing to do with the women that carried it.  Still… the coincidence was unnerving at best.  “Is that so.”  The elf didn’t respond, but instead hung his head, looking exhausted with worry and sleep deprivation.  “Raith, resume.”  He tried to ignore the matter.  Tried to just focus on his work.  If the girl died, it was nothing to him.

                Still…  It bothered him, on some fundamental level he couldn’t name or even give a decent reason for.  He sat up, and considered.  He had saved Mieta from her cancerous illness, both because of Leto, and because he had sat and watched his own mother die of illness.  It was like an atonement for what he hadn’t been able to do before.  Maybe…

                “Raith.  Are you finished?”

                He didn’t respond for a moment, then leaned back.  “Just so,” he responded.

                “Leave us.”

                Raith nodded, cleaned the brushes, put everything away, and left.  Danarius read a report about a missing horse in his stable, and penned a reprimand to the stable master, who had blamed a storm.  Leto stood staring at the floor, and tried not to yawn.  Danarius leaned back in the chair, looking at him for a long moment.  He was naked, and covered in white paint.  Tomorrow, it would be henna again.  There was some fading henna under the paint, too.  “Leto.”

                He raised his head only slightly, the only inclination he had even heard him, but he was listening.  “Yes, Master?” he said after a moment’s delay.

                Danarius chose to ignore it, for now.  Perhaps not in the future.  “Your sister.  She’s dying, I presume?” he asked, voice bland.

                “I…” Leto stammered.

                He continued, “There’s a way she and the child can live.”  He raised an eyebrow.  He had researched it, and read, and thought he knew a way.  He had never had a chance to test it, but he was _certain_ that this had to be it.  And if he had only known at the time, maybe Roschelle would still be alive.  But then where would he be?  Happier, he assumed.  Less cynical.  He was angry with anyone who even seemed happier than he was, and sought to strip it from them.  If he couldn’t be happy, to hell that anyone else would be.  “It’s… experimental.  But I think it will work.”

                Leto suffered no delusions of charity.  “What must I do, Master?” he whispered, his voice shaking in something much like fear.

                Danarius stared at him for a long moment.  “Saving your sister is… something that cannot be delayed.  But, if she lives or dies, you will come back to the manor.”  His fingers laced together, and he felt a sick delight in what he was about to say.  “And you’ll spend the night in my bed—or however long it takes before I tire of you.”

                All colour drained from Leto’s face.  His tongue wet his suddenly parched lips, and he saw that his hands were shaking.  “I…”

                “Do you really think she’ll live?  How long has she been in labor, my little wolf?” he asked him.  “She’s dying, if she even lives now.  Best you decide quickly.”  He looked at Leto for only a moment more, before he looked back at his never-ending sea of paperwork.

                The elf’s head snapped up after a few seconds of careful thought.  For Leto, the decision was easy though—his sister, or his pride?  His sister meant so much to him.  “I…”  Danarius glanced at him inquiringly. “… consent, Master,” he said, though he was pale and shaking, and even looked faintly ill at the words coming out of his mouth.  But at least he was reasonable, even under his weariness and his terror at the idea.  “Please…”

                “Then get dressed; we need to leave immediately.”

 

                Mieta mopped her daughter’s sweat-streaked brow, combed her red hair back.  Both her children had the rarest of hair colours, the rarest of talents.  Why did they end up in slavery?  Mieta had even left that morning, right before Leto, to report to work, though it pained her.  She had been quickly dismissed, because the tailor needed to lock the room, and was leaving to pick up supplies, so Mieta had hurried back to her daughter’s side.  She knew she wasn’t the one Varania wanted to be with her.

                Varania’s voice had given out some time ago.  She couldn’t scream anymore if she wanted to, and had taken to sobbing.

                “I’m going to die,” she had whispered, tears mingling with the sweat.  It had been the last coherent thing she had said, and that had been right after Leto had left.  Now, she was just sobbing, and seemed to be begging with the unknown.  She was a mage; maybe she was bartering with a demon.  Mieta hoped not, but at the same time, she didn’t want to lose her daughter.

                The midwife had stopped someone at the door, and they were speaking in hushed tones, then she stepped aside.  Mieta looked up, and felt her blood run cold.  What was he doing here?  What did _he_ want?  
                She looked down, like she should, and held her daughter’s hand.  Varania’s eyes tracked the magister for a moment, and when he came near, she recoiled.  “No!” she screamed, somehow finding the strength to protest.  “Get out!  I hate you— _get out and leave me alone to die!”_

                He ignored her words as nothing but the ravings of a birthing woman—and perhaps there was some truth to it.  The midwife stood by, nervously dry-washing her hands, with a look on her face like she would very much like to kick the man out, but couldn’t.

                He looked down at Varania.  She was lying in the bed of sweat-soaked sheets, and had originally been wearing a dressing gown, but it had become so unclean that they had taken it off of her when she was having trouble, to better help her, so she had on nothing but a tangled sheet over her nakedness.  Even so, nothing they were doing was helping.

                “Get out,” he told Mieta, and glanced to the midwife as he started rolling up the sleeves of robe.  “You too—out.”

                “Don’t leave me with him,” Varania sobbed, her fingers tightening so hard around Mieta’s hand that it hurt, and she seemed completely unaware of it.  “Please, don’t leave me alone with him!”

                “I…” Mieta stammered.

                But the magister had, in his mind, already dismissed them.  He had a knife in his hand.  Mieta thought the blade looked familiar, but a piece of steel was a piece of steel to her.  “Leto,” he called.  The elf noticed her son standing hesitantly in the doorway for the first time.  “Come here.  And you, woman.  If you must stay, assist your son.  Lash your daughter’s ankles and wrists to the bed—I fear that she will thrash otherwise.”

                Mieta’s eyes narrowed, and years of contempt and hatred surfaced, and she could not stop herself from what she said, and in that moment she didn’t even care.  “You will use her and the life of her unborn child to fuel your dark magic?” she hissed.

                “You’re lucky I don’t cut out that tongue,” he said.  “Leto.”  He inclined his head toward the birthing woman.  He went to his sister, and squeezed her hand briefly, regretfully.

                “It will be all right,” he told her.

                Varania’s green eyes tracked her older brother as he came near her, and the suspicion in them fled at his gentling gaze and steady hand.  Trust filled her eyes, mingling with her pain.  She would trust her brother with her life.  Slowly, she relaxed, and let Leto lash her wrist to the bed post, securely but not so tight as to cause her pain.  And then the other one, and her ankles.  Mieta watched in confusion.  What was going on?  Leto spoke as if Danarius had planned to do something to save her.  With a knife?  By lashing her to the bed?  
                But she followed her son out of the room, outside.  “I hope you know what you’re doing,” she whispered to him.

                The two sat outside, backs against the wall, listening to their daughter and sister cry out in pain, sobbing, shrieking.  Mieta sat with her legs under her.  Leto sat with his knees against his chest, his hands on his knees, and she saw his fingers tighten every time Varania screamed.  He seemed pale to her, sickly looking and terrified.  Was it all worry for his sister?  What had made Danarius himself come help them?  It wasn’t out of a sudden sense of fatherly duty—she knew it was her son.  She wanted to ask.  She wanted to know what he had bargained this time.  She had been suspicious when he had come to heal her.  Varania hadn’t known, and Leto had simply refused to talk about it.  Her daughter had commented that perhaps Leto had killed someone, but Mieta wasn’t sure.

                A new cry pierced the air—an infant’s scream.  Both the elves looked up, distracted from their thoughts and suspicion, and Mieta felt hope stir in her heart.  And… did her ears deceive her, or was that two cries?

                From the open window, she saw light—blue healing light.  Several minutes passed, the infants continued to wail.  The door opened, and the pair rose to their feet, anxious.

                Danarius walked past like he didn’t see what was around him.  He stopped near the two, but didn’t look at either.  Mieta didn’t miss the fact that his robes were splashed with blood, and he was soaked from his fingers to his elbows, and he barely seemed to notice.  They were dripping.  Mieta saw his fingers curl into fists.  He was angry about something.  Furious even.  She wondered, briefly, why, then decided that she didn’t care.

                Mieta quickly excused herself, hurrying into the room.  The midwife, who had stayed close under orders, swept past her into the hut.  Mieta stopped in the doorway, and heard her… former… master say, “… Stay here until two hours after sunset.  And I expect to see you waiting outside my quarters.  And wash off that paint.”  And with that, the magister left.  Leto crossed his arms, as if it were cold.  Mieta pretended that she hadn’t heard, and hurried into the room.

                The midwife was washing the infants.  Mieta helped her, and presented the first one to Varania.  She took it, but with great reluctance, and clearly didn’t want it.  The midwife’s first order of business had been to move Varania to another bed.  When Mieta looked at the other one, she knew there was no salvaging the sheets or even the thin mattress.  It caused temporary distress in her, before she realized that… they weren’t slaves anymore, and after this ritual, they could leave—forever.

                “Is it a boy or a girl?” Varania asked, looking with only partial interest at the resting child.

                Leto knelt beside her, looking simply grateful that she was alive.  He peered around her to look at the babe.  Mieta answered, “This is the boy.  And here’s his sister.”  The infant girl was placed at her other side, swaddled in a long cloth.  She fussed, and whined, and Varania looked away, unwilling to coddle her.  Mieta’s heart fell.  She had hoped that her daughter would be more willing after she saw them.  But… perhaps…

                She ignored this, and picked up her granddaughter, cradling her in her arms.  Leto touched his sister’s shoulder, in some small effort to convey his sorrow for her.  “I don’t want this,” she whispered, her eyes closing in exhaustion.  She was asleep in moments, but the sound of the girl crying woke her, startling her.

                “She’s hungry,” Mieta offered.  “So is your son.”

                “They’re not mine,” Varania whispered.

                Leto looked at her sadly.  “’Nia… please…” he begged her.

                But Mieta’s mageborn daughter sobbed.  “They’re not mine!  They’re not mine, and I hate them!” she cried, but was too weak to push them away.

                Leto took her frail-looking, pale hand in his callused dark ones.  “Take care of my niece and nephew,” he admonished her.  They were innocent, too innocent of all sins to be hated so much by their own mother.

                “What did you have to do to get that man to help me?” Varania’s voice was a ghostly whisper.  Leto only stared at her as if she were speaking another language, his face utterly blank.

                She stopped, and stared up at her older brother as if from across a vast distance.  There was a long silence that passed between them, pierced only by the fussing infant.  The boy had begun to whine too.  Varania sighed, then nodded, and Leto helped her to sit up.  She held the sheet up to her shoulders.  “Get out.  Please?”

                Leto reluctantly left her side, his eyes filled with emotion, and much of it sorrow.  Mieta gave her daughter her granddaughter, but Varania asked her to stay.  Mieta sat at the foot of the bed.

                “Tell me a story,” Varania requested, pulling the sheet down to her waist when the door closed and the midwife left after Leto.

                Mieta thought for a moment.  “You’ve heard all my stories.”

                “Tell me any story—I don’t care,” she said.

                The grandmother thought, and told her a story about the seasons, of how Winter fell in love with Summer and she denied him, and in his wrath, he sought to destroy her, so Autumn and Spring forever separated the two.  It was one she had heard before, but she didn’t care.  Varania sobbed, and complained, hissing in pain.

                Mieta had told her about nursing, about how her nipples would bleed at first, and she gave her no delusions that it would hurt.  And Varania hated it, as Mieta suspected she might truly hate her twins.

                Later, Leto was allowed back inside, and Mieta sent him to get fresh water, though he had obviously been to the well earlier; he had washed off the paint.  He went back, and brought it back for her.  Varania drank gratefully and deeply.

                Mieta held the boy, as he had begun to fuss.  She held him close, swaying gently, and humming a little in an effort to soothe him to sleep.  Leto was watching, and Mieta smiled.  “Do you want to hold him?” she asked him.

                He blinked, and his eyes seemed to light up for a moment, and it made Mieta laugh.  “Um… would that be all right?” he asked tentatively.

                She nodded.  “Come here.”  He came closer.  “Hold out your hands—no, like this.  And cradle his head.”  She deposited the infant into her son’s arms.  She could barely believe she was a grandmother, when she thought about it.  It seemed like not so very long ago that her own children were infants.

                Leto looked down at him.  “He’s so small…” he said, his voice very soft.

                Mieta frowned a little.  “They were both a little premature,” she said.  She left unsaid that many premature infants didn’t live long; she feared that would give Varania too much cheer.

                She understood her daughter; she just didn’t approve.

                Leto stayed by her side for the rest of the day, only ever really leaving to get things for her when she asked, or insisted that she could walk all the way to the privy pit instead of use the chamber pot (Leto carried her while she complained about it), leaving the twins with Mieta.  He brought her a bowl of soup from the longhouse.  Mieta recalled one of the older slaves saying that, a long time ago, they had all been crowded into the one house instead of having multiple huts.  The kitchens themselves were outside, under a thatched roof of course, so even at that time, there was more room than that.  And, soon, no more of that either.  _Freedom_.

                Varania slept when she could, when the twins weren’t fussing, and Leto slept even through that, though only for an hour or two before he woke.

                Mieta noticed that he was anxiously looking outside, watching the sun go down, pacing after it did, crossing his arms again, then uncrossing them.  He went for a brief walk outside, and Mieta saw him eating all alone in a corner during the meal time.  He slept for a few minutes when he returned, but just woke quickly and paced around the small room.  He went to Varania, who was by now asleep next to her twins.  He kissed the top of her head, and pushed her hair out of her face.  His eyes closed, as if in silent grief, his lips mouthing something Mieta didn’t catch, and he rose to his feet.

                He headed to the door, and Mieta started to ask him where he was going, then remembered that bit she had overheard.  No, she had better not say anything.  Best to keep her back turned as she continued dismantling the ruined bedding and cleaning up what she could of the frame.  The door closed behind him.


	36. The Small Print

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The small print of a contract is always the part that signs your life away.

                Lura stepped lightly over the carpet, intent on going back to her freshly cleaned room for the rest of the night; business had died down so a few of those who had met their quotas were released for the time being.  She just wanted to go curl up in bed.

                On the way up the dark stair, she saw the half-elf sitting on a bench, holding the side of his face.  Ordinarily, she might have simply walked by, but the way that people were yelling down the hall made her pause.  She turned toward him.  “What happened?” she inquired.

                He looked up, blinking with surprise that she was even speaking to him.  Most people, she reflected, did not even look at him if they could help it.  He looked too human, and too elven, all at the same time—like parts of his face were supposed to belong to someone else.  The only parts she could stare at were his eyes and his noise, and the rest of his face seemed wrong to her.  He moved his hand a little, revealing a deep, purplish black bruise.  “A man struck me.”

                Her mouth opened in a wide “O” of surprise.  “Why?”

                He raised an eyebrow.  “I don’t know,” he said, touching his face again.  “It was Apprentice Elden,” he said, frowning a little.  “He’s always been…”  He hesitated.  “A bit violent, but he’s never…”  His voice trailed off a little, and he shook his head.

                Lura paused and listened to the heated words down the hall, in the office.  “Is that what’s going on down there?”  She pointed down the hall.

                “’Fraid so,” he admitted dryly.

                She started to go again, and stopped.  “Do you want some water or anything?  Maybe Jairus is still up, and he can make some ice?”  Jairus was the half-apprentice, half-resident healer.  He was old enough to no longer need tutelage in magic, and would sometimes comment to the servants and Mistress Alesand on his progression through the ranks, with intentions of becoming a magister one day.  “Why haven’t they sent you to him yet?”

                “Evidence,” he said with a sigh.

                “I’ll get you a poultice at least,” she said, feeling she should do something.

                “Thanks,” he said, and she hurried off to the infirmary.  The infirmary was a very small room in the servant quarters.  It had two narrow pallets with crisp linen sheets, and smelled of medicine.  It also contained a worn and rather stained desk amidst its cabinets and drawers, and at the desk was a chair, and in the chair, was the tawny-haired, somewhat pimply mage that was their healer.  He had a few jars open, and looked to be partially mixing herbs, and partially reading a thick book of law.

                “Pardon me?” she inquired, when he still had not acknowledged her.

                He jumped, as if startled.  He blinked, looking at her, and set the mortar and pestle down.  “Ah, Lura…?”  His voice was inquiring, as if he was not certain he remembered her name.  “What is it?”

                She frowned a little.  Whatever she had once pictured mages to be, Jairus was not that.  He was messy and disorganized, always somehow managing to look frumpy and could not quite control his hair.  Every time she came down, he was always engrossed in a book, sometimes whispering the words out loud to himself, or writing notes on his chalkboard, which looked like scribbles to one who could not read.  And likely looked like scribbles to ones who could too.

                “Master Jairus, might I have a poultice?  Shanamyn is hurt, but he can’t be healed yet.”

                His eyebrows raised a little, and he got out of his chair, knocking over a small tin as he did so.  He stooped to pick it up.  “He’s hurt?  Why can’t he be healed?  How is he hurt?”

                She watched him set the tin back down, and move to a cabinet.  “Yes, he’s hurt.  He can’t be healed in case evidence is needed, and it seems a client struck him.”

                “Just a bruise then?” he said, setting the gauze down, then awkwardly picking it up again, then setting it back down.  She pursed her lips, wondering how it was that he had even managed to become an apprentice to begin with.

                He selected a few jars, muttering to himself, putting one back.  He picked up a horn and inspected the stopper, then set it aside, then moved it again, all the while muttering to himself.  He selected a few more things, and set to work.  “You’re going to be a magister one day?” she inquired.

                “I’ll be tested in this year for Senior Enchanter,” he commented offhandedly, dropping a jar.  It didn’t break, thankfully.  He sighed in relief, picking it up again.  He seemed a little too uncoordinated to her to make it as a magister.  She was certain that those men and women needed a touch more poise and coordination than he possessed.

                “Tell Vachel to keep it on until he can come see me,” he said, sounding absent-minded as ever.

                “Shanamyn,” she corrected, wondering who “Vachel” was.

                He stopped, and hesitated.  “Don’t tell him I told you that, but that’s his real name.”

                Lura stood in shock.  “What?” she whispered as he set the poultice in her hands.

                The human turned from her, already mostly disconnected from the conversation.  “Madame Alesand changed his name when he came here.  Said it made him sound more elven, if he had an elven name.  ‘Vachel’ is an Orlesian name, but a _human_ one.  Think I’m the only one who calls him that though, but he’ll just act all weird if you say his real name.”

                Lura thanked him, and left, and wondered what it would be like have her name changed like that, knowing every day that it wasn’t her real name, but having to respond to it.  Having to introduce herself to people by a name that was not her own.  What would she say?  _My mistress calls me ‘some-other-name’_ she would have to say, so pleasantly while she wanted to scream out, _My name is Lura!_

                And she looked at him, and gave him the poultice, and told him to keep it on the bruise, and all she could think was, _His name is Vachel._

                Two hours later, she wandered down the hall, and saw him still sitting there, heard the arguing still going on, and he was lying on the bench at that point, staring at the ceiling.

                “I could get you a blanket, or a pillow,” she offered.

                He shrugged.  “Does nothing for the boredom,” he complained.  “I had to make a statement about two hours ago—that’s what started it again.”  He looked up at her.  “It’s gotten so bad, there are _two_ magisters in there, at each other’s throats, yelling about the apprentice.  Over ‘damaged property’.”

                She looked alarmed.  “Are you hurt anywhere else?” she asked, concerned.

                He frowned a little.  “My face is the worst bruise, sure, but he did a number on my back too.  Hell,” he added, flinching a little as he moved, took a deep breath.  “Stomach too.  And don’t ask about anything below that.”

                She bit her lip.  “You need to be healed,” she insisted.

                He sighed, and looked away.  “Not allowed to, until the magister lets me,” he said.

                Lura blurted, “Who changed your name?”  She hadn’t intended to say it.  It was rude, certainly, and she was terribly curious, but all the same, she had never intended to actually say it.

                He did not seem to be offended, however.  “How’d you know?” he asked, staring back up at the ceiling.  Then he kind of smiled.  “No, I guess Jairus must have mentioned it.  He’s so scatterbrained sometimes, and he hates my name.”

                “Shanamyn…?  Or, Vachel?”

                “Hmm?”

                “No, I mean, he hates which name?”

                “Oh, Shanamyn,” the half-elf replied.  “I don’t even think of myself by that name anymore, so when he calls me ‘Vachel’ it takes me a minute to realize he means me.”

                She looked at him, and she felt sorrowful for some reason.  It seemed sad to her.  “What’s it like… when you have a different name?”

                He looked at her, then back at the ceiling.  “I was a kid when Madame Alesand changed my name.  I was upset and angry for a while.  Then I just got used to it.”

                She felt like her name was all she had left of the life she had had before she had become a slave.  She couldn’t bear to have that taken from her as well as everything else.  It would leave her stripped of everything she had ever been.  How could she even be herself, if even her name were taken away from her?

 

                Danarius was late.  Not by design; he just didn’t care enough to not keep his little pet waiting. Besides, that suited him.  He didn’t care if he waited and contemplated what was going to happen tonight.  Let him wait, and worry, and fret.  The waiting was often worse than the act.  Besides, he had to go yell at the visiting magister and his apprentice for abusing his property; some things couldn’t wait.

                He passed the elf on his way to the door, and opened it.  He walked past, leaving the door open.  “Come,” he told him.  Leto hesitated, and followed him in.  “Close the door.”  The door closed.  The room was near-dark, lit only by long, tapered beeswax candles.  He disliked torches, and didn’t like gas lamps at all, as those were messy and stank, and it was entirely too warm for a fire.  There was always the blue orbs of mage’s light, but that required effort on his behalf and cast eerie shadows.

                His robes from earlier had been ruined.  That was fine.  He didn’t really have any attachment to clothing, aside from the minor annoyance of attaining new ones.  At least they weren’t his court robes.  But it had really been his own fault; he really should have stripped down a bit.  He hadn’t been thinking… most unlike him.  _Roschelle…_

                Too late now.  He removed his ring first, placing it on the mantelpiece with a sense of finality.  Roschelle had given it to him--had it made special, actually.  He should get rid of it.  “Strip,” he ordered his slave.

                He didn’t turn to watch; didn’t see a point.  He went instead to a small table, pulled out a chair, and sat.  He looked back at his slave, who stood naked.  Ah, so Leto hadn’t seen a point in drawing out the moment either, and left the rough-spun linens in a heap on the floor.  He also hadn’t seen a point in wasting time folding them.  Some had, had tried to push the moment as far back as possible.  What they didn’t realize, but what Leto seemed to realize, was that it scarcely prolonged the inevitable enough to make it worth it; the waiting was worse.  And anyway, Danarius had already seen every inch of him.  The henna on his skin had faded, but he could still see it.  It made a good map for Raith; he should have him do that again before the ritual.

                He needed this, the magister reflected.  He needed the stress relief, to vent his frustrations out on his slave.  The work of a magister was tedious at best, and the preparations for the ritual were even worse.  He could use some relief.

                The mage glanced to the table, eyes flicking to the bottle of wine.  “Pour me a glass,” he told him.  Leto strode over to him, staying an appropriate distance away.  He gingerly uncorked it, and held it in both hands.  He poured it, and set it back down, but left it uncorked.  He stood near, in attendance.  Let him wait.  Let him wonder what was going to happen, and how.  He saw no reason to rush things.

                He sipped at the glass, watching the elf over the brim of it.  He was pale, and there was a faint trembling he detected in his hands.  His earlier terror hadn’t seemed to diminish much over time, but he looked like he had managed to sleep a little at least.  The magister’s gaze shifted back to the wine bottle.  He had had a couple small glasses of it in the past.  There was maybe a third of it left, maybe a bit more.  He pointed to the bottle.  “Let’s make this easier on you.  Drink it.”  He took another sip of his own.  Leto paused as he reached forward, hesitating as if he weren’t quite sure he understood the order.  “Drink it,” he repeated.  “All that’s left in the bottle.”

                Leto picked up the bottle, closed his eyes for a moment.  Remembering something?  And he put the bottle to his lips, tilting his head back.  He drank, and only put the bottle down again when it was empty, licking the corner of his lips.  Obedient little wolf.  He swayed a little bit, dizzy, but stayed on his feet.  His lips twitched and he started to make a face, then schooled the expression with some effort; the mark of one who drank only very little or not at all.

                It was… potent; that was certain.  He took another sip, and set the glass down.  “On your knees.”

                It took him a moment to fully process what he had said, and then his eyebrows raised in alarm.  “That… Master, that wasn’t…”

                His fingers drummed, irritated, on the table.  “And you’re my slave, and you’ll do as I say.”

                “I…  Yes, Master,” he said, hanging his head in defeat, going to his knees.  Danarius gestured him closer, to crawl.  He liked watching him do it, delighted in it in fact.  It told him a great deal about an individual, too—watching them crawl.  Some were graceful and sensual, others childlike and uncertain.  Leto, though, moved like it gave him great pain to do so—head low, and as if a part of him were broken.  Poor thing—he really hated this.  If he were well-behaved, perhaps Danarius should reward him.

                It was warm in here.  He rose, and undressed, tossing the robes to the side carelessly, and noted that his slave kept his eyes fixed on the floor.  He sat back down, taking another sip of the wine.  He had all night, after all.

                He set the glass down again, looking back at his trembling slave.  He casually leaned forward, wrapping his fingers in his short hair, and hauled him forward.  The boy made only the smallest noise of alarm as he pulled his head between his legs, and then another noise that he imagined was that of defeat and abject misery.

                He leaned back in the chair, stroking the boy’s hair as he felt himself harden in his mouth.  He was a bit better at it than last time—whether the drink actually made him better at it, or he just remembered what he had learned the last time, he couldn’t say.  Nor did he particularly care.

                As the elf worked at bringing him to orgasm, he thought.

                Leto was nothing if not a martyr.  He had done this to save his mother’s life before.  He was doing it now to save his sister’s.  He was going through with the ritual for both of them.

                And the more he thought about it, the more he thought, _Damn_.

                He was going to undergo that ritual.  He was going to be his slave, his bodyguard, his personal pet, for the rest of his life, and would do so knowing that he was sacrificing everything to “save” another.  He was a martyr.  He would forever take solace in that knowledge.

                Danarius didn’t want him to take solace.  He didn’t want him to look back on his choices and feel like everything worked out for the best.  He didn’t want Leto to look at his life and feel like he had done the right thing, and take hope in that his family was free.

                He wanted him miserable, and hopeless, downtrodden—because if he were a martyr, he’d begin to think, and wonder.  He may even feel pride for the first time, from what he had done.  No, no—he just couldn’t have that.

                So the magister thought, his fingers twining in his pet’s thick hair.  Solutions.  He needed solutions.  There was no solution.  No matter how he looked at it, Leto was a damned martyr.  The little cheeky bastard was a _martyr_.  Even the other slaves would see that.  They would look at him like some kind of damned hero.  _Why hadn’t he thought of this before_?

                Now, he felt desperate.  He _needed_ a solution.  Well, he would sell the slaves, for one.  Get new ones—ones that didn’t know.  That was simple enough.  He could even use _all_ of them as the blood he needed for the ritual—that was probably the best option.  But what of Leto?

                The only real way to keep him from really _being_ a martyr was to keep him from _realizing_ he was a martyr.  But how?  It wasn’t that difficult to see, and it was clear enough that the boy was some kind of sacrifice…

                But then he relaxed again, his temporary near-panic easing.

                What if the elf simply didn’t _remember_ any of it?  Not just the tournament, but his family?  No, his entire _life_?  He had no need of it any more.  He was certainly never going to see his family again.  What need had he of memories?  They would only bring him pain anyway, to think on it.

                He had a book regarding the blood magic involved with memories.  Most of it was in reading another’s memories, but he seemed to recall…  Well, he could read into it later.  There was time enough yet, before the lyrium arrived.  And, if he recalled correctly, he could very easily weave _that_ spell in with the ritual.

                Now there was a thought.

                And his first waking memories would be of the ritual—that was fine.  The elf would wake thinking it had been the _ritual_ that had cleansed his mind.  Now that he thought about it, that was ideal actually; his pet could blame the ritual for the memory loss and not his master directly.  He could even mold Leto into whatever he desired of him.  He would awaken frightened, confused, not remembering anything.  Now Danarius felt intrigued at the idea.  Yes, he wanted to do that.  It was the perfect solution to everything.  His little wolf would be reborn.  If he were careful, he could fashion him exactly as he wanted him to be—predictable, incapable of independent thought, and perfectly obedient.

                The first thing to go would have to be his name.  He disliked it anyway.  What should he re-name him?  He considered, and decided that it would require some careful thought.

                “Stop,” he told him, and noted with some amusement that he didn’t have to tell him twice; Leto backed away quickly, keeping his head down.  His lips were moist.  “Stand up.”

                Slowly, on shaking knees, the elf stood up.  His shoulders were hunched, head down.  He looked smaller than he actually was.  Was that all it took?  Pathetic.

                Danarius offered him the glass.  “Finish this,” he told him.  Leto carefully took the glass from him, making sure their hands didn’t actually touch.  Charming.  He also drank from the opposite side he had been drinking, and almost seemed grateful for it.  Perhaps he thought that if he drank enough, he wouldn’t remember tonight.  _Yes, pet, you don’t want to remember.  You don’t want to remember anything._   He may be right.  He also thought, snidely, that he was quite eager to get the taste of pre-cum out of his mouth.

                The elf set the glass down on the table when it was drained.  It lent a flush to his cheeks.  The last bit of that had been enough to tip him over the edge.  He was probably drunk, or would be soon enough, after the wine had time to settle.

                Danarius sat back in the chair, enjoying the sight of him.  He had waited for quite some time for this.  Had thought about taking him for _some time_.  He hadn’t—couldn’t remember why not at the moment, but it was worth the wait.  “Before we begin,” he said slowly, a ghost of a smile gracing his lips.  “I don’t mind if you cry.  I’d like it if you screamed.  But if you think to beg for me to stop…”  He glowered for a moment.  “I’ll kill your sister and the twins.”

                He swallowed hard.  “I understand, Master,” he whispered, throat gone dry.

                The magister watched him for a moment.  “There’s a pitcher of water on the stand.  Why don’t you go drink some of it?”

                It was a command, worded as a question.  He didn’t want him fainting from exhaustion or dehydration, after all.  And, drinking water after imbibing alcohol only thinned the alcohol and made it travel faster.  In short, it would get his little wolf drunk that much more quickly—and minimize the hangover in the morning, and his pet _still_ had to be painted for two hours tomorrow morning.  Besides, he was his property—expensive property soon—and he had best look after and care for him.

                All the same, he watched his pet pour a glass, hesitate, and drink.  He waited, all too patient, not caring at all that his penis had gone flaccid; that was what his pet’s mouth was for.

                He let his slave stand for a while as he considered what exactly he wanted to do first.  Try to make him cry, if possible.  Sadism was a small pleasure he was frequently unable to indulge in, sexually anyway.

                He rose, and moved the wine glass to a small stand, and picked up the bottle.  A thought struck him.  “Leto.  Come here, bend over the table.”

                The elf positively jumped, and looked wooden when he walked back, and even more wooden when he obeyed his command, eyes squeezed shut, palms flat against the smooth wood.  It was actually just the right height… but Danarius already knew that.

                The half-elf had insisted that he had mounted Leto, and the elf had enjoyed it.  But he also admitted that he couldn’t make it last long, and listed off some valid-sounding excuse for it.  Danarius had nearly had the boy sold for it, but his mistress was emphatic that the kid had two regulars who wouldn’t come anymore if he did, so he had relented not to.

                Still, it was… good to know that, under the right circumstances, the elf could enjoy it.  These were not the right circumstances.

                Unlike some people, Danarius had no illusions that his slave could ever like this.  He had no illusions that Varania had enjoyed him taking her either.  Some people would _insist_ that the ones they raped secretly liked it, had asked for it, wanted them to.  He wasn’t so deluded, and, frankly, didn’t care how they felt about it.  He had no reason to.  The elf was property, to do with as he wished, nothing more.  That he could speak, move—all of it was trivial.  He was the master; he was the one he served, in any manner of his choosing.  The feelings and pains of his property were not even worth his thought.  That he was giving his pet any kind of consideration was simply because he felt that Leto was worth some small amount of care.  He had invested a lot into him already, and soon to be more.  His pet had earned any kindness he gave him.  The wine was one of those kindnesses.

                “If you relax, it won’t hurt as much,” he advised him, his free hand running down his muscled thigh the same way a butcher would inspect a cow for slaughter.  He moved his other hand between the boy’s legs, and listened for any kind of whine or any noise he might make.  He was utterly silent, eyes squeezed shut, and still foolishly tensed.  He had warned him.  The lip of the bottle was met with some resistance, and the elf yelped, and whined, hissing in pain, but overall stayed obediently still while the mage pushed it into him, heedless of if it hurt or not.  He watched his face, more interested in watching it contort in pain.  He held on to the base of the bottle and shoved, hard—harder than perhaps he should have.  The elf gasped, and it ended in a low whine, fingers clenched.

                “Open your eyes,” he told him.  His green eyes opened.  Cold sweat was beading on his forehead, born of terror and, possibly, pain.  The mage liked to watch his face contort with every thrust of the empty bottle, and was pleased when the elf’s eyes began to water.  The elf’s hand rose, covering his mouth to stifle a cry of pain, but fell away when Danarius began to glare.  He listened to his soft whimpering for a while, and then the elf fell silent, lower lip trembling and breathing only shallowly.  Maybe it didn’t hurt as much as it did initially.  He noted, with some impatience, that he couldn’t fit any more of the bottle into him.  He pushed down on it, and wriggled the bottle, fast, pumping it into him until he whimpered again.

                Finally annoyed, he yanked the bottle out, fast enough that the elf just crumpled to the floor.  He slammed the bottle down on the table, and cuffed Leto, for falling.

                “Get on the bed,” he told him.  The elf shivered, and crawled backward, away from his master, before he rose.  He stalked toward the bed, hesitated, and climbed on to the silk comforter, on his knees, kneeling.  Danarius watched him shake, and wipe at his eyes with the back of one hand.  He had been about to cry, but in pain.  “Lay on your back in the center of the bed.”

                He watched the elf crawl toward the center, found himself staring at his legs, his ass.  The boy stopped, and rolled onto his back, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling, as if he were dying.  Maybe, to a degree, he was.

                Danarius stretched until he heard his spine pop, flexed his fingers, taking his time.  He drank some water from a clean crystal cup.  “Are you drunk yet, my pet?” he asked him.

                A pause, then, “Uh…  I think so, Master,” he said, his voice deadened, but a little slurred.

                He nodded to himself, and set the empty cup down.  He climbed onto the bed, over to his pet.  For a while, he just touched him, explored him, all the while watching for what he seemed to hate the most.  His neck was sensitive, he noticed.  So were his nipples, and he had a very sensitive spot around his hip that made him twinge when he gripped it.  His upper thighs, toward his groin, were just as sensitive, and he almost tried to kick when he touched his ankles—might be ticklish.

                He turned the elf’s head to him, his hand on his chin.  “Is your family going back to Seheron?” he asked him, a plan beginning to form in his mind.  He saw it all so clearly.

                Green eyes blinked in surprise.  “I think... that was what they were talking about, Master,” he said.  His words were a little slurred together again, and he could see in his eyes that he was well and truly drunk.

                “They’ll need passage.”

                He blinked slowly.  “You… were paying my mother for her services, Master.”

                He snorted.  “It will barely be enough for the crossing.”  He smiled, slowly, leisurely.  “But it’s nothing to me to pay for the crossing.”

                A long pause, and then the boy just looked hurt, genuinely in some kind of deep emotional pain, touched faintly by anger.  “Master, what else do you want from me?” he sobbed, his voice ending in a strangled cry of pain.  “I have _nothing left_.”

                “Kiss me, and I’ll pay for your mother’s crossing,” he whispered.  Leto’s eyes widened, breathing seemed to stop.  “Embrace me when I fuck you, and I’ll pay for your sister’s.  Convince me you don’t hate what I’m doing to you, and I’ll give them a generous stipend on top of it.”

                His eyes watered, indisputably watered.  His eyes closed, and tears tracked down his cheeks.  A sound escaped his throat, so pitiful and full of pain, and abject misery, that for a moment, even Danarius was moved to pity.  But the moment was fleeting.  He was reminded of how young he was.  Seventeen?  Or was it eighteen?  Something around that—but so young.  He had been married and a magister at that age, though; he wasn’t swayed just because of the elf’s age.  … But his expression made him look so much younger—broken and like once not very long ago, he had been innocent.  “Please, anything else, Master,” he whispered, and his voice carried that same pitiful, painful, miserable sound.

                That was it.  That was exactly what he needed him to say.  “All right, pet.  But only because you cried,” he said, running his thumb through the tear.  “I don’t want a martyr.”  Sage eyes opened again, questioning through the alcohol.  “I think your memories are worth your family’s passage, and that stipend I mentioned.”

                “I don’t… understand, Master,” Leto said, his eyes begging.

                And he smiled, and ran his fingers through that ebony hair.  Hair like…  “You don’t need to know the specifics of the spell, my pet.  But, I have no desire to have you be a martyr for your family.  And, tell me, do you think your memories will serve you any purpose as my personal pet?  Do you even _want_ to remember… tonight, for an example?  Or that Dalish girl you murdered?  Or the infant you killed?  Do you want to remember any of that?”

                A pause, then, “Not… really…”

                “Then consent, and I will honor our bargain.”  He remembered the spell now—most of it anyway.  One of the key components of it was that it was considerably easier, and risked less brain damage, if the subject gave consent.

                He was thinking about it, considering.  “But… then I won’t remember my family…”

                Danarius ran his hand down the boy’s chest.  “Do you think it would bring you any comfort to not know where they are, if they are alive or dead?  Do you think it will even matter, as you won’t be seeing them again?  Won’t it be… easier… to not remember?”

                He looked away, and his eyes closed for a long moment in thought.  They opened.  “Can I think about it, Master?”

                Danarius blinked, not at all prepared for that question.  “Yes,” he decided.  “Tell me by the end of the day tomorrow.”  If nothing else, he would just get him drunk again, and do something similar, but tell him that he had to come to that decision immediately.

                “Thank you, Master,” he said, voice sounding a little mechanical.

                The magister ran his fingers back up to the boy’s neck, then to the back of his head.  He lifted his head up, guiding his lips back to his crotch.  He seemed… better at this after drinking the wine.  It took some time still, but he was enjoying it after a bit of patience, thrusting deeper into his mouth, listening to him choke and gag on it when the movement was unexpected, felt the boy wanting to pull away, but not being allowed to.  Interestingly enough, Leto’s gag reflex was not actually very sensitive.  Most of the gagging must just be instinctive; he thought he should be gagging, or he hated it so much that he did.  He could tell the difference; Leto didn’t actually vomit or even convulse.

                Then the magister shoved him backwards, away from him.  He gripped his shoulders, shoving him back down on the bed.  There was an instinctual struggle.  The elf, briefly, had no control over it; it was an instinct, and Danarius thought they both realized that Leto was, physically, stronger than he was.  Then the elf let him push him down, obeyed when Danarius told him to spread his legs.  The green eyes closed again, not wanting to watch.

                The magister knelt between the elf’s legs, positioning himself, one hand steadying himself on his slave’s hip.  “Open your eyes,” he hissed.  His eyes snapped open, staring upwards, wide and in horror.  Elves had wider irises than a human, he reflected momentarily.  Probably why it was said that their night vision was better, and that they supposedly saw more colours than humans.  He was still fairly open from the bottle, and entry up to nearly three inches was easy.  He felt the elf tense, and he gasped as he tightened around him, a feeling that made his slave whine again.  The magister braced himself, and slammed the rest of him inside him, without warning or preparation—which in truth hurt both of them.  A gasp escaped Leto’s throat, his lip trembling, his fingers winding into the comforter.  The human shoved his legs up, over his hips, and out of the way for the most part.

                He was tight, hot, and overall felt good.  The bed was sufficiently sturdy so it did not shift, but sometimes the wood groaned.  He pushed into the elf hard enough that it drove the breath from his lungs, shoving him forcefully _away_ even, closer to the headboard.  A few more similar thrusts, and the elf had to put his hand against the headboard, to keep his head from smacking against it—that was allowed.  And as he pounded into him, began to notice…  His hand reached down, exploring his suspicions, and Leto bit his lower lip, his eyes wide in a silent plea.

                “When you’re drunk you like it?” he taunted him.  Son of a bitch.  He’d remember this.

                “No…” he gasped in clear and obvious denial, and covered his mouth, holding back a cry that the elf was nothing but ashamed of.

                Danarius paused, his eyes widening.  Hair of jet, sage eyes, a hand over a mouth to stifle a cry that shouldn’t be heard…  If anyone knew…

                Enraged, the magister back-handed him, hard enough to bruise.  His fingers wrapped around his throat, and Leto took in shallow breaths, eyes wide.  He cuffed him again, and suddenly wanted, not to possess him, but to _kill_ him.  His magic demanded it.  His rage demanded it.  His hand raised.  Fire danced around his palm, demanding the boy’s death.

                He took deep, calming breaths, and the feeling passed.  He closed his fist, and the fire extinguished itself in a blaze of heat.

                He slapped him again, and climbed off of him, slipping out of him.  “Get out,” he said acidly.  “Before I change my mind.”

                Leto’s eyes were wide, frightened, but slid away.  He heard him scurry about the room, grab his clothes.  He didn’t pause to dress; the boy just fled.  Smart.

                _I almost killed him_.

                He shook his head, and fell against the bed, naked and alone.  He missed Roschelle.

                And he missed Shallise enough to want to kill her.  Leto just reminded him of Shallise, that was all.  Same hair, eye colour was similar enough, and they looked just alike enough for him to see it, especially in that moment.

                He should have taken the bastard from behind.  Then this wouldn’t have happened.  Should have…

                It didn’t matter.

                Roschelle was gone.  Shallise was gone.  It just didn’t matter.

 

                Mieta helped her daughter with the twins before she left for the day, to work.  She was supposed to find out how much the crossing would be today.  Lana was very kind, and was more than willing to help her if she needed it, and Mieta had asked that she find out how much only the cheapest crossing would be.  They had to make whatever she made last as long as possible.

                Leto had come back sometime late the night before.  She had gotten a look at him; he looked ashen, and there was a nasty bruise on one side of his face that he refused to comment on.  He seemed sick to his stomach, and like he didn’t want to move from bed.  Mieta wondered if he had been fighting again.  She had hoped he was past all that.  At the same time, that was very likely the _best_ thing it could be.  She remembered, all too clearly, the magister’s orders for him.  She dared not consider it too deeply.

                When she was finished with the day’s work, she was pleasantly surprised to see her son waiting for her in the garden.  The bruise had darkened to a deep shade of purple, and he seemed barely aware of it.  She chose not to comment; he never talked about any bruises or anything he collected if he could help it, never had.

                They talked for a little while, of mundane things.  He inquired as to her current project she was working on, and she told him about it.  Then he got to the heart of the matter, “Will you have enough for the crossing?”

                She sighed.  “Barely.”  Then she smiled up at her son, her chest swelling with a sort of fierce pride.  “But we’ll be free.  Because of you.”

                He tried to smile, and failed, then looked away.  “Won’t it be difficult—being penniless with the twins?  You… won’t have anywhere to go when you get off the ship…”

                She shrugged, simply happy to no longer be a slave.  And she was certainly not staying in Minrathous a single moment longer than she had to.  “Yes, I’m sure it will.  But I’m a skilled tailor, and your sister is a mage.  We’ll get by.”

                He fell silent, but seemed unconvinced, even concerned.  He walked with her to the compound, and looked up at the setting sun, and excused himself.  She watched him trot back to the manor, and wondered what he must be up to.  Her secretive son would not tell her though.

                She asked Varania if he had been acting strange at all that day.  Her daughter thought about it, and said, “No more than usual.”


	37. Execution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which another character meets their fate, and Leto has to try to cope with his life and his actions.

                Danarius smiled.  His little wolf had come back, just before the sun had truly gone down, and told him that he accepted his terms.

                “Good.  I’m glad to hear it, pet.”  He raised an eyebrow.  “It will be… easier… for you if you don’t remember.  Though I don’t recommend telling your family about it.”  The elf shook his head a little, but said nothing, and bit his lower lip, like he wanted to say something more.  The magister quirked an eyebrow.  “Is there anything more?”

                His eyes flicked upwards, then back down again.  “The… whore… Lura.  From the brothel, the House of Jade…”

                He was vaguely amused.  “Do you want her again?  I’m sure something could be… arranged.”  In truth, he was so pleased by the way that events were going, he saw it as nothing but an investment that would be quickly repaid if he were to keep his little pet occupied and satiated for the time being.  He wouldn’t want him to start to doubt.  It was imperative that the elf remained certain and resolute, and determined to live most of all.

                He shook his head a little.  “Master…  What must I do… for you to let her go?”

                What an interesting turn of events.  Danarius leaned back in the chair, and thought for a moment.  He considered his schedule, really thought about it.  He didn’t need anything more from his pet, not really.  He had his body, his willingness, his memories and mind.  He would even sear his mark onto his soul.  But when he thought about it, one of those twins would make the perfect link between them—their living blood, a bridge of blood between them during the ritual.  “I would let the girl go for either one of the twins.”

                Leto visibly paled, but chose his words carefully.  “Master, they are not mine to give.”

                Very well.  He thought Varania could be easily swayed to give one of them up anyway, if he chose to ask, though she might refuse out of spite.  “True enough.”  He paused in his thought.  “Do you love the whore?”

                The question made his slave blink in shock.  “I… No, Master…”  _Lies,_ he thought, but hadn’t bothered to use blood magic to tell.  This was just intuition speaking.  But he was a child, overall, still—if he did love her, he may not really realize it yet.

                He frowned.  Then why make the request, though, if he didn’t know how he felt about her?  Had she asked him to?  Was Leto really that much of a damned bleeding heart?  He was suddenly assured by the fact that he had consented to the memory wipe.  “Did she put you up to this?” he demanded.

                Leto’s eyebrows arched.  “No, she didn’t, Master.”

                His frown deepened, brow creasing in thought.  Then why…?  “If you don’t love her, and she didn’t beg you to do this, why are you?”

                The elf stared downwards, at the floor.  He chose his words carefully, and they came with the utmost disinclination.  “I… I can’t stand to think of her like that, Master.”

                He raised an eyebrow.  Yet he was fine with all the other slaves?  No, there was something more to it than that, and now he was certain.  “What is she to you?”

                Leto seemed reluctant.  “I… knew her, Master,” he admitted.  “In Seheron.”

                He remembered someone from when he was three?  He had spent two nights with her.  Perhaps they had talked, and realized they knew one another.  It was possible, he supposed.  Unlikely—bloody unlikely—but possible.  It only served to give validity to his former thoughts.

                He didn’t like that idea—Lura--at all.  He leaned back in his chair.  He had done some research on the memory spell since last night.  There were things that could trigger his memories.  Seeing someone he knew would do it.  He should have Lura killed.  It was a good thing that his family wanted to be away from Minrathous.

                But the slave compound, the mansion, the coliseum, all of those things could trigger his memories.  It was such a precise spell—powerful, but exacting.  It required that the individual be utterly removed from their life.  The first couple of years would be the most difficult, and the most interesting.  He would be like a blank book, waiting to be filled.  His capacity to learn would be that of a child, but with the mental capabilities of an adult.  He needed to be in an environment with people he had never met, places he had never seen, for at least the first two years.  Those were the crucial stages of the spell, the time it settled, sunk its roots into his mind.  Anything— _anything_ —could shatter it in the first two years.  Except Danarius himself; because he was the caster, he was shielded from it.

                Well, he had a manor out in the country, on a vineyard.  It was high time he visited it.

                But, if he were to return after the two years, he had best sell his current slaves—whichever ones he didn’t use for the ritual--and buy new ones, new household staff, possibly remodel part of the mansion—that was actually an excellent idea, and the perfect reason to be away at the country manor for so long.

                He had best get rid of the whore too.  He could simply have her executed, he supposed.  But why, when he may have use for her later?  Leto had some kind of attachment to the girl.  If ever he needed Lura, he had best keep her alive.  Under his thumb, but alive.  He could track Varania at any time; she was a Circle mage, even if she were a slave, and she had a phylactery.  Mieta, the tailor, would not turn away Lura if they were from the same city, and Varania would not leave her mother.

                He almost forgot about him, but then suddenly remembered the half-elf.  Well, he could eliminate that problem right now, and he saw now that getting rid of Lura like this would be beneficial for himself as well.  “Tomorrow night, if you obey me, I’ll release the whore with your mother and sister.”

                Leto nodded, and bowed low.  “Thank you, Master.”  The relief was evident in his voice.

                “Go,” he dismissed him.

                Tonight, Danarius decided to redirect his plans, and visited the House of Jade.  The girl was apparently just finishing with a client, so he waited in their tearoom, one of the whores all too eager to giggle and hop onto his lap.  When Lura came downstairs, he didn’t even look up until she went to him.  She kept her head down, respectfully, but smiled softly, peering up at him through thick lashes.

                She was a delightful little thing, and as lithe as a weasel, tireless too, and had a lovely belly.  Yes, he saw what would make Leto care about her, though he was stupid for doing so.

                …  Danarius had once been just as stupid.  Oh, Shallise…

                Leto could learn a few things from Lura about sucking cock.  He debated, briefly, on bringing her with him for tomorrow night, but decided that, no, his little pet’s mind was delicate enough right now.  He wanted just enough pressure on his slave’s mind to _bend_ it, maybe break it, but not destroy it.

 

                It was dark, but not the eternal, inky blackness of a void, just dark.  He saw a dim amount of light from a flickering torch farther up the hall, beyond the cell they had put him in.  He wondered how long he would stay here.  What had happened?  He didn’t even really know where he was.

                Shanamyn’s legs drew up against his chest.  His arms wrapped around his legs, clasping loosely in front of him.  Had someone said something to him that they shouldn’t have?  If so, he didn’t know what it could be.  And he didn’t care!  He honestly didn’t care.  If someone had accidentally told him military secrets, or something, he didn’t remember it, and it meant nothing to him anyway.  What did a whore care about anything like that?

                They had brought him out of the whorehouse.  There were whispers, and he could feel people watching him from the shadows as his wrists were bound behind him, and a sackcloth bag was thrown over his head, so he could not see.  A cord was put around his neck, and it felt so nostalgic that he balked at first, then followed the person leading him.

                They kept the cord too tight around his neck, and sometimes jerked it as they walked, either on purpose or on accident, it made little difference to him; he still stumbled and nearly fell.  Someone had pushed him forward, and his knees had hit a step.  Someone told him to step up, and he did, slowly, uncertainly.  And another step, and a gloved hand to the small of his back made him fall into the carriage.  It was a prison transport carriage, though he couldn’t really tell.

                He had lain on the wood of the bottom of the carriage, and listened to the horse’s hooves, the sound of the cobblestone and the wheels turning.  It had been ages since he had so much as left the House of Jade.  And this was how he was to leave it?

                He wished he could at least be told why.

                He had tried to ask them, when the door opened again, but he was cuffed for speaking, and he quickly fell silent.  He was led, by the cord around his neck, up a path.  It was cobblestone at first, then gravel, and he had to tread lightly on it.  It was uncomfortable on his bare feet.  Elves, he suspected, had somewhat stronger feet than humans—than he did certainly.  But he had no real need of shoes in the House, so he didn’t actually own any.  They said it made him a little more elven that way anyway.  Point being, the gravel was painful, and he wished they would let him walk over dirt rather than this.

                But he was then led up two steps—more quickly than he was comfortable with, and his feet again touched wooden floors.  He tried to keep some amount of slack on the cord, but it was difficult without the use of his hands or eyes.  There got to be a long stairwell, and he fell twice before one of the—three?—men there just picked him up, and tossed him over his shoulder like deadweight.  One of them made some snide comment about how Shanamyn was a whore, and the other two laughed.

                They had carried him down the steps, and he could smell burning pitch, and see light through the sackcloth, but that was all.  They got to the bottom of the steps, and he heard a heavy door groaning open, the jangle of keys.  The guard walked away, shouldering him as if he had gotten heavy with time.  He heard more creaking as another door was opened, and was dumped to the floor.  The bonds on his hands were cut, and the cord around his neck removed, then someone pulled the sackcloth from his head, just in time for him to see the guard leaving, and the iron door clang shut with an ominous bang.

                The lock clicked shut, the keys jangled, and the guards walked away.  The outer door shut, leaving him in semi-darkness.

                The cell, he had discovered, was approximately six paces deep, and four paces wide, with a small pile of rotting hay in the corner, a cracked chamber pot in another.  There were manacles toward the back too.

                He leaned his head forward, until his forehead touched his knees.  He just wished he knew why he was here.  Maybe… maybe if he knew, he could dispute it.  Maybe he could convince these people that, whatever it was, it wasn’t worth locking him away like this, or killing him.

                He touched the scar on his neck.  He didn’t want to die.  Maker, he didn’t want to die.

                A small slot on the door opened, toward the bottom.  A tray was shoved through.  Shanamyn shouted for help, pleaded to have someone listen to him, but the footsteps only grew more faint, and the outer door shut again.  He sighed, and crawled over to the meal.  His joints ached.  His vision had adjusted to the dimness, and he suspected it had been hours.  He was used to eating well, for a slave.

                He was used to three meals a day, something healthful and light, but good food for a slave.  Mistress Alesand had said that no one wanted to hear their stomachs grumble during sex, so they had best stay well nourished.

                He inspected the broth.  It was an onion broth, and a cup of water, stale bread.  He wasn’t hungry enough for the food.  Maybe he was spoiled, but he wanted nothing to do with it.  Maybe, if he were hungry enough, he would eat it then.  He drank the water, in sips, trying to make it last throughout what he assumed was the day.  When it was empty, he set it down on the tray.

                His stomached growled.  He glanced at the tray, and sighed, not hungry enough yet.  This was surely a mistake.

                It had to be a mistake.  Just a simple mistake.  He would get to go back to the brothel, and it would make for an interesting story to tell, that was all.

                He had an appointment for this evening.  His client would be furious.

                He closed his eyes.  The rich man he was supposed to service would not be pleased that his favourite whore had gone missing.  Someone would have to apologize to him.  And, when Shanamyn came back to the House, he would have to offer, of course, a complimentary visit, which would end in a scolding for him, though it mattered little when he technically wasn’t paid for it.

                Though… it wasn’t so bad that he missed that appointment.  The man was fairly regular.  Not daily, but perhaps at least once a week.  Privately, Shanamyn hated him with a burning passion.  The man was overweight, and his dick was so small he could fit his fully erect penis and balls in his mouth with no trouble; didn’t even have to swallow.  He could jerk him off with two fingers, and did sometimes.  Thinking about the man’s breathing, some of the stupid things he would say during sex—it disgusted Shanamyn.  Maybe it was shallow, but he didn’t like the man’s personality either.  He was always wanting him to do things… things he didn’t really like.  The pig liked him to do things to humiliate himself.  There were a few lines the House drew, but very few.  Unfortunately, hunkering down on his knees with his ass in the air while a girl with big breasts rammed an ivory phallus inside him with the pig’s cock in his mouth was not one of those things.

                His eyes slid closed, and he tried not to think about it too much.  Not all his clients were like that.  He wished that more of them could be like Leto had been.  He hadn’t wanted him to do anything humiliating or asked for something difficult or disgusting.  Moreover, he had been… kind to him.  Not very many people ever were, and most people were only ever polite because they felt inclined to be, like many of the other whores.  For example, he knew that Lura was uncomfortable around him, because he was half-human, but it wasn’t just her.  A lot of people were.  He always thought it was vaguely amusing, in a hateful sort of way, how an elf and a human may get along with one another _just fine_ but couldn’t help but stare at him and treat him like something else.

                He tried to sleep, his back against the wall.  He nodded off now and again, and missed the big bed at the House.

                He woke with a start, not having realized he had even fallen asleep.  He heard a squeaking noise, and jumped again, eyes going wide.  The dim light illuminated the creature, its whiskers twitching over the brim of the bowl.  The animal looked at him when it sensed him stir.

                Shanamyn was terrified of rats.  When his mother had sold him to the slaver, after the transport, he had been put in a small room with a few other boys his age.  There had been straw on the floor, rotting and rat droppings were in it, and that first night, he discovered why.  Night would fall, and the rats would come.  Big, hungry, terrifying rats with scratching claws, sharp teeth, and beady eyes.  They would dig through the hay, scurry throughout the room, looking for scraps.  He had been scared then, afraid of the rats in the dark that he couldn’t see.  When the furry creatures would crawl across him, or nip his toes, he would shriek.  They came every night.  They were fed a single bowl of gruel every day, and they quickly learned to lick the bowls clean, because even more rats came otherwise.  One day, a boy got sick.  They tried to tell the slavers, because he was _very sick_ , but they were ignored.  The boy was sick for two days, and one morning, the half-elf saw him, nothing but a corpse.  A rat was chewing on his lips, other teeth marks across his flesh.

                He had been terrified of the vermin ever since.

                But the rat didn’t care.  It snatched the bit of stale bread, and scampered through a crack in the wall with the bread in its teeth.  Shanamyn heard someone whimper, and realized it was him.

                There were rats.  Oh, Maker, there were _rats_.  Of course there were rats.  It was a _dungeon_ —why wouldn’t it have rats?  Why hadn’t he thought of that before?

                Now he searched for the holes, but only found the one.  Desperate, he grabbed fistfuls of the straw, shoving it into the hole.  His attempt was feverish, and he stuffed it as far back as he could, as close together as he could.  His fingernails broke in his attempts.  When he finished, he swiped his palms on his pants, picking at the broken nails, eyes fixed to the wall.

                He slept not at all after that, and though he grew ever more hungry, he left the bowl untouched; the rat had been in it, after all.  He wasn’t that hungry yet.

                It was just cool enough here to be uncomfortable.  He wished he had a cloak or something—anything.  He stuck his fingers in his armpits in an attempt to warm them.  He wondered if he would just be left down here and forgotten, and was again struck with the sad reality that there wasn’t a soul who would mourn his passing.

                He didn’t want to die.  Even though he was alone in the world, and a slave, he really didn’t want to die.  Even being a half-breed, he just didn’t want to die.  He had come close once, and it was painful.  He had seen other people die, and it looked horrifying.  Life may not be pleasant, but it had to be better than the alternative.

                He didn’t really believe in the Maker.  He couldn’t believe in something he couldn’t see and experience and he had known at a young age that he could never believe in it.  How could he believe in an uncaring god, who had made him half-elven and a slave, whose own mother had sold him?  How could he believe in a divine prophetess that was a god’s bride?  Who was to say that she wasn’t simply mad?  And why would a good person who did not serve the Maker be condemned to the same Void as the slaver?  That wasn’t right.  It wasn’t fair, and he didn’t believe in it.

                He wasn’t sure there was an after-life, which gave him all the more reason to want to live.  If this was all there was, he would rather experience as much as he was able to.

                He reached up, and touched his throat, the scar around his neck.  Was he going to die down here?  Was his body going to rot somewhere alone?  Would no one stop and wonder what had become of him?  Would they care if they knew?  Would anyone even pretend to care, even for a moment?

                He felt like he should be crying.  Felt like he should weep.  But if no one else cared, why should he?  He wanted to live, but… what for?  He had nothing and no one, would amount to nothing.

                The mood swings came, back and forth, as he struggled with his situation, but he came to no real conclusions, and knew that even so, he had no choice in the matter.  The decision would always lie with someone else—that was what being a slave really meant, after all.  When he thought about it, really thought about it, he sometimes realized that the number of slaves in, say, the House of Jade, outnumbered the guards there, and their mistress.  But they wouldn’t revolt.  Even the ones who really hated being whores, or just being slaves--they wouldn’t revolt, because that was hard.  It was hard to take up arms, not just when one doesn’t know how, but because it means pain and death and hardship.  It was easier to keep one’s head down and quietly do as they are told.  It was easier to let someone else make the decisions, even when it was your life.

                He closed his eyes for a moment.  He wished this place wasn’t the last place he would ever see.  The House had a beautiful garden in the spring.  He would have liked to have seen it again, or the sea.

                He had once asked why the House of Jade was called that, as there really wasn’t a whole lot of “jade” to be had in the House.  One of the older whores had told him that, before their master bought out the House, the owner’s name had been “Jade” and named it after herself.  To help keep the clientele, the name stuck.  But it reminded him of misnomers like none other.

                Thinking about mundane things helped to keep his mind off of his impending death, but it was still difficult to escape.  No matter what he seemed to do, he kept thinking about it.

                Would they hang him—finish what his mother had tried to do?  Or was it the chopping block?  Perhaps they would just tie him up and throw him in the bay.  The magisters were mages, though, and did that mean he could suffer some worse fate?

                He didn’t want to think about it.  What was worse than hanging, beheading, or drowning?  He supposed that they could burn him as well.  The stories said Andraste suffered in a pyre too.  But he doubted anyone would take pity on him and end his suffering, like they had her.

                He waited, alone in the dark with his thoughts, and looked up only when the outer door creaked open.  He half-hoped it was food, or at least water; he was so thirsty.  He heard keys, though, instead of the small slot opening at the bottom.  He sat up, eyes wide against the darkness, wondering if it was time.  Already?  So soon?

                He wasn’t ready to die.

                The door opened:  A guard, nameless to him, didn’t even speak to him.  He grabbed the boy by the arm and half-drug him from the room.  It was hard for Shanamyn to climb to his feet being manhandled like that, but he managed, having to bend nearly double, as the man would not change his grip on him.  He marched him to the outer room, past the heavy door that creaked.

                Once there, another guard bound his wrists together, behind his back, another cord around his neck, and he was hauled forward.  At least they didn’t put the hood over his head this time, and he could see to make it up the stairs, and the guards were slow in their armor.  His stomach felt like it had been bruised from being carried down the stairs last time.

                He was led up the winding staircase, up to a long hall, and another staircase.  The hall at the top of the second staircase was wooden instead of stone, which meant he was aboveground again at least, or he was getting closer and this was more decorated.  Either way, he followed the guard, head down and frightened.

                He was led by what he suspected were servant quarters, through passages designed so that the servants could traverse the building unseen and unnoticed.  The passages were droll, but clean and well-lit, though slender.

                The guard opened a door, and led Shanamyn through it.  The door was obscured completely from the room by a large tapestry hanging two feet from it.  It wasn’t a lot of room, but it was enough to get by.  The room beyond the tapestry was obviously a banquet hall.  The trestle tables had been put away, but it was more than big enough for it.  The roof was a spider’s web of glass in metal frames, and he could see the stars beyond it.  He was glad he could see the sky once more. 

                At the far end of the hall, he saw a high-backed, cushioned chair, almost a throne.  In the throne sat a man with hair beginning to visibly grey, the beginnings of a beard forming on his jaw.  He wore pale green robes.  The colour was supposed to be fashionable right now, he had heard.  He imagined that it was either simple coincidence, considering the demeanor of this man, or he cared just enough about the way he appeared to others to make himself presentable.

                He was brought before the man, and the guard shoved him down to his knees, hard enough that it hurt.  The cord around his neck was removed, and the guards moved away, to stand in attendance.

                Shanamyn’s eyes flicked to the man in the chair, and back down.  His heart palpitated in his chest like a galloping horse.  He could hear his blood ringing in his ears, or so it felt.  He was so terrified.  What was going on?  What had happened?

                This was no court to decide his fate.  What, then, was going on?

                “Please, just tell me why I’m here!” he pleaded after the longest silence he felt he could endure.

                A guard moved to cuff him, but the man in the chair waved him off.  “Another word, and I’ll have your tongue cut out.”

                Shanamyn snapped his mouth shut, and his eyes slid closed.  He was going to die.  It didn’t matter that this was no court.  He was going to die.

                Were the rumors true?  This man was a magister, maybe even the one who owned the House; he had never met Danarius.  Were they really blood mages?  Did he need half-elven blood for some vile spell?  Shanamyn felt his skin crawl.

                He may not believe in the Maker, or an afterlife, but it still felt unholy to do something like that, like his soul, if he had one, would be forever tainted if he were sacrificed as such.

                His hands shook in their bonds, but still he could not find the tears he should have found.  He was scared beyond belief, but still couldn’t cry.

                A door opened.  He did not look up.  He stared at the wooden floor in horror and pondered his fate.  He heard footsteps, then they stopped.  He heard the sound of a blade being drawn.  The sound made him raise his head.

                Was that…  It couldn’t be…  Leto?  It was, though the elf tried very hard not to look at Shanamyn.  Instead, he looked at the knife, at the floor, at anything but Shanamyn.  He accepted the knife from his master, and slowly, painstakingly slowly, turned to face the half-elf.

                “No!” Shanamyn cried instinctively, remembering the threat to have his tongue cut out too late.  His eyes opened wide when the magister signaled, and the guards came toward him.  “Don’t do this!  I don’t want to die!  I didn’t do anything!  Please!”

                Strong hands grabbed his arms.

                “No…” Leto gasped.

                “Don’t!  Please don’t!  Don’t let them do this!” he shrieked.  But Leto was frozen, too subservient, too much his master’s property to do anything else.

                He watched Leto, not the guards.  A man grabbed onto his jaw, and he tried to fight it, but couldn’t.  They were stronger.  They were _always_ stronger.  His mouth was forced open.  Someone else had a pair of tongs, and found his tongue.  He saw Leto, over the shoulder of one of the guards, his eyes wide, appalled, but unmoving.  He had gone pale, Shanamyn saw, even as the half-elf screamed, trying to fight back, but unable to.  He felt the cold metal against his tongue.

                Leto’s mouth opened, and a tiny sound escaped his throat in an echo of the scream.  It was all over in an instant.  A swift motion of the sharp knife, a flick of the wrist, a moment of agony, and then his mouth filled with blood.  The guards walked away, letting him sag, whimpering, making a sound like half of a scream.  The bloodied, severed muscle was tossed into a fireplace, discarded.  Blood spilled from his mouth, down his chin, soaking his chest, his knees, dripping on the floor.  He coughed on it, wished he could wipe his chin and lips of the blood.  He could smell the discarded muscle of his tongue as the flames took it, and the smell made him gag anew.

                Blood coated his teeth, and he could taste it in the back of his throat, but only there, and it was the strangest sensation not to taste it more strongly.  And, beyond all the minor discomforts, the pain, the horrible pain of having a muscle severed, coupled with the horror of the manner in which it had been cut:  He realized that tears were streaking down his cheeks.  He sagged, and slumped to the floor, lying in his own blood and able to do nothing.

                And all the while, the magister watched, a bored expression on his face.  His slave stood beside him, pale and horrified, looking like at any moment his legs would simply give out on him.

                “As you were,” the magister instructed the elf.  But Leto didn’t seem to have heard him, or even recognized his existence.  He was staring at Shanamyn in a sort of mute horror, and Shanamyn saw something else touch his eyes:  Realization.

                It had taken fifteen years, but Leto had realized, truly realized, what sort of life he had won in the tournament for himself.  And he knew, without doubt, that his master was the worst kind of sadistically cruel—and there was no escaping it.  And maybe, just maybe, it hadn’t been worth the prize of his family’s freedom.  But… no.  No one would want their family within easy reach of this man.

                The magister, though, grew annoyed.  He nodded to the closest guard, and glanced toward the elf.  The guard walked up to Leto, very casually, who still didn’t seem to hear or see anything.  An armored fist rose.  Leto still didn’t seem to see it.  The fist flew, and the elf dodged, automatically and without thinking.  The blow sailed past his head.

                “Leto,” Danarius snapped.  The elf stood, back rigid.  He heard him now, and he could see now.  The guard was looking to him, and the magister nodded.  The guard looked back at Leto, and the elf glanced away, not wanting to watch the fist land on his jaw.  The blow sent the elf back, nearly making him fall.  He caught himself, and started to cradle the blow, but stopped.  Perhaps he had been instructed in the past not to do that.  It was red, and starting to form an ugly bruise.  “Enough.  Kill the whore, and I will free the other.”

                Leto started to walk toward Shanamyn, and paused mid-step when the half-elf looked up at him pitifully.  He didn’t drop the knife in his hand, but his lower lip quivered for a moment.  He lowered his head.  “Why?” he whispered.  “I understand killing Ginger, but why Shanamyn, Master?”  His voice sounded broken, even to Shanamyn.

                He signaled to the guard again, and he backhanded Leto across the other cheek.  Shanamyn gave a cry of dismay, and realized just how much he had relied on his tongue; he couldn’t speak anymore.  He could only make some amount of noise, and spitting or swallowing the blood he was halfway drowning in was difficult or impossible.  Easier to open his mouth and let it flood out of him slowly.  Leto stumbled a little, touching the side of his face.

                “Go to the infirmary after this—I don’t want any of your teeth falling out,” Danarius hissed.

                Leto looked down.  “Master, I…  Shanamyn is…”

                “Again.  Not the face this time,” he told the guard.  The next blow was delivered to his stomach, and it made him bend double.  Shanamyn wanted to cry out, to plea to make them stop hurting him, but he had no words any more—just a worthless sound.  Leto hadn’t helped him, but Shanamyn, another slave, understood why enough not to begrudge him that.  “Leto.  You agreed to this.”

                The elf shook his head, gasping.  “No.  Not to this…” he denied.

                Danarius paused, and Shanamyn saw a slow smile spread across his face.  “That whore--Lura,” he began.  Leto looked up.  “She’s a pretty little thing, isn’t she?”  Leto’s fingers tightened around the knife, his jaw clenching.  “You could learn a few things from her about oral sex.”

                The guards snickered.  Leto’s brow drew down in a glare.  Shanamyn wondered if Leto would kill the guard nearest to him and risk everything in an attempt at his master’s life.  He looked ready to; the elf was enraged.

                The magister smirked at his slave.  “But I could see why you liked her; she’s very limber in bed.”  He sat back in his chair.  “If you don’t want to free her, I won’t complain; I might like her in my bed more often.”

                Leto’s eyes squeezed shut, in some personal prison of pain.  When he opened them again, they were wet.  “No,” he whispered.  “No.”  But he didn’t attack his master.  He did not turn on the guard.  He looked back to Shanamyn, and walked toward him.

                Shanamyn’s eyes fixed on the blade, and he tried to beg Leto not to kill him, tried to plead for his life, but there were no words left to him.  Just sounds, and blood.  The elven slave knelt beside the whore.  His eyes were wet, and sad, and filled with regret.  “I’m so sorry,” he whispered.  The whore began to kick, to struggle.  A strong hand held him in place.  He thrashed against it, but could not manage to do more.  “You didn’t deserve this.”

                The knife came as a surprise to him, a sharp stabbing pain to his chest, and then a twisting motion.  Just a sharp pain, then… nothing.

 

                Danarius watched the half-elf’s bloodied body go limp, and fall to the floor.  Leto systematically cleaned the blade on a clean bit of the half-elf’s clothing, as if it were not a body, but instead a thing.  The elf tracked right through the blood and didn’t seem to notice, or care.  He didn’t really seem to see anything around him, not truly.

                He sheathed the knife, and, head down, gave it back to his master.  Danarius was pleased, overall.  Leto had killed his friend and had killed a one-night lover—all on command.  He owned him, utterly.  Anything that might once have been an individual had been crushed.  He didn’t think Leto had any more free will, or thought for that matter.  He didn’t even seem to see anything that was going on around him.  The boy moved as if in a dream, as if he didn’t believe in the reality around him.

                “The infirmary, pet,” he told him, his voice gentle.

                Leto turned and looked at him, his eyes glistening with unshed tears he didn’t seem to realize were there.  He saw the question in his eyes.  He was struggling to understand his words.  Something in his mind had snapped when he killed Shanamyn.  Ginger had been a mercy, he supposed.  Leto had seen her suffering, seen her beaten and bruised.  She would not have lived long had he not killed her, and she had not struggled like the half-elf had; she had gone almost nobly to her death.  The infant had been hard on him too.  Shanamyn was something else.  Maybe because it wasn’t _only_ an order; Leto had consented to this, though he had not known at the time.

                The half-elf had begged for his life, had struggled against the blade.  Leto had watched him mutilated, and a part of that had been key to breaking him.  How horrible was it for the boy to watch someone else be hurt like that, when they had begged for their help?

                Danarius sighed, but almost happily.  He put a hand to either side of his pet’s face.  Healing magic flowed through him, but could not touch his mind, which was swimming through a numb haze.

                When he pulled his hand away, the red marks that promised to be bruises were gone, the teeth that had been knocked loose back in place.

                The magister hadn’t really intended it, but he glanced back at the bloodied corpse, and told the guards to dispose of it.  Leto turned and looked too, and he made a small gasping noise.  His legs buckled, falling to his knees.  His hands touched the floor, keeping him from hitting his face on the floor, but the movement seemed wooden.  His eyes were wide, breathing shallow.

                Danarius leaned a bit forward, casually stroking his little wolf’s hair.  He watched his guards pick up the body, his fingers twining in the boy’s hair.  Leto raised his hands a little bit, staring at the splattering of blood on his fingers in silent horror.  Danarius traced a finger along his ear, lamenting that soon enough they would have to shave of all of Leto’s blue-black hair.  He had been putting off that part for last.

                He gave another order to the remaining guard, and he hauled Leto to his feet.  He yanked the elf forward, and Danarius glowered.  The guard froze.  “Gently, with my pet,” he admonished him.  The guard muttered a hasty apology, and _gently_ led Leto from the room.

 

                The door swung open and banged against the side of the wall.  Mieta jumped, and the twins cried out.  Varania grumbled, turning to look at the door.  Leto was more shoved through the door than walked, and he stumbled, and fell to his knees.  The guard behind him turned away.

                Mieta rushed to him instinctively.  Varania sighed, and picked up the louder of the twins, the girl, trying to shush her, but couldn’t hold them both.

                The mother noticed the blood almost immediately, how it looked as though he had walked through it.  Much of it had come off, but she could still see it.  Most of it, though, was on his hands and forearms—not a lot, just a splattering, and a few droplets on his front.  There were track marks from where he had cried, and his eyes were red.  When she lifted his face, he moved his head without resistance, and as if he didn’t really see her.  His eyes were glazed, and he just… seemed numb.

                What had happened to him?  “Leto…  What happened?” Mieta asked him.  He only swallowed, and slowly shook his head, as if he might have finally heard her, but as if from some great distance.  The children continued to wail.  She needed to help Varania quiet them.

                Instead, the young mother set her infant child down, still wailing, and went to her brother, who she considered to be more important by far.  Varania knelt beside him, looked at his hands, the stricken look on his face.  “You killed someone, again?” she whispered.  “Who?  What would make you so upset?”

                He just shook his head, eyes sliding closed, and bowed his head.  “Varania, help me get him into bed,” Mieta urged her.

                But Leto was finally coming out of the haze he had been in.  “No,” he insisted.  “I’m fine.  Just… leave me be.”

                Mieta tried to help him, regardless, but he just shoved her away.  Varania helped him to his feet, and left Mieta with the twins when she and her brother walked out to the well to clean off the blood.  Mieta had just gotten the twins back to sleep by the time they returned.  Leto still looked ashen, but better since the blood was washed away.

                He left in the morning, like he normally did, to be painted for two hours, but when he came home, he just washed off the paint and fell back onto the thin mattress, his legs curled up against his chest, as if he were sick.

 

                While Mieta was away working, Varania sat on the bed opposite her brother.  His eyes tracked her with the infant she carried.  “What happened?” she asked him, her voice gentle.

                He paused for so long that she wasn’t sure he had heard her, or was going to answer if he did.  “My master told me to kill someone.  So I did.”  His voice was flat, bland, and lifeless.

                Varania looked at him, and knew it was so much more than that, to make him like this.  “…  Was it… very awful?”

                He swallowed, and licked his dry lips.  “The… person I was told to kill…  He was innocent,” he whispered.  “He… did nothing wrong.  I can’t understand why…?”  His voice trailed off, and she thought she understood.  Maybe the other person he had mentioned having killed, maybe that person hadn’t been innocent, or something.  But this bothered him.  “They…  The guards cut out his tongue when he pleaded for his life.  He begged me to help him, and I didn’t…  I just… _watched_.  Then I was told to kill him.  And he tried to beg me while he choked on his own blood, but he couldn’t speak.  He thrashed, and…  He was so terrified…”  His voice faded away, and his eyes squeezed shut.

                It was guilt.  That was what was doing this to him.  Someone had died, and he had been the cause, and he felt like it was his fault.  “Leto, you were just doing as you were told.  What could you do?”

                He seemed angry at that, briefly, then it faded.  “Ginger once told me that I’d be a slave all my life, even if I were free.”  He laughed, hollowly.  “And I obey my master even when I don’t want to, or when I know what I’m doing is wrong… so I guess she’s right.”

                Varania didn’t know what to say.  Was that the rest of it?  Was that what so disgusted him?  This self-inflicted illness he seemed to have, it was borne of those things?  He was guilty beyond measure, and regretted his actions, and at the same time, was trapped in them, and, for him, knew there was no other way—and that sickened him too.  She didn’t… quite understand.  If her master gave her an order, she had to carry it out.  If she didn’t like it, it didn’t matter.  If she thought it was wrong, that didn’t matter much either.  The way she saw it, she wasn’t the one doing the deed; it was her master.  But Leto…  He didn’t see it that way, not really.  She had tried convincing him of this before.  He had insisted that it had been himself then too.

                He went to his drawer in the small clothespress and opened it.  He rummaged through it for a moment, and lifted something out of it, and looked down at it in his palm.  He closed his fist over it, and turned.

                Varania hesitated, and left the twins sleeping and went to follow her brother.  She found him behind the compound, on the other side of the low wall.  “Didn’t Ginger used to hide things here?” she asked him.

                “Yes—I imagine her stolen goods are still buried here,” he offered.

                Varania kind of smiled.  “Let’s leave them here,” she said.

                He looked up at her, and returned the smile in kind.  “I’d like to.”  He wriggled at a loose stone in the wall, and it pulled free with some effort.  He set the stone aside.  Varania frowned, curious as to what he was doing.  He picked up the small item he had removed from his drawer, and she gasped when she recognized it.

                “Is that--?  Can I see it?” she asked him, reaching for the trinket.  He did not even hesitate before he handed it to her.  She looked at the small, carved wolf.  It wasn’t a good carving, but the wood was pretty and worn smooth from years of handling, and it was made by a friend, and that meant more than anything.  “Can we put my halla with it?”  
                “Run and get it,” he said, and she turned on her heels and hurried back.  She checked on the twins, and found her own small halla carving.  The other horn had broken off years ago, and now it looked more like a deer or a goat, but it was a halla to _her_.  She gave it to her brother, and he hid the wolf and the halla behind the stone, fixing it like it had never been touched.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If any of you are wondering, yes; I like killing off characters. *wicked laughter* Guess who's next on my hit list?


	38. Sin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varania is at her limit--emotionally, spiritually, and mentally--and no one will listen to her or be there for her when she needs them. In the meantime, dark things happen in the deep dungeons of the manor.

                The infant twins had thus far survived their first week of life outside the womb.  Varania had yet to name them, and when her brother or mother questioned her on this, she only replied that it was an age-old custom not to name children until it was more certain that they would live.  When Mieta and Leto made faces at this, she would follow this up with the stubborn fact that they _had_ been unnaturally born, and that they were premature to boot.

                While her mother reluctantly conceded the point, Leto’s eyes would only narrow in suspicion.  But wasn’t he always suspicious lately?

                She had the sheet pulled over her shoulders as she nursed the girl.  It was getting better, but she still hated it—hated all of it really.  She didn’t really know why she even did it, except that it was expected of her.  Her brother sat on the bed opposite her, his back to her.  He had the boy, and had been watching him.  Now, it seemed like he was purposefully trying to irritate him.  She hated hearing them scream; it was awful.  Why would he be tormenting the babe?

                “What are you _doing_ , Leto?” she finally asked, exasperated.

                He held his hand a short distance to one side of the infant’s head, and snapped his fingers.  The infant turned its head in that direction, then he snapped the fingers of his other hand, and it jerked toward that sound.  He waved his hand in front of the child’s face, a frown upon his lips, brow creased.  His fist closed, slowly, then opened his palm suddenly.  The babe didn’t jump, despite the close proximity to his face.

                “He’s blind,” he said, certain after many minutes of testing, and being suspicious of that for a few days.

                She had half-expected that, given everything:  The boy had the most unnaturally pale shade of blue eyes she had ever seen, even in elves, even compared to his father’s pale eyes.  The girl looked almost completely human, but the boy was another story—and she found the boy to be the more tolerable of the two as such.  His ears were human in shape, with a very faint but distinctive point.  Time would tell if he began to look more human when he got older—even a slave had heard that half-elven children were human in look (these things did happen), so she did not expect the boy’s elven looks to last.  The girl began to fuss, finished.  She picked her up, and got a rag to burp her on her shoulder.  “Of course he’s defective,” she muttered under her breath.

                Her brother shot her a glare.  “Don’t ever say that,” he snapped.

                She glared back.  “They’re that bastard’s children, and you defend them?” she said, inclining her head in the direction of the manor that loomed over them like a threat.

                “They’re yours too,” he insisted.  “And, like it or not, they’ve done nothing.”

                “They almost killed me,” she countered.

                His eyebrows drew into the most menacing glower she had seen from him.  Her mouth snapped shut.  “Don’t blame them for something they cannot help.”

                She fell silent for a moment, and when the girl burped, she brought her to Leto.  “Here, switch me.”  He did, and she went back to the bed to nurse her blind, bastard son.  Half-elven and blind?  She might as well let him die; it would be less cruel than letting him live.

                “Do you think one of them will be a mage?” she asked bitterly.  She didn’t want to train another mage, not really.  Least of all in just a couple of years before their talents started developing.  “I’d hate that; I don’t know if I could handle it.”

                He shot her another glare.  “What did I just say?” he said seethingly.

                She sighed, looking away.  “’Don’t blame them for something they can’t help,’” she quoted, irritated.

                He seemed mildly satisfied that she had been listening.  “I don’t care if they’re _both_ mages,” he said.  “And neither should you.”  Varania chose, wisely, to stay silent.

                A while later, she noticed he was performing the same tests on the girl.  “She’s not blind,” she called to her brother.  Her eyes were an extremely vivid shade of green, and she was always alert and looking around.  She couldn’t be blind.  She may have forgiven the girl, in fact, for her eyes were the shade Mother said her own father’s were, but she had the hair of the magister that raped her, and she hated her for it.  Mieta had only been amused that she had been born with a full head of hair.

                Leto shook his head.  “That’s not what I think.”  They both fell silent.  More snapping fingers, the babe suckling at her breast.  In a time, Leto announced, “I think she’s deaf though.”

                Varania sucked in a long breath through her teeth.  What could be worse?  A blind twin, and a deaf twin.  They couldn’t even communicate with one another.  Lovely—and half-elven to boot, and, worse, bastard children the product of rape.  She hated them.  “That would explain why she screams so loudly and so often,” Varania said, deeply annoyed.

                “It’s not her fault,” Leto said, his tone that of thin patience.

                The mage rolled her eyes petulantly.  “Of course not.”

                He took a deep breath, and his temper seemed to fly.  “ _Maybe_ they’re blind and deaf because _you_ insisted I hit you until you bled all those months ago?” he hissed acidly.

                She was stunned to silence, and was just grateful that Mieta was away.  He was saying that it was her fault they were… ruined.  Well, that couldn’t be.  It just… couldn’t be.  Mother had told her about her forced march, their escape and capture, the trip over the sea.  She had been but a form in her mother’s womb too, yet she had survived unscathed.  It couldn’t be her fault.  How could he say something like that?  Her eyes threatened to water.  She was emotional—they said that happened after birth.  But his words were scathing, and hurt.  “Leto…” she whispered.

                He turned toward her, and the anger left him.  “Oh, Maker…” he whispered, and got up, away from the babe, and to his sister.  She was upset, and near tears at his remark.  “I’m sorry.”  She started to shove him away, but he held her hand, and she stopped, wanting to cry.  “I’m so sorry, ‘Nia.”  He looked sorry; his eyes sorrowful, face contorted in sympathetic pain.  “I…  I didn’t mean…”

                But he _did_ mean it.  Even if only for a moment.  Her big brother, who she so adored and looked up to, who was her only companion and solace, had truly meant that.  Did a part of him hate her?  Was that it?  She wanted to cry for the thought, and embrace him, and shove him away, and say something just as hurtful, and to tell him that she loved him—all at once. 

                In the end, she simply did nothing.                                

 

                She was almost certain of it.  Leto hated her, hated her for what she had asked him to do and never forgiven her for it.  And Mother viewed her with open contempt every time she was trying to talk about anything she felt was important.  She desperately wanted to talk to someone, and have that person understand her when she said that she hated her children.  Why wouldn’t anyone listen and understand?

                She didn’t want this.  She was a child herself.  She didn’t want children!  This had been forced on her.  She hadn’t been _ready_.  And now here she was with two:  Two children, with problems, half-breeds with a mage for a mother and father.  They were doomed from the start, didn’t anyone see?

                Varania just wanted to talk about it.

                But no one would listen.  Mieta scolded her, tried to convince her to love her children for what they were.  But she couldn’t love them.  They were worse than abominations.  They were the living evidence of what had happened to her that night nine months ago.  She couldn’t love something like that.  She couldn’t bring herself to.

                Was it so wrong that she wanted to meet someone who would see her for herself and love her?  Had that been wrong of her to wish for?  Elven, a mage, with two bastard children, one blind and one deaf—who would ever learn to love that?  She’d be… alone… forever.  Raising these two brats that she hated, who she felt had ruined her life in more ways than it already was.  It wasn’t _fair_.  She was too young for her life to be over, but that was what it felt like had happened.

                Every time in her life she could have been happy, maybe, something had to happen to make her life miserable.  She was born a slave, found out she was a mage, was raped and had been a virgin, and against all odds became pregnant and gave birth to these two.  Why?  Why did this have to happen to her?

                She wanted to be someone else.  Anyone else.  She hated being herself, hated her life.  Hated _everything_.

                …  She just wanted to talk to someone.  She had no friends though.  Just her family, and Mieta was of no use, Leto less so.  She tried to talk to him too, but he would have none of it, and after a while, she lost the heart to try.  She didn’t want him to hate her any more than he already did.  She was incredibly lonely.

                She cried herself to sleep a lot, and woke to the tune of the horrid cries of those babes she despised.  Leto had won her freedom, only for her to be put out in the world with these children.  If they had been stillborn, she might have had a chance at happiness.  Rather, her life would now become devoted to her children, her blind and deaf children.

                How could she even communicate with the deaf girl?  She didn’t understand.  She hated it.  She thought, she would want to die if she were deaf or blind.

                These thoughts tumbled about in her mind for days, driving her deeper into a state of depression, and in her depression, the thoughts blackened.  By the week’s end, she knew what she had to do.  It was for the best.  Best for her, best for the twins.  But mostly, it was best for her.  She didn’t want them.  What child would want to be with a mother that didn’t want them?  And they were blind and deaf anyway.

                Late at night, she ascertained that both Mieta and Leto were asleep, and she rose quietly from the bed.  She picked up one twin, the boy, and used the sheet to wind him, quietly, to her chest.  The girl, she carried in her arms.  She tiptoed from the room, and was grateful neither of the children stirred enough to cry.

                She quietly opened and closed the door, and thought she saw Leto stir, but assumed he must just be rolling in his sleep.  She walked, decidedly, certainly, toward her destination.  She knew what she was doing.  She was sure of herself.  She had to do this.  It was necessary.  She hated the twins, hated what they meant, what they were.  She would want this too, if she were they.

                Varania walked past the gate, down to the orchard.  She set the girl down gently in the spring grass by the stream.  Taking her time, she rolled up her sleeves, humming a little to herself as she did, to take her mind off the necessary task before her.  She unwound the boy, and set him beside his sister.

                She cradled the infant for a moment, looked at her, and the babe opened her eyes, beginning to fuss.  Wet, hungry—didn’t matter.  She had leaf-green eyes, but hair like her father, and her deaf ears weren’t even elven.  It was better that she didn’t have a name.

                She plunged the babe and her hands under the water, continuing to hum to herself, even as the tears dripped down her face.  It was better this way.  And she hated them both so much, more than she could bear.

                Her hands were beginning to get cold, but the babe was still kicking, struggling as best an infant could struggle.  The boy had begun to scream, an ear-piercing wail that made her shiver, like he knew what was happening.

                He couldn’t know; he was a baby.  A stupid, bastard-born child of rape that had ruined its mother’s life.  She hated his father, and hated him.  She would rid herself of everything having to do with the magister that had raped her.  This was for the best.

                She thought she heard footsteps, but dismissed it; she was tired, after all.  And once the task was done, when both of them had stopped moving and their bodies would grow chill and stiff, then she could rest.  Then she would have a chance at life she would not have had if they continued to live.  Once they were gone, she could begin to heal.  She would never get over the rape, but she could learn to live with it.  But every time she looked at the twins, it reminded her of that awful night, and she could not forgive them for it.  She could not move on with her life, and she could not heal, though she wanted to.

                The babe had stilled, but it was better safe than sorry; she would hate to see it come up coughing, after all.  A little while longer perhaps.

                Hands grabbed onto her shoulders, hauling her bodily backwards.  She dropped the infant in the water, and the person who had grabbed her dashed forward, picking the infant out of the water.  Her brother knelt, cradling the body of her child, a look of astonishment and horror on his face.

                He looked at Varania, his eyes wide, unable to speak.

                And Varania began to cry.  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.  “I just…  I hated them so much…”

                And he swallowed, and set the body down gently on the grass.  The boy continued to cry.  Leto wrapped his arms around his sister, sheltering her, embracing her.

                “I never wanted them,” she whispered against his shoulder, her body racking with sobs as he crushed her against his chest.  “I would rather… die… than keep them.”

                “I don’t want you to die, ‘Nia,” he insisted, and his voice sounded just as broken as hers.

                Her fingers twined in his tunic.  “I… couldn’t…  I couldn’t do it, Leto,” she whispered.  “I’m sorry…  I…  I just wanted someone to understand…  And…”

                He held her tight.  “I’m sorry.  I’m sorry I didn’t listen.”

                He held her until she stopped crying, but he picked up her son, wrapping him in the long cloth she had used to carry him, hushing him until he fell to silence again.  He looked down at the limp body of the girl twin.  “Varania, pick her up.  We have to bury her.”

                She started to argue, then looked down, and nodded.  She picked up the corpse, and followed him out, to the small slave graveyard behind the compound.  He went to the storage shed with the broken lock and came back with a single spade.  He gave it to her and said, “You’ll dig this grave alone, but I’ll stay with you.”

                She looked away, and understood.  It was her fault.  It was her mess.  No one else did this; it had been her.  She knelt, and dug in an empty patch.  It was small, but deep, and Leto stayed with her all the while, holding her infant son.

                It didn’t change things.  She still hated the children for the sins of their father, for the burden their lives had placed on her.  But digging the grave stilled her rage for it.  Burying the body sobered her, and she patted the earth, and felt inclined, for the first time in her life, to pray.  She wasn’t sure to what god or saint she prayed, to the Maker, Andraste, or Ginger’s gods, but it didn’t matter to her; she prayed.  She prayed for her soul, for the soul of the one she had killed.  She prayed for forgiveness, that she may move on.  She prayed for Leto, and her mother.  And, even for the blind boy she still had, his eyes the palest shade of blue she had ever seen.  She even found herself, improbably, praying for the boy’s father.  What happened to a man to make him want to do the things he did?

                When she finished, she walked with Leto back to the compound, leaning against him heavily.  She told him that she loved him, and thanked him for what he had done.  He looked down, and shook his head.  “I love you too, sis.  That’s why I do it.”

                She tried to smile, but couldn’t quite manage to.

                Mieta, blessedly, said not one word about the girl, who was missing.  Not to Varania, anyway, but Leto did walk with her to the manor that morning, and the mage suspected, but whatever was said, she never found out.

                It was better that way.  She didn’t know what she would do if her mother said anything about it.  Cry, she supposed, for her sin.  Varania’s Sin.  It was wrong, something born of a madness that had gripped her for a time.  She felt like it had passed, and she was all right now.  She had made her apologies, prayed for forgiveness—she didn’t know if that were granted or not, but she felt better for it.

                It wouldn’t change her Sin, but she knew… she had to do better for the boy for it.  But he was blind.  What kind of life could he ever have?

                She just didn’t know.

                Leto kept telling her that everything would be all right, if she just waited, and saw.  But she only half-believed him, because she wanted to believe.

 

                Raith felt like he could paint the markings blindfolded, and he knew he still painted in his sleep.  They had doubled the hours he painted—twice a day now.  A week before the ritual, they would paint the elf in henna again, which he was not looking forward to.

                Leto was… disciplined enough to stay still for long periods of time, but some places he just couldn’t get to all at once, and the henna didn’t dry as fast as the paint, so he had to wait, and let Leto move a little bit.  He didn’t care too much, but standing with locked legs for too long _will_ make a person faint.

                Danarius had to stop Raith on more than one occasion when Raith hadn’t been paying too much attention to the elf, and the slave had nearly blacked out.  When Raith had looked at his face, he had noticed his shallow breathing, the pale features, clamminess, but he had been so absorbed in his work that he hadn’t noticed before.  His master had not been pleased, and Raith had made an effort to pay more attention in the future.

                For the actual ritual though, he was informed that Leto would, in all reality, be in a trance state, so fainting wouldn’t be an issue.

                The pattern, he was now more than confident with.  His strokes were assured, measured, precise.  He used exactly the same amount of paint every time.  He did not shake from nervousness.  He was self-confident in that.  After all, that was the easy part.

                The truly difficult part was that the lyrium _couldn’t_ just be implanted.  It was a liquid.  They could make flat lines along his skin like a tattoo, but that was the difference between painting and engraving something in this.  No, the best use of it would mean more lyrium, and it would be carved into his flesh rather than tattooed.  Which meant he had to construct, out of Leto’s own body, something rather like thin arteries, but to hold the lyrium.  It was temporary, in reality, to hold it in place until the ritual was over and it could be seared into him, down to the depths of his soul and the Fade.  Once the ritual was over, it would settle, resting in his skin, very unlike a tattoo.  Frankly, he was quickly becoming annoyed at anyone who inquired about it who referred to the procedure as a tattoo.  It was _nothing_ like a tattoo.

                They would know if something went wrong almost immediately, because the lyrium would start… bleeding.  He shivered at the thought.  All that work…

                He had a slave they plucked from the compound for him to practice on—shackled in the dungeon.  He created and destroyed the arteries just as quickly.  The sensation, apparently, caused an unbelievable amount of pain for the subject.  The girl had taken to sobbing whenever the door opened, and pleading with him not to do it again.

                Out of curiosity, he had asked her, just yesterday, if she remembered her name.  She had stared at him, blinking slowly, and trying to remember.  She did remember, eventually, but it took her a while and she seemed uncertain of it--Raenya.  She confessed to not remembering what the sun was like, sometime in her inane babble.  She had taken to babbling lately, about nothing mostly, and half of what she said was nonsense.

                It seemed, the ritual to erase Leto’s memory would go smoothly.  Moreover, it was extremely simple to write in.  It fit very nicely into a particular part of it, like it was made to go there.  It was probably for the best anyway.  The nastiest bit of the ritual, the elf wouldn’t remember to be horrified by it.

                When the paint was drying on Leto’s skin, his master inquired as to the state of his sister’s twins.  It seemed, one of them died recently.  Leto had looked away, and nodded, giving the affirmative that this was true.

                That meant there was only one left—a shame.  Those children were the perfect link in the spell.  They could maintain the link without the babes, but it would require a few more slaves, a bit more blood.

                Raith inspected the library they were using for the ritual.  Well, it had been a library up until a few weeks ago.  It had been utterly gutted since then—the rugs, the tapestries, especially the books and the shelving, had all been removed.  Some of it went into storage, and other bits just into different areas.  Not only was the space just what they needed, but the skylight there was exactly where they would need it to be for the ritual, for it must be done under starlight.  True, they could have done this in the ballroom, which was larger, but the hexagonal shape was also important.  But the most important bit was the stained glass.  It was over an inch thick, and created so that one could see out, but not in—though this was not their greatest purpose.  They had been forged with mage-fire, imbued with enchantments by the Tranquil.  Magic would be safely contained in that room.

                Some of the tools they would need were already in there.  Tall tapered candles, candlesticks, a couple ceremonial daggers, a glass chalice, among a few other things.  Leto was also going to need to go through the conditioning soon.

                He went down to the dungeons to see the slave girl.  He suspected that she would not live for long, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may be wondering why not a single chapter takes place from Leto's perspective. All I have to say is this: Leto was unavailable for comment.


	39. Names

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varania and Leto have a bit of a heart-to-heart while naming the twins. Danarius contemplates what he wants to rename Leto. Leto's heart and soul are breaking along with his mind... exactly according to plan.

                Danarius glanced to Leto.  In the morning, he would be painted with henna again, but for now it was only white paint.  “I don’t want you returning to the compound tonight,” he instructed him.

                He saw the way his pet’s lips pressed into a thin line.  “Yes, Master,” he said, his voice ringing like a hollow bell.

                Did he think he had planned to take him to his bed again?  Perhaps he should, but that wasn’t his intent.  But he did so hate leaving things unfinished…  “I want you closer at hand, and you will have to be better cleansed and prepared for the ritual.”  He frowned to himself, looking at the boy.  He saw the protest in the elf’s eyes.  Probably about his damned family, and wanting to see them.  “Of course, your family can be moved into the manor as well.  They’re not slaves, so I won’t have them there any longer.”  It would be better if they weren’t near them anyway.  He had every intention of plucking every slave from the compound—blood for the Ritual.  He wasn’t entirely certain of how much would be required, but it was best to have a plethora available.

                Leto visibly relaxed.  The magister called a servant, and when one answered, he left instructions as to what to do with his slave.  The elf followed the servant out, where he would spend the remainder of the day being meticulously cleaned.  Danarius had been very specific—every inch of him, every tiny bit of dirt, every patch of rough skin, every strand of hair.

                His pet arrived again that evening, to be painted a second time.  He was… pleased by the way he looked.  He had been scrubbed and polished to a shine, as it were.  Lovely.  Distracting, even.  He kept looking back at him, eyes roving over him, remembering all too clearly his whining gasps, the sobs, the way his face contorted in pain and misery.

                He… tolerated it, for a while, and observed.  In the end, he dismissed Raith early.  The apprentice barely questioned it.  Just cleaned up the brushes and left, shutting the door quietly behind him, likely just grateful to leave.  There was so much to do that his apprentice would simply go to work on one of the many other matters—like finishing up the lyrium, for one.  Leto stood, naked with drying paint on him, looking like he would rather be anywhere else.  The magister gazed upon him, trying to imagine what the lyrium would look like.  It would be beautiful.  Strange and new and wondrous, but oh so very beautiful.

                “I think… it’s time we finished what we started a few days ago,” he told him, rising to his feet.  Leto’s arms crossed as if it were cold, and Danarius saw him swallow.  The magister stretched his arms, his back, as he rose.  He sat back down, taking his time, watching his pet squirm.  “On your knees, slave.”  Leto licked dry lips with a dry tongue, and sunk to his knees.

                He looked at him for a long moment, trying to decide if he really wanted him enough to rape him.  It would be… pleasant if the whelp would cooperate, but that was entirely too much to ask from his pet.

                He wondered, though, if he were to do this, if his little pet would stop wanting to live.  The thought was almost enough to dismiss him—then and there.  If he wanted to die, to the point where he was suicidal, he simply would not survive the Ritual.  There would be too much death already involved in it.  He would just get sucked into the void of it—or the Fade, his spirit left to wander until it was fallen upon by demons, defenseless.

                “Leto,” he said.  “Look up.”  The elf obeyed, but did not look directly at him.  At least he was well-mannered.  “Do you want to live?”

                His slave didn’t respond for a moment, and then his green eyes slid closed briefly, then opened again—a motion that took just a little too much time for a blink.  For an instant, he looked not only terribly alone, but also terribly lonely.  Then it was gone again when he opened his eyes.  “Yes, Master,” he answered.

                The magister leaned back in the chair, resting his arms on the armrest.  “Is that so.”  He wondered how truthful his pet was being, how much he meant it.  “Would you beg for your life if I wanted to kill you?”

                The elf wasn’t at all certain as to how to respond.  In the end, he looked down.  “If… If that is… what you wish of me, Master,” he answered, doubtful.

                He frowned.  Perhaps… too well trained.  “Would you beg for your sister’s life?”

                His head shot up.  “Master?”

                And he knew, with a sense of finality, what mattered the most to the boy.  Not his own life, but his family’s.  Not his own well-being, but his family’s.  “If you’ve any desire at all for your family to live, you had better survive the Ritual.  Do you understand?”

                He paled.  “I…  Yes.  Master.”

                Good.  Now it didn’t matter.  He would strive to live just so that his mother and sister would.  And that newborn too.  He frowned, just a little.  Now, was he forgetting anything?  No, he didn’t think so.  He studied his slave again for a moment.  “Do I want to take you now, or shall I take you to my quarters?” he mused to himself.  Leto seemed to visibly shrink.  He imagined that if he could, he would just melt into the floor.  He was enjoying this, actually.  He saw no reason not to draw the tension out as long as he could.  “I suppose I could get you drunk again.”  A smile twitched at the corner of his lip.  “Would you rather be drunk, my little wolf?”

                Leto swallowed, and shook his head.  “No…”  His voice was faint, barely above a whisper, but the room was quiet. 

                Maybe he just didn’t want to be fucked with the wine bottle again.  He smirked.  “You don’t want to enjoy it?” he mused.  “You might as well, pet.  But perhaps you’ll change your mind… in time.”

                Well, he could always order his pet to drink.  But where was the fun in that?  No, he wanted Leto to _want_ the drink, in an effort to alleviate his own misery.  It would create a dependency.  People with a dependency on something they could not attain themselves were easier to control.

                He wasn’t sure how easy Leto would be to manipulate and keep under his thumb once the Ritual was over.  He would have untold power.  Losing his memories would help—enormously.  Creating a dependency on alcohol would help too.  Danarius would just have to experiment with it.  Though, when he woke up alone with no memories, it would, in reality, be best if Danarius saw him at least frequently, and killed or got rid of anyone who was near the elf in the first few weeks at least—create a sort of trust, reliance.  Make everything around him unstable except himself.  The important bit would be in _not_ keeping to any sort of routine, or destroying any routine once it was established.  Keeping him uncomfortable and intimidated, but not terrified.

                The magister took his time removing his shoes, socks.  The wooden floor was cool under his feet with the dying day.  It felt nice, actually—it was getting warmer with spring here.  He was beginning to look forward to spending the summer, and the next two years, at his childhood home in the country.  The trees, the nearby hills, and the lake were all enough to keep it, at worst, tolerable, even in the heat of the Tevinter summers.

                It had been years since he had been there besides.  It would be… pleasant.

                He rose to his feet, and shrugged out of his robes.  He left them in an unruly pile on the chair.  The elf was staring intently at the floor, but cringed when he came near.  He ran his hand down his back, and he buried his other hand in his hair.  Leto was almost expecting it when he hauled him upright, pulling him against him.  He didn’t even have to tell him.

                _I should reward my pet.  He’s been so well-behaved,_ he mused, stroking his hair gently as the elf took him in his mouth, even using his hands the way he had been told.  _And does a master not reward their pets when they’ve been good?_

                The elf gagged, coughing.  “Breathe,” he whispered to him, continuing to stroke his hair, rubbing the back of his head.  The elf hadn’t cut it since before the tourney.  It was still fairly short, but growing quickly.  It was a good length to bury his hands in, and to grab fistfuls of.  His gag reflex was… sensitive today--odd.  Or he was just terrified.  “You’re getting better at it.”  He let him continue for a while, then told his slave to stop.  He did, instantly, and looked away quickly, dropping his hands.  “On your hands and knees, and keep your head down.”  Leto flinched, and did as commanded.  The mage trailed his fingers along him as he walked behind him.  He was about to take him, and quickly remembered the door.  It wasn’t locked.  He had best amend that.  He had no desire for some idiotic servant to walk in at an awkward moment.

                He sighed, and stalked to the door, turning the lock.  He glanced back at his pet—now that made a lovely sight.  He went back to him, his cock hard and dripping, eager to take him.  He liked to take what wasn’t offered, and especially the things that would never be offered.  Even if Leto had once agreed to it, he would never offer it.

                He steadied himself with one hand.  “Arch your back more—yes, like that.”  One of his hands ran down his back, slowly, enjoying the way the elf’s skin felt.  He should have him like this all the time—cleaned, manicured, lotioned and oiled.  He made a note to do just that, right before he thrust into him.

                Leto gasped in pain.  “It would hurt less if you’d stop resisting,” the magister couldn’t help but snap.  The elf’s only answer was a plaintive whine.  A week had been enough time for his slave to become just as tight as before, except this time he hadn’t prepared him with a wine bottle.  Entry was tight, every inch slow as he pushed him apart.  It was uncomfortable even for the magister, and by the elf’s whining and gasping, worse for him.  But he was patient, and soon he was completely sheathed inside him, his groin pressed tightly against him.  The elf was shivering, in some kind of distress.  Poor thing.  He _had_ offered alcohol…

                Maybe, if he took him again, Leto would want the wine.  He gripped his hip, moving slowly inside of him, gentle at first, enjoying the tight feeling while it would last.  Then, long, deep thrusts—moving himself nearly completely out of him, and pushing back in slowly.

                He leaned over him, his chest against his back.  He snaked both his hands onto the elf’s chest, exploring it, touching the spots he remembered had made the elf stir last time, rubbing his nipples with his thumbs.  Leto was almost sobbing—almost.

                “Please…  Stop…” he pleaded.  “Don’t fondle me.  Please…”

                Oh?  Perhaps his little wolf wasn’t as deserving of a reward as he had hoped.  “You should be honored that I’m interested enough to want to, elf,” he told him, and pinched his nipples, hard enough to make his slave yelp, and clench around him.  He sighed in pleasure, and leaned back, moving his hands away from his chest, to steady himself as he pounded into the elf harder.  He pushed his slave’s face, down, his cheek against the floor as he ground into him.

                Leto’s legs shook, his arms suddenly giving out.  Danarius almost hit him, then only smiled, looking at the position his pet had fallen into.  He was lying partway on his side, one of his legs drawn closer to his chest, the other more prone.  Leto looked up at him, then back down.  “Move your leg a little, pet.  No, the other way.  Yes.”  The magister clambered back over him again, running a hand down his side.  At the way the elf flinched, the magister only laughed.  “My little wolf, you won’t even remember this soon enough.”  He touched his backside, aware that some of the paint had smeared.  “And all you’ll know is that you need to please your master—in every way I desire of you.  And you’ll do it, and you will think nothing of it, my pet.”

                The elf’s eyes closed, and Danarius watched him cry.  Not the awful sobbing of a woman, nor the endless tears of the youth, but tracks of tears running down his face like the smallest of streams.  “Won’t you leave me anything?” he cried, and he choked back a cry when Danarius thrust into him.

                “I will,” the magister promised him, cupping his wet cheek with his hand.  He would leave his desire to live, his sword skills, and he needed nothing else.  But it was something, wasn’t it?  Leto didn’t respond that time, either because it was easier not to, or because he just didn’t believe him, it was hard to say.  And the why of it didn’t matter to Danarius.

                He certainly liked the position.  Liked listening to the elf’s belabored breathing, his occasional gasp, or whine.  He should have taken him on a bed though.  This wasn’t comfortable for long.  He growled, partway in frustration.  Age—that was probably what it was, but his legs hurt like this.  Ah, well, a new position would be welcome anyway.

                He slapped the elf’s ass, hard enough to make a red mark on him.  He moaned when he clenched reflexively around him.  He caressed his pet for a moment, running his hands up his thighs, gripping his tight ass.  He pulled out of him, swiping at his brow.  The elf held the position, as if afraid to move, shaking.

                “Get up,” the mage ordered him.  “To the desk, and put your hands against the top of it.”  His directions were clear, and the elf stumbled to his feet, nearly tripped walking over to the desk, and rested his palms flatly on top of it in an empty area.  Danarius didn’t miss the way Leto flinched when he moved behind him again.  “Arch your damned back—good.”  He was gentle again, at first.  Slow thrusts, until he developed a rhythm.  Then, faster, harder.  This position was easy to fuck him harder in.  He gripped the elf’s hair, shoving him down on the desk.  Something fell off of it—he didn’t care.

                He slapped him again—lovely that his reaction should be the same.  His thrusts were long, hard—harder.  He pounded into the elf, heedless of how much pain he was causing.  He could feel where he had torn Leto.  He could feel the warm blood, and delighted in it.

                He noticed his pet was whimpering now.  But blessedly not pleading with him to stop, like his fool of a sister had.  He knew better.  He knew to do as he was told, to take it.  Which was why he felt inclined to reward his little wolf.

                Still, if the elf were in enough pain to whimper like that, he had best stop.  He was his favourite pet; it just wouldn’t do to hurt him so.

                And so, Danarius pounded a little harder into him, heedless and nearly reckless.  He released, as deep into him as he could get, jerking his hips a little in a smooth motion as the orgasm washed over him.  When it was done, and he pulled himself out of him, he stepped back, watching the semen trail down his pet’s legs.  It was mixed with blood.  With two fingers, he inspected his pet, and by the way he whimpered, it seemed to hurt.

                The salt probably stung going over the abrasions—that was all.  Most of the damage he had done seemed to be just outside him, though he didn’t insert his fingers and inspect it.  He swiped his fingers along Leto’s spine, ridding them of the semen and the blood.

                “You’ll be fine, pet,” he assured him, stroking his hair again, as if comfortingly.  The elf slowly slid off of the desk, sinking to his knees.  Danarius pet his hair, in mock comfort, which caused a much more visible tremor to rake the elf’s body.  His pet had been crying again; his cheeks were wet.  “You’ve been very well-behaved.  I’m inclined to reward your behaviour.”

                Leto’s only answer was to shudder, tiny tremors coursing through his body to a similar rhythm Danarius had just finished pounding into him.

                “What do you want?” he asked his slave, his voice gentle.  When the elf didn’t answer, he twined his fingers in his hair.  “Are you hungry, my pet?  Or do you want that wine now?”

                “I…  I do,” he sobbed.

                He smiled down at him, happy with how easy that was.  “Very well.  I’ll send a bottle to your room.  You can get drunk, and fall asleep—and forget about this.”  He touched the elf’s face, relishing the wetness on his face.  He was just a child, he reminded himself.  He looked even younger when he was crying.  Eighteen years old or something like that—and he was talented, Danarius would give him that.  He was a fine warrior, stunning even.  He let go of him, walking away from him to dress.  “And stay in bed.  I’ve an appointment in the morning, so the painting will be cancelled.”

                He had intended to just let Raith do it by himself, but he reasoned that there was a high probability that Leto would end up with a hangover in the morning.  He had been obedient and pleasing enough that he felt his pet deserved the time anyway.  Raith would be grateful as well, he imagined.

                He moved away from the elf, and dressed, running his fingers through his sweat-streaked hair.  He opened a window, letting in the breeze.  It felt nice, even as his sweat pulled his robes close about him.  It would be nice to simply fall into bed.

                Without turning to acknowledge the elf, he said, “Get dressed, and go.”  He heard the elf dress, and go to the door.  He heard it unlock, and the slave slipped out gratefully.  Danarius rang a bell for a servant, gave him the order to fetch Leto a bottle of wine—something inexpensive—from the cellar and bring it to him.  The servant obviously disliked doing this for a slave, but hurried off regardless.

               

                Varania slept lightly lately.  Since… she had murdered her own child—that was what it was, she realized now—she had felt a certain level of devotion to her son.  Maybe, she would even love him one day.  Maybe.

                There was a soft knock on the door, and she woke.  The room was strange to her, and filled her with memories of the rape.  That room had been a guest room—nicer than here.  She had been so nervous about staying there that she had barely touched the furniture.  Well, until he had pinned her down against the bed.  But she preferred not to think about it.

                In her half-asleep state, she wasn’t certain that she had heard the knock, but then it sounded again, just as light.  She stirred, and slid from the bed in her threadbare shift.  She crept to the door and opened it just enough to peek out—being in the manor frightened her just a bit.  It was so strange.

                She was relieved and pleasantly surprised to see Leto.  She opened the door wider, and smiled, though even in the dark she could see the grave look on his face.  His hair was wet, like he had dunked himself in water before he came.  It was dripping, and his clothes clung to him.  His eyes looked haunted.  Had he been wearing that when she saw him this morning?  She couldn’t recall exactly, but she was certain that it had been something else…  Danarius had made sure that Leto had more—and nicer—clothing since he had moved him to the manor. 

                He glanced into the room, and held up his hand.  Her eyes widened when she saw the bottle.  It wasn’t an expensive wine—she could tell from the marks on the label.  But still…  “Did you…  You didn’t steal that?” she asked him in a hushed whisper.

                He shook his head.  “No.  Come with me.  You need this as much as I do,” he murmured, and inclined his head to the hall.  She glanced back inside.  The babe was asleep, but if he woke, Mieta would tend to him.  What if he were hungry?  She wouldn’t be long, she decided.

                He gave her a moment to dress, and he was waiting for her when she crept back out.  The siblings stole through the manor, out in the courtyard.  Leto walked in front of her, Varania at his heels.  He walked slowly and disjointedly, like at any moment, his legs would give out and he knew it.  His fingertips trailed along the bare walls, as if waiting to catch himself should he fall.  Sometimes, he would stop, and swallow, and looked vaguely ill, as if simply sick to his stomach.

                They sat below the big magnolia tree, like they had when they were children.  The wind swayed the branches and rustled the spring leaves.  The new grass smelled sweet, and the stars were shining, but there was no moon.

                “How’d you get the bottle, if you didn’t steal it?” she asked him as he uncorked it.

                He didn’t answer immediately, but rather took a long swallow first, then passed it to her.  She sniffed at it.  “I…  Danarius gave it to me,” he said—a bit guardedly.

                Her eyebrows arched, and she studied him for a moment.  He had a faint but still detectable tremble in his hands.  He sat on his legs, and like it pained him to do so, but was better than the alternative.  This, combined with everything else she had seen from him tonight…  Her brows drew together as she put together the pieces in his body language, as well as his demeanor.  “He…” she tried to say, but couldn’t bring herself to.  She looked down, and took a tentative sip of the wine.  She made a face at the after-taste and handed it back to him.  He drank it like he didn’t taste it at all.  “When… when he raped me, I didn’t fight back,” she confessed.  “I was scared to try.  And I think, if I had, would it still have happened?”

                He paused.  “He would have hurt you, ‘Nia,” Leto told her, resting a hand on her slender shoulder comfortingly.  He squeezed her shoulder gently when she was quiet, and dropped his hand away.

                She frowned, staring down at the ground.  She heard crickets somewhere in the dark, and a bird, other nighttime creatures.  “I don’t know.  I could have hurt him.  If I got him unsuspecting, I could have… killed him.”

                “You would be killed for your crimes—he’s a magister,” Leto said, ever the voice of reason.

                She felt frustrated sometimes that Leto was so logical, so utterly reasonable.  He never did anything that wasn’t reasonable.  “I _know_ , but…”

                “I understand,” he told her.  She felt cheered by this, and took another swallow of the wine, a bit more this time.  She wanted to feel its affects, at least a little.

                They were both silent for a moment, and Leto said, his voice so low she had to strain to hear it, “I didn’t… fight either.”

                She took another sip to stall replying.  She had suspected as much.  She hadn’t known he would just come out and say it though.  Maybe it was because she had gone through the same thing.  Well, no, it wasn’t the _same_ —not for a man.  But it was similar, and they were siblings.  What a sick man.  They were of a different race, for one, and his slaves.  If that wasn’t enough, well, she and Leto were siblings—why would he want both siblings?  It was just… wrong.  “What could you have done?” she said, keeping her voice gentle.

                He took the bottle back from her and drank.  “Anything,” he whispered, looking off at nothing.  “I’m… stronger than he is.”  He shook his head miserably.  “It’s taken me so long to realize it, but...  I’ve had so many opportunities to kill him.”  His eyes slid closed in pain.  “I never did.  I wish I had.”

                “Leto, you’d be _killed_ for that,” she gasped.  Hadn’t he just finished telling her the same thing?  No, he didn’t care if he died—not really.

                His eyes opened, his grip on the bottle tightening for a moment.  “I know.”  His voice sounded so hollow that she wanted to cry.  What had…  No, she knew what had happened.  She knew… how terrible the magister could be.  He would have made it as horrible as he could manage, made it last for as long as he could manage.  And it wouldn’t have just been rape.

                He would have touched him too, she imagined, against her will.  Degraded him first.  He had done that to her, after all.  He had been a bit disgusted when he had touched her and found that she was a virgin.  He had nearly lost interest in her then, but decided to go ahead and do the deed anyway.  But at least she was getting away from him.  At least she never had to see him again.  But Leto…

                She wasn’t sure if she should hug him.  Wasn’t sure if she should say anything, or do anything.  She scooted a bit closer to him instead, and gently took the bottle from him.  She put it to her lips again.  “He’s a pervert,” she said.  To her surprise, he laughed.  It was another hollow sound, something cynical and full of hurt, but it was laughter all the same.

                Abruptly, he changed the subject.  “The lyrium is finished,” he said.  “Or, will be by tomorrow morning, rather.”

                “I know.  Everyone is talking about it,” she said.

                He glanced up at to the boughs of the tree.  “It means you’ll get to leave soon,” he said, voice quiet.  She took another drink.  It was beginning to taste a bit better.  “Mother knows how to read and write.  Make sure she teaches you.”

                She paused, wanted to argue the usefulness of it, then stopped.  This wasn’t the time to argue.  “I’ll try,” she said, a bit grudgingly.

                He nodded, as if he weren’t really listening to her reply, and simply expected her to do as instructed.  Maybe he was just thinking of other things.  “And… could you name your child?  Before you leave,” he added quickly.

                She frowned, then brightened.  “Let’s name him now,” she said, offering her brother the bottle again.  He took it from her, started to drink, then apparently changed his mind.

                “We… should name the girl too,” he said softly.

                Varania paused.  “She’s dead.”

                He nodded.  “So her soul has something to call itself in the Void, or at the Maker’s side… or in what Ginger called the Beyond,” he said, sighing wistfully.  “Or whatever happens to our souls.”

                “I’m not sure we have souls,” Varania admitted.  She left unsaid that the very concept of a soul was a foreign one to Danarius’ slaves.  They were given nothing like religious education, and it was strongly discouraged, sometimes with a whip or other device.  Perhaps religion was not something a slave had any use for, and perhaps a soul was not something a slave possessed.  And why would they?  Slaves owned nothing.  She frowned in thought.  “I’m not good at thinking up names.”

                “Neither am I,” he said.

                The two went back and forth with names for a while, suggesting and rejecting them.  Names they had heard, names half-remembered.  None felt suitable.

                “Name her ‘Viscaria,’” Leto said suddenly. 

                That sounded so familiar…  “’Viscaria?’” Varania wondered.  It was similar to her name, sort of.  Maybe that was where Leto had derived it from.

                “Yes,” he said.  “It’s a type of flower.”

                That sounded familiar, too.  Where had she heard that before?  She couldn’t seem to remember…  “Nothing I’ve ever heard of,” Varania said, giving up on the matter.

                “You have,” he countered.

                She shook her head decidedly.  “I don’t remember.”

                “It was… a long time ago,” he said carefully.  “But it means ‘come dance with me’.”

                She frowned in thought.  “Does that really suit her?  I don’t know.  I guess so.”  She had no idea.  She couldn’t know, would never know, what her daughter may have ended up like.  She wished she had realized what she did now before that moment.  Why hadn’t she seen?  Why…?  She feared that a part of her would always feel guilt for her Sin, and some part would always be broken for it.  But, she did deserve that part, and she could not blame the child, she saw that now.  “I hope… that she would have grown up to dance—been happy enough to.”

                “Mother used to dance,” Leto mused.

                “You told me that once,” Varania said suddenly.  “You said that she sang too.  I’ve never heard Mama sing, or seen her dance.”

                He looked away.  “Maybe she will when she’s not a slave anymore,” he said, his voice reflecting his hope.  She was dubious.  Even Mieta’s laughter rang unclearly and short.  Varania had never known her to be anything but mournful and sad.  “What about the boy?”

                She frowned in thought.  “What was Papa’s name?”

                A pause, then, “Calias.”

                “’Calias,’” she echoed, wrapping her arms around her legs.  “I wish I could have met him.”  Her lips curved into a frown.  “What do you think of that name?”

                Leto blinked.  “Father… died badly.  Give him a different name,” he told her.  He looked down, his dark hair shadowing his troubled eyes.

                She looked at him, and had a sudden urge to ask how he had died.  Then she saw the look on his face, and she didn’t.  He was in enough pain right now.  She didn’t want to make it worse.  She never wanted to make his pain worse.  “What about…”  She thought about it.  They discussed names, and rejected all of them for one reason or another.

                “You know, I’ve thought of the girl as… Sin,” she admitted, a little ashamed.  “My ‘Sin.’”

                He paused.  “I guess… that’s accurate,” he said with a little reluctance.

                She looked down for a moment, and closed her eyes.  “I like ‘Shaislyn.’”

                Leto frowned.  “For… the girl?”

                Varania shook her head.  “Nope.  I’ll call him ‘Shai’ for short.  Shai… and Viscaria.”

                Her brother nodded.  “All right.  Shai.”

 

                Though Leto certainly never paid attention, Mieta certainly noted the passage of time.  She watched her son sitting on the floor with her grandchild.  The older boy—no, he was a man now—put a finger against the babe’s palm.  Instinctively the infant’s fingers curled around his finger.  It made Leto smile.  His smiles—real smiles—were so rare that it made Mieta smile too.  His smiles were fewer and fewer the older he became.  She wondered if he would reach a point where he would forget completely how to laugh.

                She sat at the small table in the room.  They were family quarters, for servants.  Leto had a separate room—a guest room—elsewhere, but spent most of his time here when he could.  They all knew they didn’t have much longer together, after all.

                No one talked about that though, not really.  No one wanted to.

                “Leto,” Mieta said gently.  Her son looked up, green eyes behind locks as dark as jet.  It was getting long, and needed to be cut.  He had kept it short when he was practicing every day, but he only went to the training grounds a couple times a week now, just to keep in shape, and Danarius had him close by at all other times.  She supposed that he just didn’t see a point.  He had never liked haircuts, mostly it was that he didn’t like sitting for so long and being so still.  “How about a haircut?”

                He made a face, swiping some of it out of his eyes.  “No thanks,” he muttered.

                Varania giggled from the bed.  “You let it get much longer and you’ll look like a _girl_ , Leto,” she teased.

                He scowled at her.  “Shut up,” he suggested.  But she just laughed.  “Well, they’ll be shaving it all off tomorrow anyway.”

                Varania stared at him, incredulous.  “What?”

                He made a face.  “They want those markings to go up to the base of my skull.”

                She paused.  “Really?  …  Under your hairline?  Wait—will hair even grow there after you get all… lyrium…ized?”

                He looked like he was tempted to laugh, but then seriously considered her question.  “I really hope so.”

                She scowled.  “Then why didn’t they shave your hair off when they were doing that… what was it called?”

                “Henna?” he offered.

                She nodded enthusiastically.  “Yeah—henna.”

                He shrugged a shoulder noncommittally.  “I’d look weird, and the magister just makes a face when Raith mentions it.”  Varania laughed good-naturedly.  “They were actually supposed to do that today, but Raith had to do testing, so they put it off another day.”

                Mieta watched her children with some amount of satisfaction.  She wasn’t at all worried about the people they were growing into.  She was worried about the circumstances around each of them—especially Leto, but at least she was confident in the man he was becoming.  He was everything she could have wanted in him, really, when it came right down to it.  She wished that he were happier, that he wasn’t a slave.  She wished he could smile more, laugh more.  But he was loyal, strong, cared deeply for his family, was attentive, forgiving (in time), thoughtful, and everything she had loved most dearly about Calias.  It made her happy to see those same traits in her son.

                That evening, Leto slept on the floor, his sister and mother in the beds.  The infant slept in Mieta’s bed, who was less likely to roll onto him than Varania, who tossed and turned in her sleep.  In the morning, Varania made faces as she changed the baby, Leto making sarcastic and discouraging remarks about it.  The siblings made faces at one another, calling each other names good-naturedly.  Mieta only smiled, and watched them, and kicked Leto in the shin when Varania was struggling with another good insult.  She was fiercely proud of her handsome, talented, smartass of a son.

                Leto scowled at his mother, but she smiled back, and hugged him close.  “Oh, my son.  My beautiful baby boy…” she whispered, in her mind wishing he was a child again and she could pick him up and swing him around, holding him close to her, her entire world and existence in her arms.  Her child, the most important thing in the world to her.  Her firstborn baby boy.

                He stared upwards, as if lost, but returned the embrace, a little confused.  “Mother…?” he wondered.

                Her eyes watered.  “Leto…  Did you know you’re eighteen today?” she whispered, and looked up at him.  She couldn’t help it; she felt emotional about it.  Her little boy was a man, and though in her heart he would always be her baby boy, he had been an adult for a long time now.  She wished he could have stayed a child forever, that he never had to face the things he did now.  She took a step back from him, so she could look at him.  She wiped at her eyes.  “Eighteen years ago.  Four hours of labor, born at dawn.  Two days late.”  She swiped at her eyes again.  “Eight pounds, four ounces…”

                Varania looked at them, one eyebrow quirked, amused.  Leto looked like he wanted to run away.  Mieta was willingly oblivious to all of this.  A mother had a right to be emotional about their baby growing up—her firstborn.

                “Eighteen and a half inches,” she continued.  Leto had started to flush with embarrassment, obviously just longing for her to stop.  She knew he was leaving early, though, so felt no compunctions about keeping him.  He always left before Shai needed feeding.  She felt the tears spill.  “And look at you.”  She smiled through the tears, touching the side of his face.  She was so proud of him, so happy to see him grown.  It had always been uncertain, as slaves, if he would live to this age, if she would even see him reach adulthood.  But he was eighteen, and she felt like… she wouldn’t see him again next year, or any year after that.  On this date, it would be the last time she ever saw him.  She was proud of the man he had become.  He would have made Lura happy, she supposed.  “Oh, my baby…”

                He looked pained, but tolerated this.  “Mother…” he complained.

                But she ignored him, and hugged him again.  “I love you so much, my son.”

                Varania rolled her eyes.  Leto shot her a glare, and hugged his mother back, then the woman let him go, her eyes full of tears.

                But the mage only looked away.  Her mother never acted that way with her.  Only Leto.  A part of her knew that it was because they were leaving, and leaving Leto behind, and would never see him again.  She knew that, but…

 

                When Leto came back that night with a bruise across his face in addition to the henna and never even mind that they had shaved off all of his hair, Varania of course immediately healed the bruise.  It was a nasty one—swollen already, and purple.

                “You…  Look really stupid,” she said, gently lifting her hands to the bruise.

                “I know,” he agreed.  “On the bright side, Danarius can barely stand to look at me.”

                Varania kind of chuckled.  “Silver linings.”  A brief pause.  “What did you do?” she grumbled.

                He sighed, and averted his eyes.  “I…” he started, then stopped, and looked away when she healed it.  She supposed that she didn’t need to know.  Probably didn’t want to, knowing Danarius.  Still, why would he hit him like this?  What had happened?

 

                Leto had vomited.  Too much lyrium, he supposed.  Non-mages didn’t handle it well.  Templars took it in measured doses at first, and drank more of it later on, before they became addicted to it.  Deprived of the substance, they went mad.  The same would happen to Leto, more than likely, if the lyrium would ever—could ever, for that matter—be removed from his flesh.

                Part of the conditioning he needed to undergo included this.  Danarius was putting so much lyrium into him, and not just like a tattoo with ink, but more like an implant.  And there was a risk of his body rejecting the lyrium.  The conditioning process would ease the rejection process, and if all went well, his body would accept it and adapt.  And, like a small miracle, he would have created something akin to a Templar or a spirit warrior in ability, without the need to carry around lyrium for their abilities.

                But Danarius had apparently given him too much too soon and too concentrated, and the kid had thrown it up.  He had been angry enough to hit him—hard enough to knock the elf sprawling, but quickly calmed.  He made a new order—all of Leto’s meals would be given to him in his room only, and everything in it would have small trace amounts of the lyrium.

                The rest of the process was completely mental.  A week before the ritual, he would place Leto in a cell in the dungeon alone.  He would be washed and cleaned every day with a rough lye soap like any other of Danarius’ slaves (he would find any easily avoided disease loose amongst his slaves as nothing short of insulting), fed, but kept alone and in the dark—that was part of the mental conditioning.  The rest of it he had been working on since he had won the contest.

                His mind had to be open enough for it, his spirit crushed enough to accept it.  He had to be ambiguous enough to accept help from a demon, his very soul wielding to tampering.  Part of what he was going to do to him had to be done from the Fade.  All was going according to plan.  His pet was proving a perfect specimen, even though he wanted no mistakes, no chances.  Every precaution was made, every step.

                Danarius watched dispassionately as the tear rolled slowly down his cheek, his lips parted as if to gasp, lower lip quivering.  Leto’s eyes were open wide, and squeezed shut in turns.  They opened whenever Raith made a new cut, and squeezed shut again when he began to drag the thin blade across his flesh.

                He had been at it for most of an hour now.  It was his final test.  “Make it permanent” Danarius had said, handing him a knife.  If Raith wasn’t confident, then the lyrium would fail.  Raith, for all his faults, had not even blinked.  It was a different tool; that was all, and he carved with precision and grace, his hand steady and never faltering.  It was admirable—a craftsman well comfortable with their trade.

                Leto had stared at the blade with a growing sense of horror, and gasped with the first incision.  Danarius had told him to stay very, very still, and the boy obeyed.  He never did anything less, of course, and he did try to stay quiet, but it was difficult enough to stay still when someone was carving into his chest.

                “Raith.  Stop for a moment,” Danarius told him as he finished off a line.  Leto looked pale, and sick, trembling as the blood ran down his chest.  It wasn’t even halfway finished.  He called in a servant, and had them fetch some water.  He commanded Leto to sit until the water was brought, so he did, shaking all the while.  Raith swiped sweat from his brow, setting the bloodied blade down.  He looked at it again, and cleaned it off carefully.

                “We should give him something for the pain,” Raith commented, staring at Leto as if he were nothing more than a piece of furniture, which he was to Raith.  He discussed the elf’s pain as if a piece of furniture needed to be propped.  “He’ll never make it through the whole thing if we don’t.”

                “He will,” Danarius countered.  “Pet.”  Leto blinked, raising his head a little, but still shaking as he bled.  “Don’t hesitate to tell us if you need Raith to stop.  I don’t want you to fall or something; it could hurt you.”

                Leto looked down.  “Yes, Master.”

                Raith made a face.  “Let me take him down to the dungeon to do this.  We can shackle him.”

                “No,” Danarius said, slightly irritated.  “This is just as much about my pet’s obedience as it is about your test of skill.”

                Raith raised an eyebrow.  “You’re testing his tolerance too.  I hate to say it, but how loyal is he going to be to you when you insist on torturing him?”

                Danarius looked back at his slave.  “He knows better than to do anything else.  Don’t you, pet?”

                Leto was still shivering, in obvious pain.  “I’ll do anything you say, Master,” he said, and it was half a plead, and Danarius knew what the other half was:  For the pain to stop.

                “Just a while longer, pet.”  The door opened, and the servant came in with the water, which the magister directed to his little wolf.  His slave drank greedily, and Danarius gave him a minute or two longer before they resumed.  The rest of his chest was finished, and Raith delicately carved out the parts on his neck and face, and Leto had to have him stop for a little while.  A short break, and he started on his shoulders, down his arms, and finally his back.  Leto took that one a little easier—either because he had been whipped enough times in the past, or just because he couldn’t see it and it made it easier to take, Danarius couldn’t say.  Leto had to bend his head forward to make it easier for Raith while he cut into the back of his neck, past his hairline, up to the base of his skull, and the other small marks that accompanied it.

                But Raith didn’t hesitate once, didn’t make a single error.  The blood continued to drip, and a slave was called in to clean it up, and cleaned off Leto while Raith rested.  Finally, Raith started carving in his hips, and it flowed across to his lower stomach, his sides, and down a little lower.  Leto made a low whining noise at the first incision, and continued to make faces and whine with every individual cut, gasping on more than one occasion, but otherwise remaining perfectly still.  Danarius watched his eyes water through the pain.

                “Yeah, I don’t like it any more than you do, elf,” Raith muttered, flicking his wrist with the last cut there.  Danarius made Raith stop for a while after that, and let Leto kneel on the floor, making small noises of pain and possibly crying.  Some of the cuts had stopped bleeding by now, but probably still hurt.  The magister had once read that being skinned was the worst pain imaginable.  He finished off the last of the letters he was writing, and put his seal into the wax, tossing it into the pile of others.  So much to take care of…

                “Resume,” the magister said, waving vaguely at Leto.

                Raith looked at the slave impassively.  “This is too much for him.”

                “How do you think he’ll survive the Ritual, if he can’t do this?”

                His apprentice snorted.  “Because he’ll be drugged, in a trance, and the spell will run its course whether he can stay on his feet or not.”

                “Physically,” Danarius countered.  “Leto, on your feet.”  The boy stopped, and staggered upright, but stayed shivering.  “Continue.”

                Raith seemed reluctant, but bent to his task.  With his lower half, he began at his feet—which were tender.  Danarius remembered the way that Leto had cringed and twitched when his feet and ankles were touched—both of which were of course cut.  The markings wound up his legs, around his calves, over his knee.  A single line over the back of his knee that made Leto twitch; it was a sensitive area, and he was a gladiator; a blow there could mean death in the arena.  Danarius watched his slave fight down the urge to move, to retaliate.  Green eyes closed again, gave a small shudder and a whimper as the blade slice upwards, curling up his thigh, over his buttocks.  Then it began again on the other leg, and even then, Raith still wasn’t quite finished.

                The apprentice rose to his feet, and Leto stared straight forward, or tried to.  It was hard not to watch a bloodied blade coming toward your face.  His hands raised, just a little, as if to force the mage backwards when the blade bit into his forehead, and traced a perfect, small circle, and two more in a perfect, symmetrical trinity, two of them behind his hairline.

                The blood ran down his face, and mingled with the tears of pain, but Raith smiled, stepping back.

                “I’m finished,” he said, unnecessarily.

                “That was excellent,” Danarius said, more than satisfied with his apprentice’s work.  “Go have a well-deserved rest, Raith.  Leto, sit down before you fall down.”  On shaking legs, he half-knelt and half-collapsed to the floor.  Raith excused himself in a hurry, anxious to be anywhere else.

                The magister continued his work for several minutes, only looking up again when he had finished reviewing a couple of the petitions he was working on—and rejecting one of them, placing the other into review.

                “Come here, pet,” he called, voice gentle as if calling to an animal.  Leto struggled to his feet, and staggered as he walked toward him, and shook when he stood beside him.  Danarius watched the blood trail down his face, mingled with the cold sweat.  Every cut was perfect, he noticed upon inspection.  Each and every one.  Not a single cut out of place, or a mismark.  His apprentice had done well, for once.  Not that Raith was entirely useless, mind, Danarius simply thought little of him; it kept him trying harder.

                The mage touched the cut on his chin, below his lip, and traced the one on his neck with a finger.  Leto shivered and cringed throughout, but did nothing to stop him, as he knew he would not.  Danarius ran his fingers, now coated in a thin layer of blood, over his slave’s cheek, along the cheekbone.  “You did well today too, my pet.”

                Leto said nothing, only looked down.

                “You hate it when I call you that,” he said, smirking only a little.  “Worse, when you know I use it as an affectionate term for you.”  The elf’s eyes slid closed.  “You are so lovely, though, aren’t you?”  His hand slid to the elf’s shoulder, trailing through the blood and the network of cuts down to his chest, his thumb resting on one of his nipples.

                “Please…” Leto whispered.

                Slowly, the magister pinched his nipple between thumb and forefinger, slightly displeased.  “Do you not remember what I told you about begging?”

                Leto was silent for a moment, and Danarius took it for assent, toying with the hard nub between his fingers.  “Master…” Leto whispered again.  Danarius almost slapped him, but pinched down harder instead.  After what he had just endured, the elf barely flinched, but did notice.  “Please… it hurts…”

                He let go.  “Oh,” he said, realizing he had misinterpreted his pet’s plea.  “Turn around.  Before I heal it, I want to look at all of it.”

                Leto turned, hesitant.  The magister kind of smirked at that.  He gave a long look at the incisions on his back, the design etched out onto his living flesh—like a carving on living stone.

                He rose, looking at his shoulders.  Perfect.  He touched both his shoulder blades, his hands falling down his back as he inspected every inch, looking for even the slightest flaw or mistake.  Nothing.

                His hands rested on the elf’s hips, squeezing gently, one of his hands running over his firm backside, and when he realized that he was paying more attention to the way the elf felt than the markings on him, he stopped, and kind of smiled.

                The blue healing light spilled from his hands, running over the elf like water, but when the light faded, it left light scars, just as the magister intended.

                Leto stared at his hands, even the palms marked with scars.  He looked so lovely, so perfect.  And his if he wanted him.  And he wanted him, which was the problem.

                “Get out,” Danarius told him, sitting back down.

                Leto did not need to be told twice; the elf was gone a handful of heartbeats later.

 

                Leto was better with smaller trace amounts of lyrium in his food.  Leto knew, of course, but had been instructed to eat it anyway.  There was no hiding the taste of lyrium—it was a metal, after all.  Danarius didn’t care for the taste too much either, but the mages did do everything they could to make it more palatable for potions, and dim the music it made a little.  Similarly, Danarius made sure that the foods he gave Leto were good foods, rather than the type suitable for a slave.  Rather, he gave him meals more suitable to his personal pet.  Elves had a sensitive palate, though—a problem for slave owners for years.  It wasn’t such a problem in soups or stews when everything was boiled and relatively the same, and beans and rice were mild enough.

                So, at first, the servants gave Leto small portions of a variety of different meats, vegetables, and fruits, and simply had them take note of which were most consumed.

                He had no doubt that, if not confined to his room, he would have given the fine foods to his family members, which briefly annoyed Danarius, only to be self-satisfied in that he wouldn’t remember them a few weeks from now.

                Fish was actually the meat he ate the most of.  Not surprising—the taste overpowered the lyrium flavor for the most part.  Red meats just seemed to bring it out more, after all, and chicken tasted like pure lyrium in flesh form.  So Danarius adjusted his meals accordingly, and slowly had the servants add more lyrium to it.  Living in a port city, fish was easy to come by anyway.

                Right now, Raith was mixing more of the lyrium into the form they would need of it for the Ritual.  Danarius had already prepared a portion of it earlier in the day, during the painting.  Since that day, he had made some effort to be absent for it, and the need to refine the lyrium provided a good enough excuse.  Frankly, the way his little pet looked— groomed and cleaned—was distracting at best.  It had been several days, and his hair had grown out enough that he didn’t look _quite_ so ridiculous.  He didn’t want to make his pet miserable enough to want to die, or consider suicide to escape what he had in store.  He briefly wished there was a way around it, but this was the most effective method.

                He doubted he would, but it was always best to err on the side of caution, after all.  Self-preservation was a strong instinct, and if Leto’s mind were warped enough, he could see dying as a form of self-preservation over time.

                There was a cautious knock on the door, before it slid open on silent hinges.  A young girl stepped through the doorway, her head down.

                “You… summoned me... Master?” she asked tentatively.

                The magister raised an eyebrow.  “Varania.  I am hardly your master any longer—your brother saw to that.”  He steepled his fingers together.  “A more proper term, now, would be ‘mesere.’”

                She swallowed.  “Mesere,” she corrected herself.  “What do you… wish of me?”

                Better, and she was appropriately frightened.  He took a moment to study her.  Motherhood had only seemed to improve her, really.  She had been a young girl a year ago.  Now, she looked more a woman to his eyes—milk-heavy breasts, more of a swell of her hips.  Any weight she might have gained from pregnancy, though, was gone through eating slave rations, and the brutal way in which her twins had been birthed.  He had a brief flash of her, disemboweled and covered in blood.  Even using some of her blood in the magic had not been enough to disperse all of it.  His magic had boiled and consumed only some of her blood—taking all of it would have been too easy, he assumed.  “I want to buy your son from you.”

                She looked up, her eyebrows arched briefly in confusion, then furrowed in anger.  “No.  I won’t sell him into slavery,” she snapped.

                “Did I say that I wanted him as a slave?” he questioned her.  My, how presumptuous.  “No.  I just want to buy him for, say, a few hours—a day at most.  You can have him back afterwards.”

                Her eyes narrowed in suspicion.  “Is this… about the Ritual, m… mesere?” she asked hesitantly.

                He saw no reason to lie.  She would figure it out quite quickly when he took Leto and the child both on the same day.  “Yes.”

                The confusion showed plainly on her face.  “What… why?”

                That, he had no intention of divulging to her, even if she did deserve a full explanation—which she did not.  “That’s my business alone.  He will most likely survive it, however.  Of course I will pay you for the use of him.”

                She shook her head angrily.  “No,” she hissed through gritted teeth.  “I won’t give him to you.”  With that, she turned on her heel, and would have left, except that the magister spoke.

                “Send your brother to me,” he ordered her.

                She froze.  “He was finished for the day,” she said quietly, and her head turned to look at him.

                Danarius felt a slow smile creep across his face.  “I’m not finished with him.”  He paused, for effect mostly.  “Rather, send him to my quarters.”  Her back straightened, her eyes going wide.  “He looks… quite lovely, don’t you think?—now.”

                All the color drained from Varania’s face, her lips parted as if she wanted to speak, but no sound escaped her throat.  She shook her head.  “You can’t do this to him,” she pleaded, turning around to face her former master.

                Danarius was amused.  “Can’t I?”

                Her eyes watered in pain.  “Please… you can’t…”

                He pretended to disregard her, picking up a form he had already looked at.  He imitated studying the form.  “Do as you’re told, Varania.”

                Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her shaking, and her horror and fear had turned to rage.  “How dare you do this to him!” she hissed.  He sensed more than saw her magic building.  His free hand curled into a loose ball, prepared to throw up a shield should she do anything regretful.  “Leave him alone.”  Then he felt her reign in her own power, but he kept his spell at the ready.  And now she only looked sorrowful.  “Promise me you’ll leave my brother alone…  I don’t want money, just leave him alone… and I’ll give you Shai.”

                And she had played quite nicely into that.  Danarius did not smile, or even act interested in her plea.  “You’ll have to be more specific, elf,” he informed her.

                She looked heartbroken to say it out loud.  “Don’t touch him.  Stop… hurting him,” she said haltingly.  “Stop hitting him.”  Her eyes watered.  “And… don’t rape him…  Just leave Leto alone.  Haven’t you done enough?”

                He decided to ignore that last remark.  “So, if I agree to stop hurting Leto, you’ll give me the boy for a day?”

                She looked down, and nodded.  “Yes,” she choked.  And she looked up.  “But you can’t just order someone else to do it either.”

                He almost laughed.  Smart girl.  But not smart enough.  “Very well; I agree to your terms.  I will ‘leave Leto alone’ and you will give me the boy for the Ritual.”  
                Varania looked away, and nodded her consent of this.  “Yes,” she whispered.  He dismissed her, on the condition that she not speak of their agreement.  He did not think she would anyway, but he did like to take precautions.

                What amused him the most about it was the terms:  He would leave _Leto_ alone.  Well, fact of the matter, once his little wolf had his memory erased, his name was the first thing he was changing.

                He _had_ been giving it some thought, but hadn’t quite come up with anything he liked just yet.  He wanted something fitting, something he could think of him as.  He was in no real rush, but did see the need to come up with a suitable name soon.  The Ritual was nearing, after all.


	40. The Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leto faces final preparations for the Ritual and runs into someone that disappeared from the slave compound weeks ago. Danarius finds a suitable new name for Leto.

                The darkness yawned and stretched like a thing alive, conquering the recesses of the place, penetrating the crevices of the stone.  It was a darkness so complete there was no shadow—only a nameless black.  A shadow would have implied light and definition, no matter how vague.

                In the yawning darkness, there was no light, and so the blackness thrived.  There was nothing to see, here in the dark.

                The scent of the place was that of despair—which held a scent of its own, faint and intangible, flavouring everything it touched.  The despair peppered the cold scent of the stone, the smooth granite, and the single iron door of the windowless place.

                But hands could make out the stone walls.  Fingers could trace the stone, touch the mortar and know that hands—who’s?--had crafted this place.  A small comfort amidst the crushing dark, to know that others, too, had seen the place.

                Sound echoed here, and the darkness seemed to resent it.  Sound and touch shattered its illusion of infinity.  The darkness seemed vast and empty, but it was all illusion, for the darkness was contained in four corners, by cold stone and mortar.

                The black crushed around the inhabitant in the dark, seeking to obliterate the one who so often disturbed the silence, who sought the walls and was reminded that everything, including the dark, was only finite.

                A piercing sound rang out, so sharp it could have cut the dark.  The darkness seemed to press for a moment, to loom and become so thick it was nearly tangible.  A second sound pushed it back—keeping the impending suffocation at bay—for now.

                There was a slithering noise like smooth scales sliding across stone, and then silence as the inhabitant listened.  Distantly, a door could be heard opening in the chambers above.

                As the inhabitant of the dark listened, ears grown sensitive in the strict silence, footsteps could be heard, echoing only softly off the stone steps.  More than one—most strange.  Only one guard came down at a time, or it was the mage.  All the same, one at a time.  Perhaps the mage had come at the same time the guard would be changed?

                Unless they had changed routine.  That could be so.  They usually kept their routines, and their schedules, but such a thing was not always the case, nor was it necessary.  Perhaps circumstances had changed in the world above.

                It made no difference to the inhabitant in the dark.  The world of the dark had been the same for… a very long time.  What felt forever.  The passage of time was impossible to tell in the dark.  Though the space had once seemed larger, to be certain.

                Perhaps it had been larger.  Perhaps the space were shrinking, or perhaps the inhabitant grew.  Either way, it was impossible to really know, here in the dark.

                The inhabitant listened, heard words being spoken in the outer chamber.  A key turned in a lock, and the lock tumbled obediently.  The outer door groaned in protest, sliding against the stone.  A thin shaft of light was visible under the iron door.  The inhabitant blinked against even that weak light, shown through the metal grill in the door.

                The inhabitant wondered if now was time for feeding, or the Pain.

                But it was not the inhabitant’s door that creaked open, and a sound like someone being shoved into another cell, stumbling on the stone, and the door clanging shut could be heard.  It locked, and heavy leather boots struck against the stone.  The outer door shut, and the weak light was gone, leaving only the looming darkness.

                The darkness would swallow the inhabitant.  It felt inevitable.  It stretched all around, sometimes threatening, sometimes comforting.  Sometimes it clutched, and other times it cradled, but it was ever-present.  It felt like the presence of a god—intangible but real to one with eyes to see it.

                The inhabitant shifted in the dark, curious about the new person in the cell.  Fingernails scraped along the iron as the inhabitant clutched at the bars.

                “Is anyone there?” a voice called out, hesitant, masculine.  The darkness did not like voices.  It did not like anything that gave it depth.

                “There?” the inhabitant echoed, testing the word, rolling it over the tongue, the lips, enjoying the sound it made.

                A pause, then, “Hello?”

                The inhabitant blinked in the darkness.  “Hello?”

                “Is that… Raenya?”

                The name gave the inhabitant pause, made the inhabitant think, and wonder.  A name.  Surely, a name had been something possessed?  A name given, a name chosen, a name assumed—but a name.  Yes, a name.  Had it been that name?  But any name would do—certainly.  Yes, Raenya was a name.  A suitable name.  A familiar name.  Perhaps that had been the inhabitant’s name, before the Pain came, and the madness with it.

                “Raenya,” the inhabitant echoed, and laughed at the sound.  The laughter was a sound tinged with madness.

                There was a long, long pause and the darkness reached around the pair like talons.  “How long have you been down here, Raenya?” he asked, and sounded concerned.

                “Time,” said the madness, slipping away from the bars, falling back towards the far wall.

                Another pause, and the darkness tightened its loving embrace.  It was painful—the embrace.  “What have they done to you?” he whispered, more to himself than to the inhabitant or even the darkness.

                What was done?  “The darkness.  The Pain.  The madness,” the other whispered, half-cackling.

                The male-voice tried a different approach.  “Do you remember me, Raenya?  I’m Leto.”

                _Raenya…  Leto…_   Images, color and light—not the darkness, not of Pain, and not yet tinged with madness.  “Raenya… Leto…”  The voice echoing in the inhabitant’s throat was not tinted with madness.  The mind teetered on the edge of understanding.

                “Yes.  Do you remember Arrin?  Your brother.  And Varania—you two used to play together,” he went on.

                _Arrin…  Varania…_   Names.  So many names.  Names for people?  Things?  Colors?  Sounds?  Not names for the darkness.  The darkness had no name.  But still the images came.  Images of faces, of sights, and then memories.  Real memories, not of darkness or pain, but of sunlight and grass, arms lifting her into the air, the feel of the soil under her bare feet, weaving buttercups and daisies into her hair…  Kissing a servant boy around a corner when no one was watching, working in the kitchen, serving food…  Her foster-brother Arrin…  Leto killing him…

                “Leto?  Is that really you?” Raenya asked, her voice breaking.  Tears welled in her eyes, and she scampered to the door, in an effort to get closer to another person.

                She felt his relief, even with two doors between them.  “Raenya!  Is this what happened to you?”

                She swiped at her eyes.  “Yes,” she admitted.  “Oh, it’s awful…  Raith… does something to me, with magic.  I don’t know what exactly, but… it hurts so much.  I hope…  I hope they’re not going to do it to you too.”

                Another pause.  “I don’t…  I don’t think so,” he said, his voice weak.  “I think… they might be experimenting on you.”  Then a pause again.  “But I fear… that I’m going to be the finished product.”

                She was silent, and could think of nothing to say.  She asked him about what was going on since her disappearance, curious to know how long it had been.

                He gave her what information he could of course.  She admitted that she had hated him for a long time over what had happened to her foster brother, whose mother had so readily taken her when she had first come here.  But now, she didn’t think she had the capacity to truly hate any more.  The madness that had gripped her so tightly only a short while ago still crept at the recesses of her mind, and she could feel it there.  The madness had sapped her capacity to hate, to love.

                Raith came back.  It could have been minutes, or hours, even days.  All was the same down there.

                Leto listened, she knew, in horrified silence, while she screamed until her throat was too sore to do so, and she fell to whimpering.  As Raith left her, lying still on the floor, she heard him say, to Leto, “Two weeks from now, you’ll know why she was screaming.”

                More people came in and out of the dungeons with Leto being there.  They only fed Raenya once a day, but they brought Leto food more frequently, and even someone with a bucket of water so he could bathe a couple times.

                Raenya was jealous, a bit, but too crestfallen to care overmuch.  He told her that he would give her his food if he only could.  She believed him.  When the guards heard them talking, they were first told to be quiet.  But sometime after that, Raith came down with a guard.

                The guard held Raenya still… while Raith cut out her tongue with a hot knife.  He used the spilled blood to fuel his own magic, and kept her from bleeding to death.  Leto had begged and pleaded with them not to, promising not to talk to her any more, but he was just as ignored in this as she was.

                It was hard to swallow, without a tongue, even the thin gruel she was sustained on.  Her mouth was so dry, her throat dryer than before.  Her lips cracked, and she could not relieve them.  She was tempted, sometimes, to touch the stub of her tongue with her fingers, but did not.  It was too horrifying to consider.

                She had cried for a while, at first.  When Raith came to experiment on her, to practice, he called it, she had discovered she could still scream just as well.  They put out her eyes, too, though that one they did not explain or give reason to, and Leto begged them to leave her alone.  They did not.  She saw nothing any more, but the darkness was all the same regardless.

                Leto had tried to comfort her, but the guards reported that too.  Later, someone came and shoved something into her ears, deeper than it should ever have gone.  The last thing she heard was Leto screaming, begging them not to hurt her anymore.  It hurt—unbelievably so.  And the world had gone mute to her.  Then, a bit of cloth was forced inside her ears, and her hands shackled behind her back, a fold of cloth wound around the empty sockets of her eyes, more for Raith’s sake than hers.  She heard nothing any more, not even the sound of her screams, or the door opening.

                She had to carefully feel for the bowl of gruel intermittently with her toes, never knowing when the door opened.  After a while, she realized that there was a slight change in the air, and that was when the door creaked open.  She imagined that it creaked, anyway—she couldn’t tell any more.

                With her hands shackled, she put her lips against the gruel in the bowl and took it into her mouth, and tilted her head back to swallow, and she could barely drink the water at all.  She was always so thirsty.  So incredibly thirsty.  She couldn’t hear, or speak.  She could smell, and found that her nose was more sensitive than before, but that wasn’t always a good thing.

                The chamber pot in the corner was overflowing.  There was mold growing in the dungeon.

                When she felt the knife against her throat, she almost welcomed her death.

 

                Raith had painted on the henna to Leto’s skin in the room they would be using for the ritual.  Everything was prepared.  Everything was ready.  It would be tomorrow.

                Years of waiting.  Years of preparation, and study, and work—all of it about to pay off.  The power of a Templar, but without the reliance of a steady supply of lyrium.  Maybe more power.  And he finally had all the elements in place.  He was confident; it would work.

                The door opened.  It was Raith, Leto trailing behind him wearing nothing but a thin robe, so sheer he might as well not be wearing it.  His embarrassment to be seen in it showed plainly—his face was reddened.  Danarius was only amused by it.

                “Master,” Raith said, bowing slightly, and presenting the elf.  “For your inspection.”  How long had Raith been apprenticing here?  Two years longer than he had had Leto, roughly—which meant…  Twenty years?  It took a lifetime to become a magister, was the saying.  A lifetime of training, not just in magic, but in protocol, and to survive being a magister also took a lifetime of training.  Danarius wasn’t boasting, and he could say that he was skilled at it—something special even, to have not only survived the game so long, but to have stepped into it so young.  No one had thought he could do it, and he was confident that he would not die from a knife in the dark, or in any of the duels he had participated in.  Raith had been undergoing testing to become a magister for the past couple of years.  The process had become slower since Danarius had ascended to the rank, much to the magister’s displeasure.  Still, the time would be soon, and he was pleased by this, actually.  Raith would be forever indebted to him, and he would have an ally amidst the magisters—an invaluable resource.

                Danarius appraised the elf.  Cleaned, manicured, his hair shaved off, skin gleaming.  “The robe.”  He said, gesturing.  Even though the robe was thin, Leto was still reluctant to shed it, but he did.  It slid to the floor, and he stood before him, naked, and stunning.  The magister had him turned several times, inspecting every graceful line of henna.  It was perfect, expertly done—months of practice honed to perfection.  Raith looked proud of himself, and he should be.

                “Perfect.  Take him to a guest room, not the dungeon,” he said with a slight nod.  “No food, but plenty of water.  No lyrium either,” he added as an afterthought.

                Leto’s eyes narrowed.  “Master.  What of our agreement?” he said acidly.  “Regarding Lura?”

                The magister smirked.  “All in good time, my pet,” he told him.  He addressed Raith briefly, discussing the Ritual primarily, and going over necessary things.  They spoke for a time, and Danarius paused for a moment, his face going carefully blank, not a noise escaping his lips.  He felt the girl swallow, and he reached under the desk, and his fingers gripped her hair.

                He hauled her out from under the desk, and shoved her roughly aside.  She stumbled, swiping at her mouth.  She looked up at Leto.  He made a pleasant variety of facial expressions, ranging from shock, to horror, and finally settling on outrage.  Her own expression was that of concern, when her gaze lingered on his cut genitals.

                “She…  Our agreement was that she go free, Master,” he hissed.  Something in him had changed in his stay in the dungeon.  He added the “Master” bit only out of a sense of necessity.  His anger was taking hold, overpowering his common sense.  Interesting.  But Danarius had uses for anger.  Angry, fearful people were easy to manipulate.

                “She will.”  He raised an eyebrow.  “After tomorrow.”  The elf stared down, fingers curling into angry fists.  But he said nothing.  “At any rate, I’m finished with the whore.  Raith, send her to the barracks.”

                Leto’s head snapped up.  “No!” he protested, his jaw set in fury.

                The magister looked at his slave.  “’No’?” he questioned him.  “She’s a whore.  I’m certain she’s been with more… disagreeable men.”

                His voice came out a strangled, furious whisper, “Leave her alone.”

                Danarius raised an eyebrow, and he began to give an order, but Lura actually strode toward him.  Her features were that of desperation.  “Leto, don’t do this,” she pleaded with him, taking his hands gently in hers.  He looked at her, and she didn’t even seem to be aware that he was naked—and shaved.  Danarius decided that he hated his little wolf without hair; it was weird and unpleasant.  Elves needed hair—their ears were even more ridiculous without it.  The two looked at each other, and when they did, they were all that existed in the world to one another.  “He’s right, Leto; I’ve been with worse.  So… please…  Don’t get yourself hurt trying to protect me.”

                _She loves him_.  That much was plain.  It was in her every gesture, her every movement, the way she spoke to him and the tender way she gazed into his eyes.  “Lura…  I can’t…” he protested.  And how much this hurt Leto gave Danarius cause to wonder if the feelings might be mutual.

                “Are you finished with this drama?” Danarius mused.  The pair turned toward him, as if nothing else in the world had existed a moment ago.  A couple in love often felt that way, though.  And he hated them for it.  He was sadistically pleased that Leto would not remember her after the Ritual.  But he begrudged them their affections in the meantime.  “Raith, the whore is yours.  Do what you will with her, and send her to the barracks when you’re finished.  Leave orders for the guards that come dawn, she is to be moved to the servant quarters—with Leto’s family.”  A slow smile spread across his face.  “So they had best hurry with her.”

                Lura looked down, but Leto pulled her close to him, encircling her in his arms.  The magister’s eyes narrowed.

                _Roschelle…_

                “No,” Leto hissed, eyes sliding closed, his fingers holding onto her so tightly that it looked like he might be bruising her milk-white arms.  They actually made quite the pair—he dark, and she so light.

                Danarius heard himself sigh.  True, he could do nothing to punish _Leto_ , exactly.  He would not risk his vessel for anything, but Lura was something else, as was Varania and his mother.  “Leto.  Let go of her, or Varania joins her.”

                Lura whispered something to him, and he looked at the world as if it were nothing but pain, but his grip slackened, and he let go of her.  She stepped slowly away from him, and smiled to him, sadly, mouthed something to him.  Leto’s eyes slid closed, and he hung his head as Raith appraised the girl, and the elven whore followed the apprentice out the door.

                When the door closed, and they were alone, Leto looked up.  He was seething with rage so tangible that if he were blind he could see it.  “Damn you,” the elf whispered.  “And everything you are.”

                “Remember who your master is,” said Danarius, ever amused by his slave’s ramblings.  He had been amused by him since he had first seen him in that cage.  That he had dared to glare at him, that he had dared to try to kill him.  And now, daring this.  It had been his rage.  All this time, what had so amused him was the elf’s capacity for rage.

                Leto snorted disdainfully.  “You won’t do anything to me,” he snarled, lips curling in open disgust.  “I’m too important to you.”  His words were full of the utmost contempt.

                “Not to you, no.  But there’s still Lura, and your mother and sister,” he corrected, though left out his nephew.  He had plans for the whelp too.

                Leto seemed to regain himself, reign in his rage.  Green eyes slid closed briefly, and when he opened them, the tide of rage had ebbed.  “I apologize, Master.  I… I’m not sure what came over me,” he added, as if suddenly lost.

                Interesting.  Danarius appraised him again.  The henna was cracking with every movement.  The servants would be picking it up for days, he imagined.  Beyond that, he still looked… lovely, from about the neck down anyway—oh, his hair...  “If you were any of the other slaves, or even a servant, I’d cut out your tongue for those words.”  It was something he was fond of—the horror stayed with the living for the rest of their lives, after all.  They could never forget.  “However, being that you are yourself, perhaps I will extract that punishment on your mother.”

                Leto’s eyes widened in horror.  “No…  I… please, not that,” he begged him, appalled.  “Please, Master, don’t…”

                And the magister smirked.  “And what would you do to apologize for your rash behaviour, Leto?”

                And the elf knelt, head low.  “Please, Master, accept my apology; I was wrong.”

                He certainly knew how to make all the motions of apology, he would give him that.  And he may even mean it.  But Danarius remembered all too clearly Leto’s embrace with Lura, and felt his own anger boil at it.  If he couldn’t have Roschelle, what right had anyone to such happiness?

                “Do you love Lura?” he asked Leto, once more.  “And don’t lie.”

                Leto paused.  The pause was so long that the magister began to feel annoyed, but then his slave spoke.  “I… think so, Master,” he whispered.  “I don’t really know.”

                “Do you hate me?” Danarius wondered suddenly, curious.  Leto did not answer.  It wasn’t that he paused, he just knelt, lower, until his forehead touched the wooden floor, which was answer enough for most people.  “Lura has been here since last night.  I don’t need to tell you what I did with her, do I?”  He watched Leto’s fingers curl into angry fists, then the boy took a deep breath, and relaxed.  “I wonder if Raith has gotten her to bed yet.”

                Fingers clenched again.  “What do you want?” Leto cried, voice furious but tinged with desperation.

                His lips pressed into a thin line.  “Get out.  Go to your room, and stay there.  You remember where it is, I trust?”

                Leto only nodded dimly.  He slipped on the thin robe, and was gone in moments.

                The magister attended the remains of his paperwork, signing papers and a series of other nonsense.  He finished it off, and left the room.  The day was dimming.  Tomorrow would be a long day.

                He started to go to his quarters, then changed his mind.

                Leto and Lura embracing was burned into his memory.  It pleased him to think of Lura in the barracks all night.  But what of Leto?  Lying awake thinking about it, he imagined.

                What he wanted to do, what he _really_ wanted to do, was go to Leto’s room, that guest room to which he had been confined.  He wanted to open the door without ceremony, bend the boy over the bed and fuck him.

                But _that_ was a bad idea.  He had spent too long getting Leto properly conditioned to ruin it all on a perverse desire.  When he thought about it, it might be best if Leto had some peace of mind before the ceremony.  It would calm him.

                He would allow him to see his family tomorrow, and Lura too, but only briefly.  He would ensure all of them that, regardless of anything, the ceremony would be over by sunrise the next day, and their ship set sail that evening after the Ritual—everything was perfectly planned and executed.  The next morning, Leto would likely not be conscious yet, and that was the prime time to start moving him to the country for the next two years.

                He would forget everything—he hoped he still remembered motor functions, though that was at risk too if he weren’t careful.  He would be careful.  He had already sought to hiring a man to re-teach Leto the ways of the sword and combat.

                _Leto…_

                That name had to go.  He hadn’t had the time to put the thought into what he wanted to name his little wolf.  That was a shame.

                He needed a new name when he woke up—lost, alone, and frightened.

                Danarius reasoned that he would have a name by then.  He would meditate on the matter, and pick something suitable.  Something he himself could live with.  Nothing elven.  He wanted no hint of a former life, no hint of anything really except perhaps of his role and purpose in life—Danarius’ slave, his little wolf.

                He found himself restless, and paced about the room, and grew tired of its confines.  He stalked down the hall, vaguely amused at the way the servants skittered to get out of his way.  He believed that good servants should leave their work to be seen, but they should be as invisible as possible.  If they failed in this duty, they were easy enough to replace.  After Shallise, he didn’t much care for seeing another servant ever again.

                He took the long way to his quarters, walking through the large ballroom, with its beautiful glass ceiling.  He looked up at it.  One couldn’t see it as well at night, but the iron frames that held the glass were shaped into his family crest—a howling wolf.

                But right now, when he looked up, it was just the stars.  Well, the stars wouldn’t give him an answer to his small dilemma of what to name his slave.  They were just stories, pictures, random glowing dots in the sky.

                But it made him wonder.  He continued his walk, thinking about all the stories he had heard in his youth, both from his mother and his nurse when he had been a child—and the stories Roschelle had promised to tell their child, the words she would whisper to her pregnant belly and the unborn child inside.  He had insisted that it did not know what she said, so she might as well say anything.  She said that she might as well tell stories then, because she “knew” it could hear her and “enjoyed” the sound of her voice.  He had rolled his eyes back then.

                But now…  Now he found himself thinking of her stories.  She had liked the dark stories the best.  Oh, she enjoyed tales of princesses and brave knights.  She enjoyed tales of beauty and triumph, but the books she read the most were dark tales—frightening ones.  He had seen her reading from one of such books once, and to break the silence, asked her to read it aloud.  She had delighted in it, and selected a particular favorite of hers about a king who dined on an ever-growing corpse of a snake, kept under a silver lid on a silver plate, consumed only in solitude, and was said to be the source of his longevity.  A servant glimpsed the contents, and was seen, and thus banished.  The meat of the tale was about the boy falling in with a group of thieves after not heeding the advice of his elders, about how he was eventually caught and given impossible tasks.  And at the end, his only friend requested that he cut off his head and hands to break his own curse.

                Danarius had promptly demanded to know who had given her such a thing.  She had only laughed, of course, and said that her nurse had read her these stories as a child.  His retort had only been that she had a mad childhood, and that this nurse should see the hangman’s noose.

                He wondered what other stories were in that book.  He thought he still had it—somewhere.

                The mage was right; he had kept it on his bookshelf in his private quarters, obscured and partially hidden by a larger text.  Idly, he thumbed through it, more for something to occupy him than anything else.  He was too anxious to sleep.  And anyway, Roschelle had been the last one to open it…

                Stories—fascinating stories, really, when he thought about it.  He skimmed them.  A sister cursed to not utter a single word for seven years while she wove tunics of pine needles to break a curse on her seven brothers, turned into swans.  Tales of gods, of spirits, and demons, talking animals, and dragons.  A story about a wolf that was said would devour the world at the end of time, but destined to be slain after the deed was done.

                That one gave him pause.  And the wolf was bound in the rarest of bindings, woven by dwarves, and sealed by mages.  But if free, once free, will destroy everything, until it was cut down by the son of one the wolf killed.

                Did that not describe his little pet?  He would be marked in lyrium mined delicately by dwarves, sealed in it by mages, and leashed by a mage.  If free, he would have the power to destroy like no one before him.

                He liked it.  He liked the imagery, and the story.  But the wolf had more than one name in the story.  In fact, it had several, and variations of it.  But there was one that he liked best.

                Danarius put the book down, sliding it back into its place.  Well, that was finished.  And now he felt like he would be able to rest at least, if not sleep.


	41. Two for Tragedy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leto's hours are numbered, and the others ready themselves for a lifetime separated from their loved one.

                Lura was unwillingly, even grudgingly, handed over to a stunned-looking servant, right at dawn just as her master had said.  She held the remnants of her dress in her hands.  The servant’s eyes softened at her plight, and helped her to the servant’s quarters.  The woman found Lura a simple, old dress.  Lura was grateful for anything, though, really—even if it were not the fine silks she had grown accustomed to.  The woman helped her brush her hair, and let her bathe.  The soap was harsher than she was used to, and the concept of freedom seemed alien to her yet, but not having to do this… that was a wonderful thought.

                What would it be like, not to have to give herself to anyone with the coin to buy her?  Could she ever grow used to that?  Could she ever become accustomed to having no master?  She was frightened, and afraid, but oh-so excited at the prospect of freedom and what it meant for her.

                After she finished, the woman brought her to a room, and knocked on the door.  There was a stirring inside, and the door opened to reveal a middle-aged but still pretty elven woman.  Her bearing suggested that of one heavily burdened, from the slump of her shoulders to her tired hazel eyes and the way wisps of her graying hair strayed across her face.  Lura looked at the woman curiously for a long moment, and felt like she must know her, but she was quite certain that they had never met.

                “Is that…  Lura?” the woman said, and her eyebrows raised in surprise.  The servant woman quickly excused herself.  Lura blinked, still not understanding.  How did this woman know her?  She had never seen her before, she was certain.  “Oh, Lura…”  The woman stepped aside, and ushered her inside.  Lura, not knowing what else to do, walked in.  The door shut behind her.

                The room was simple, lit by the dawn’s light from the window.  A young girl sat on the bed, holding an infant.  The girl was redheaded, and had bright green eyes.  She did not know her either.

                “Lura, do you remember me?” the elven woman asked her.

                Lura flushed, realizing that she could not say that she did.  “No, ma’am…” she said, reluctantly.

                But the woman was not in the least bit offended.  “Oh, I certainly don’t blame you.  It was so long ago,” she went on.  Lura wished the woman would explain.  The woman hugged her close, and Lura had never felt more awkward.  Who was this woman?  Who was the girl?  What _was_ this?  “You look just like your mother, dear.”

                Then her eyes opened wide.  She had been so exhausted she hadn’t been thinking straight.  This was… this was Leto’s family.  She had been told that she would be leaving with them.  So the middle-aged woman was Leto’s mother—she couldn’t remember her name.  And the redheaded girl was his sister, and the babe was her child.

                “Leto’s mother?” she finally asked, gasping, and finally returned the hug.  “I never thought…”

                The woman held her out at arm’s length, looking at her.  “You’ve grown up to be so beautiful, Lura,” she told her.  Lura flushed.  “I imagine you don’t remember my name.  It’s ‘Mieta.’  And this is my daughter, Varania.”  The redhead smiled, a little uneasily.

                “Leto did tell us that someone would be joining us,” she admitted.  “You’re his childhood friend?  You… made the crossing here from Seheron?”

                Lura nodded once.  “Yes, but I barely remember it at all,” she said with a shrug.

                Mieta hugged her again.  “I’m so glad,” she whispered.  Yes, now if only Leto could have been here for this too.  It hardly seemed fair.  To Lura, it hardly seemed worth it at all.  But she knew that he didn’t feel that way.

                She only wished… she had the time to tell him all the things she was too afraid to, and all the things she couldn’t say.  The things she had no name for, and how she really felt.  Would he ever know what she really meant to say?

 

                There was a brief rap at the door.  Varania jumped, and went to it.  She had been jumpy and frightened since Leto had disappeared weeks ago.  She knew he wasn’t dead; he was too important to Danarius right now for him to kill him.  But that must only mean he was undergoing some dark preparation for the Ritual.  That frightened her.  Somehow, knowing he was alive only meant that he was alive to suffer something unspeakable.  There would be some peace found in death, she felt.  But he was alive, and living was to serve his master; which meant he suffered, she had no doubt.

                She often found herself praying for him at night, silently pleading with a god that didn’t listen for her brother’s safety.  Above all else, she wanted him safe.  She did not trust Danarius, not really, even with her promise to deliver him Shai.  It was just that it was the most that she could offer, and she would give her brother anything, if he would but ask.  He never asked.

                It was a servant, and at first she was relieved, but then he said that it was “time.”  She knew what that meant, and it made her blood run cold.  Then, the servant simply left.  She had to deliver Shai, then.  It was cruel.  It would be less cruel if the servant had simply collected him.  Handing him over—that was a difficult task in itself.  But delivering her child was something else.

                Lura was dead asleep.  Mieta had said that she looked very tired, and the girl had fallen asleep once she laid down.  Mieta herself was working, which Lura was grateful for, trying to get a few extra coppers before they set out.

                The babe stirred not at all when she lifted him from the bed.  She cradled him to her breast, and took a deep breath, and then walked silently from the room.  She of course knew where the Ritual was being held.  It was hard not to know.  She took the servant’s passage to the gutted library, but the entrance into it had been blocked, for safety reasons, so she had to detour.

                She realized that she didn’t want to do this.  But it would help.  Anything she could do for her brother, anything at all…  She was horrified to think of the things that Danarius had done to both of them, and know that she was leaving her brother alone with such a man.  She felt like she was abandoning him.

                This was all she could do.  She loved her brother; she had to do this.  But it certainly didn’t make that long walk any shorter.  It didn’t make the burden in her arms any lighter, or easier to carry.  The babe shifted, and reminded her in its small way of what she was doing.  The decision weighed heavy on her heart and soul, and she felt like her very soul was corrupt for doing this, for allowing it to happen.

                She knocked sharply on the door, but perhaps too softly.  She heard noise inside.  She knocked again, louder, and the door opened.  It was Raith.

                Varania swallowed, and looked down, unable to say a word.  Raith’s gaze fell to the child.  “Oh,” he said.  “Give me that.”

                He went to grab the infant, and Varania’s eyes widened in something akin to fear.  “Wait!” she gasped, and held it close for a moment.  “I’m sorry,” she whispered to Shaislyn, before she handed the baby, her eyes watering, to Raith.  “Watch his head…”  Raith grumbled, but did hold him properly.  His pale eyes were open, but that meant little considering that he was blind.  At least he could not see what was going on.  She wondered if that was better or worse.

                Raith brought the child into the room, and the door shut.  Varania stood outside it, trembling in fear of what she had just done.  She looked down, the water in her eyes threatening to spill.  It had been a hard choice, but, she felt, the right one.

                Besides, Shai could yet live.

                She went back to the room they shared, and curled onto the bed, eyes closed as if she were asleep, but feeling too sick to sleep.  She was sick with grief, with loss, with horror over what she had done, over what would happen tonight.

 

                Mieta had been in the sewing room since that morning, chatting amiably with Lana, who was sad to see her go, but happy for her at the same time.  She had been more than a help when it came to finding a ship, to bartering their passage.  Lana had laughingly said it was the least she could do after her years of hard work, and complained that they wouldn’t find another seamstress like her easily.

                Lana had stopped for luncheon, and Mieta, accustomed to not eating very much, was prepared to work through the break, but Lana made her stop and told her to stand up for a while.  So, Mieta stretched, and paced about the room.  She found herself tidying things up instead of resting, but a change was as good as a rest, so they said.

                The air seemed to grow stuffy with the sun’s passage across the sky.  Mieta suggested opening a window, and Lana hurriedly agreed to this idea.

                Mieta opened the windows in the sewing room to let in the breeze and some fresh air, but wished she had not strayed so near the windows when she looked out them, for the sight she saw disturbed her.

                All the slaves from the compound—every one—was being marched toward the manor.  All of them—the children, the gladiators, the old, everything in between.  Every one of them.  Every one of those slaves Mieta had known, many for years.  The boys Leto had fought with, the women who had helped Mieta when it came time to birth Varania, Marlance, ancient Lolette.  She knew them all.  They looked frightened, and unsure of what was going on.

                There was only one certainty:  They were serving their master in some way.  A slave’s life hinged on that one certainty, and it was always true.

                Mieta had a cold feeling in her stomach of what that meant.  Tonight was the night of the Ritual.

 

                All the slaves had to be properly prepared for the ritual.  All the servants were busy in preparation too—scrubbing the slaves clean was the most important one they assisted with.  Danarius, Raith, and Marietta, Danarius’s mage servant, prepared the actual room.  It had been gutted, and scrubbed to perfection.  Now, all the items had to be in order, accounted for.  The lyrium was taken stock of, the cages had to be out of the way but still convenient.  Everything had to be perfect.  The slaves had not been fed for the past two days, as per instruction.

                Raith had no doubt that many of them were sneaking food, or eating something regardless, but that was why they weren’t as important.  Raith and Danarius had been fasting for two days, similarly, drinking nothing but water with a few breadcrumbs to cloud it.

                He was going to eat as though he had survived a famine after this.  He had visions of roast duck, steaming on a plate, so skillfully prepared it nearly melted in the mouth.  Perhaps served with a side of cranberry sauce, hot bread, still steaming from the ovens—with butter.  Of course this meal would have to come with potatoes—roasted potatoes, with peppers and onions.  Mayhap, a glass of fine wine on the side—or even brandy?  Now that sounded nice.  And the meal, he felt, should end with pie.  Strawberry pie—it was the season after all, and cream would be welcome as well.  Served with cordial, or even a cool tea.

                And afterwards?  A whore, maybe three.  He bet he could fit more into that big bed of his, but he only had one penis, and girls had so many options anyway.  And Danarius had better not tell him he can’t!  He was of course given a bit of an allowance for his work, and he could use that on whores if he liked.  And, just this once, damn his master’s disapproving frowns.  After all this, he deserved a reprieve.

                And after this success, he could present his case to the Archon and the magisters.  And, why, they were already considering raising him to the rank.  He had studied for years, after all, and passed all the tests so far, so why not?  And this, well, it was visionary—nay, revolutionary!  There was no reason he should not be made a magister.

                Danarius had hinted, privately, that Raith may be taking the final tests as soon as the next phase of the moon if all went well.  Everything must go well.

 

                A servant knocked at the door, and when Varania answered, he only told them to come with him.  So, Lura and Varania followed him, through the servant’s passages to the guest rooms.  There, Mieta was standing in the hall, as if waiting for them, looking as confused as they felt.

                The servant would not speak when questioned.  Rather, he knocked loudly on a door, then opened it.  “You are permitted some time to speak with the slave,” he said curtly, and turned on his heel.  The three women looked at each other, and knew what that meant.  They filed in shortly, and Lura closed the door behind them.

                Leto was standing next to an open window, a light breeze ruffling his clothes.  He was clothed simply, and watched the outside world as if he would never see it again.

                He did not turn to greet them, but not so much as if he did not know they were there.  More like, he was lost in his own thoughts and could not be bothered to be parted from them.  When he turned, it was because Varania touched his shoulder gently.  He looked lost to her, and as frightened as she had ever seen him.

                But he smiled all the same.  There weren’t really any words the four of them could say, so they embraced him in turns, and any idle chatter died before it really began.  What does one say in a situation like this?  What can anyone say?

                Promises were made—to love and remember, to cherish and also to let go.  Leto made Varania promise to learn to read, where the others could hear her swear it.  Lura offered that she would like to learn as well, and Mieta said in a low voice that she would teach both of them.

                No one mentioned Shai, though the infant’s absence did not go unnoticed.  Rather, no one wanted to fight when this was the last time they would be together, likely forever.

                Varania was frightened for her brother.  She was scared that he would not survive, and scared that he would.  She was afraid for her child, and her brother, and everything.  She had thought she had been frightened before, during the rape, when she discovered she was a mage, when she found that she was pregnant, when the twins nearly killed her and Danarius cut open her belly and plucked the screaming infants from her womb.  But this—this was worse somehow.  Worse, because she would never know for sure what had become of her brother.

                Leto asked them where they were going, when the ship was leaving.  They spoke of that for a while, and Mieta told them that they had a small house in an alienage waiting for them when they docked.  Some of the money, Danarius had given them already out of necessity, which meant that he had given it to Lana, who had actually made the arrangements.  Mieta said with confidence that she would find work, and teach the girls her trade.  Lana had even volunteered to write her a reference, and had—something Mieta kept safe.  Lana had done more for the small family than anyone had ever asked her to, and she did it all gladly.  They all owed her more than thanks.  Varania offered that she could study more of the healing arts, and might find work as a doctor or an assistant at least.  Lura was looking forward to learning to sew, though.

                In a moment of silence where no one could think of a word to say, Leto asked, his expression that of someone who hoped for something but expected nothing, “Mama, would you sing me a song?”

                Mieta blinked, surprised to hear him ask, and she smiled softly, both because of his request, and because of how he had asked.  “I…  It’s been a long time,” she said, flushing.  “But I’ll try.”

                And she sang.  Her singing was uncertain at first, her voice shaky from years of disuse, but she gained confidence, and it was as though her voice had remembered what to do.  She sang of how she felt—a mother’s love for her child.  Her son, specifically, Varania noted.

                She did not intend to be jealous.  That was never something she wanted, nor something she had felt so much before.  But it had always been there.  Varania was the mage, the one who complicated things.  Leto was her firstborn, the special one.  Leto was the strong one who was sacrificing everything.  She knew he deserved this, but…  Mieta had never sang for Varania.  Not to help her sleep, not for anything, not even when she lay dying unable to birth the twins.  But she was singing now for Leto.

                Varania knew that she would never sing like that for her.

 

                Mieta touched Varania’s shoulder gently.  The girl looked up at her inquiringly.  Mieta inclined her head toward the door, and glanced back at Leto and Lura, who were both speaking to one another—filling in pieces of what the other did not remember of their earliest childhood, trying to remember the name of her pet cat.

                Mieta knew the answer, though did not feel inclined to give it.  Rather, she had something else in mind.

                Varania, though, looked at her mother, puzzled.  Mieta leaned down, and whispered in her daughter’s pointed ear, “Come—let’s leave them alone for a while.”

                The girl looked at her, clearly not understanding.  But that was fine—she was young yet.  And though Varania did not quite understand, she did heed her mother, and quietly followed her out of the room, looking back over her shoulder.  Mieta smiled when she saw Leto look up, puzzled.

                She opened the door, and shut it behind them both quietly.  Somehow, she felt oddly at peace as she walked away.  She knew it would be the last time she saw her son, in this life, and yet…  Yet, she had done the best she could for him.  She was proud of him, of the man he had become.  If things had gone any other way, she knew that he would have made a good man, a good husband, and he had always been a good son.

                She only wished, fervently and with all her heart, that things did not have to be this way.

 

                The door closed, and Lura smiled at Leto.  They were alone again.  Finally.  It felt like it had been so long ago, but it really hadn’t been.  She didn’t know how much time they had left together—not much, she assumed.  She wasted none of it.

                She rose from her seat, and crawled into his lap, throwing her arms around his neck, and he held her for a time.  She knew the ceremony—the _ritual_ —was tonight, and assumed that someone would come to collect Leto soon.  She knew that.

                She didn’t want them to.  She wanted to stay in his arms like this forever.  She wanted to die in his arms.

                Had she loved him all her life and was only just realizing it now?  Why had it taken so long?  She knew that she could do nothing for it, but it would be nice if only…  No, she did not want to lament.  Not right now.  She could lament later perhaps.  But not now.

                “I love you,” she whispered, feeling her eyes water as she said it, because nothing would ever come of it.  Nothing.  She would be free, in Seheron, and he would be a slave all the way in Minrathous.

                He paused.  “I…”

                She heard the way his voice died, and even then, she smiled.  “It’s all right if you don’t love me,” she confessed, and held him a little tighter.  “But I wanted you to know—that someone does.”

                He buried his face in her hair, inhaling deeply.  “I just… don’t know yet.”

                She sighed to herself.  It was hoping for too much perhaps.  Still…  It was enough, for now, just to have told him.  It filled her with a sense of peace and fulfillment.  Maybe later she would wish he had told her his feelings, and wish he had felt the same way.  But for now, she was content.  “It’s all right,” she breathed.  “I’m happy just like this.”

                She only wished that it could last.  A loud rap on the door startled her.  It burst open, and Leto looked up, but did not let her go.  Rather, he held on to her tighter, as if she were the only thing anchoring him to this world.  Maybe she was.

                “The whore leaves,” Raith said, and smirked.  “Shame.”

                Leto rose to his feet, to Lura’s surprise lifting her with him.  Her legs dangled off the floor as if she were a child.

                “She’s not a whore,” he protested.  “Not anymore.”

                Raith snorted.  “She’s not a slave anymore, but how long do you think it will really be before that purse Danarius gives them runs dry and she has to ply the only trade she knows?”

                Lura’s throat felt suddenly dry.  No, no it wouldn’t happen.  It would work out.  Mieta could get a job as a tailor.  Varania could get a job in a clinic maybe.  And surely Lura could find a job at a tavern at least?  Or even washing dishes—anything but… _that_.  Hearing the man say it aloud made her more determined that it should not happen.  “It won’t happen,” she insisted aloud, as if solidifying it in her mind.

                He only snorted.  “Let go of her.”  Leto gently set Lura down on her feet.  Leto clearly expected her to simply turn and leave, but she, frankly, was finished being bullied and ordered around.  She stood up on her toes and kissed Leto, her hands on his strong shoulders for support.  It wasn’t long, but it wasn’t short either, and she poured all of her passion and affection for him into the kiss.  She heard Raith clear his throat, and she stepped back.

                “I love you,” she whispered in a voice so low she doubted the mage could hear it.  Leto caught her sleeve as she turned to go, and took an anxious step forward.  He was looking at her with such a pleading look in his eyes that she paused.

                “I love you, Lura—I think,” he added quickly.

                She smiled for him, and to herself.  It was good enough for her.  “I’ll never forget you,” she promised him, and had to go.  Strangely, she left light-hearted.  Someone cared about her.  Someone loved her.  She had thought… for so long that no one did.  That no one would ever love a whore.  Someone did.  She hated that that someone would be ripped from her life forever.  She found herself praying that, if not in this life, perhaps she could meet him again in the Void.

                She did not miss the look that Raith gave her as she passed him.  His appraisal, his lingering, knowing gaze.  She had no choice in what she had had to do the night before.  He knew that.  Leto knew that, and did not begrudge her it.  She sometimes wondered if he even saw her as a whore.  But no—he didn’t.  He saw her as a person.  He had been the first person who had… for as long as she could really remember.

                And now…  Now…

                But her life as a whore was over, and she would never go back to it.  Leto had given her a new life, and she intended to cherish it, and to live it.  She would not dwell on the past, nor what could have been.  She would embrace this new future full-heartedly, and every day give thanks for Leto’s sacrifice.  She would throw herself into her new life with gusto, and felt determined to enjoy it and be grateful, no matter what, for Leto’s sake as well as her own. 

                And whatever choices she made, from now on, were her own.  No matter the consequences of those choices, no matter the inevitable pitfalls as well as the joys, the despairs she would face alongside the triumphs—they were her own. 

                Her life was her own, and she intended to live it.

 

                The door opened again, and Leto looked up, but he knew who it was.  The door shut, and his master looked at him, at the henna, at his shaved head, and his untrusting and fearful eyes.

                The magister went up to him, and told him to look up.  The elf obeyed, and Danarius put his fingers to his forehead.  A trickle of his magic wound his way into him, probing.  He was ready.

                “Time to go,” he said.

                Leto hesitated.  “Wait…  Master…” he called, and looked down when his master turned to look at him.  “I…  What is the Ritual?”  He looked up.  “What… are you doing to me?”

                Danarius raised an eyebrow.  “You know the purpose of it, but I suppose I never told you the process.”  He smirked.  “Very well; if you’re curious, I’ll tell you.”  He turned back to him.  He ran his fingertips down his naked chest, imagining it covered in lyrium.  “We’ll be pouring boiling metal over your body and searing it into your skin.”  Leto’s eyes widened, just a little.  “The pain will be… more than anything you could ever imagine.”  He touched his arm.  “Your skin will blister and boil, and you’ll scream but you can’t make it stop.  And it won’t, pet.”  And he would feel all of it even if it were a lesser pain, Danarius thought with a shudder.  Except he wouldn’t have the grace of forgetting the worst parts of it.  “Your body will be reforged to hold the lyrium, and while the two are made one, I will be binding the lyrium into your soul.”  He kind of smiled at the stunned look on his pet’s face.  “ _That_ will bring about a pain unlike any known form of pain.”

                Leto stared downwards, then his eyes flicked up again.  “I don’t care about the pain.”

                “You might feel differently about that while it’s happening.”  He smiled sadistically.  “Fenris.”

                The elf blinked, and his expression was that of shock and dismay.  “You…”  He couldn’t speak for a moment.  “You won’t even leave my name?” he whispered.

                Danarius smirked.  “You won’t remember your name.  You won’t even care.”

                Leto shook his head in despair.  “I’ll _know_ it’s not my name,” he insisted.

                “You won’t know the difference.”

                The poor boy looked to be on the verge of tears.  “You’re taking everything from me!” he cried out in pain.  He shook his head again.  “Why can’t you at least leave me my name?”

                Danarius chuckled.  He looked so sad, his pet wolf.  So heartbroken.  “I’d rather leave you with nothing.”  Leto stared at him, barely breathing.  Danarius watched his anger build, the rage twist across his face, his fingers clench into fists.  He waited, until his slave’s muscles began to flex—all of this in a matter of seconds.  “My pet,” he called him.  And the boy’s despair overcame his rage, all the fight that had been there a moment ago gone.  And he had been ready to assault him too.  “Come.”  He smiled as he turned.  “Fenris.”

                “I hate you,” he whispered.

                But Danarius only smiled, because soon, the lad would forget that too.

 

                Marietta would not be in the actual Ritual, but her role was still significant enough.  She was overseeing the cleansing of the slaves, and had personally taken the half-bred brat to be properly prepared.  Danarius checked her work, and ascertained that everything she was doing was suitable.

                Raith was given the pivotal, and trying, task of preparing Leto, while Danarius oversaw the happenings of the room.

                Raith had to, personally this time, more or less give Leto a spongebath with a cotton cloth and scentless soap.  It was more than that though—the subtlest of spells made the elf more docile, and every soothing movement helped the matter.

                So, he bathed him, all the while keeping a steady trickle of magic feeding into him.

                He had discovered almost immediately when his master had taken the boy to bed.  He had suspected it for some time that it might be something that happened, but only recently was it affirmed for him.

                He had simply… noticed… when he was painting him a few weeks ago.

                He hadn’t been particularly surprised.  If one were going to take a man to bed with them, it might as well be an elf.  And Leto did clean up well.

                After the bathing, he inspected him—the henna mostly.  All was as it should be.  It was nearly time.  He daresay he was even excited.

 

                Marietta inspected the slaves, each one, carefully.  She had overcome shyness by necessity—she was a doctor after all, of sorts.  But she still disliked staring at naked people, especially a long row of naked knife-ears.  How revolting.  It wasn’t their ears, so much as their eyes, that so disturbed her.  In fact, it was a common enough discomfort in humans when looking at elves; with their wide irises, it was difficult to tell exactly what an elf was looking at.  It disturbed something primal in her, some remnant in the brain of when humans had to be vigilantly wary of predators and it was important to know when something was watching them.  And you couldn’t tell as easily with an elf—which was exactly the problem.

                Elves—perverted, lower forms of humans.  Weaker, smaller—but properly subjugated.  It was only fitting that such lesser beings served humanity.  That the two species could breed seemed doubly insulting.  The lesser creatures were properly afraid of her, as they should be.

                She gave the approval, and each slave’s wrists were bound securely in silk rope, behind their backs, no matter their age.  The parents voiced dismay.  She ignored them, and attended to the half-bred creature she was to prepare.  Its unnatural eyes made her uncomfortable.  She would put them out so she would not have to look at them, but she had been given strict orders not to _harm_ the child.  Just cleanse it properly, in cold water, in scentless soap.  It cried in the cold water.  It _sounded_ human enough—and that was the true blasphemy of its existence.

                Touching the half-breed made her feel unclean.  It was repulsive.  Nothing so morally wrong as a cross between an elf and a human should be allowed to live.  It was disgusting that it was still alive.  She would kill it herself, except she could not; Danarius would be most displeased.

                She swaddled the infant in silk—the creature did not deserve such delicacies—and gave the final order that the slaves should all be gagged.  She had no doubt that many would start shrieking during the ritual, or begging, and that would be distracting for the magister.

                Wool was used to bind their mouths, and they were ushered to what used to be the library, and likely into their cages.  She made sure the infant swallowed the right amount of drops of lyrium—it hated it.  She let it drink some water from a bottle, and carried the foul silk bundle to the Ritual chamber.

                When she arrived, she was pleased to see that everything was prepared.  Everything was ready.  It was only a matter of waiting for the proper time.

                She gave the half-breed monstrosity to the magister, who put a spell of sleep over the babe.  It fussed, and then fell to silence, eyes closed and limp.  She was dismissed, her duty performed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I still just don't like Lura. She drives the plot, and ordinarily I like a strong, confident female (even one who doesn't fight) but I still don't like her much. On another note, has Leto really saved them from anything? Barely any money, Mieta with health problems, Varania a half-trained mage, and Lura an ex-whore, all with an infant--they don't really stand much chance, do they?
> 
> But they've all worked so hard... be a shame if something... happened to them. *wicked grin*


	42. Leto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And here it is: The Ritual. All of Danarius' dreams, and all of Leto's nightmares.

                The octagonal room was but a shadow of its former purpose, odd stains against the walls and the floor hinting at what it used to be.  Where once was one thing, in its place was another, like a city rising from a forest. 

                A few months ago, shelves of books and scrolls had lined and filled every wall—books of history, geography, poetry, stories, drawings, law, books of magic of every subject, theories, art, and sciences of every conceivable thing—and in its place stood cold iron cages, bars as thick as a gladiator’s wrist.  Once, sunlight would play along the spines of the books, bleaching their worn leather covers.  Now, the sun’s dying light streamed in from the heavy glass windows against the elven slaves’ naked skin as they stirred uneasily behind the bars.  A large, grand fireplace was in the room—glass tiles painted to look like a dragon curled around the fireplace, angry and serpentine, its mouth open, as if the flames that would fill its dark chimney would spring at any moment… but it stood dark and lonely, its expensive glass screen missing from the room.

                The candles in the room were just as expensive as anything else, their warm, yellow glow somehow more sinister than cheery, as if the gladiator-slaves who had fallen on the sands haunted the candles that had been made from the fat on their bodies.  The light from them seemed to turn something ordinary into something frightening—a candlestick into a ghoul, a sconce into a monster, a cowed slave into a demon.  The air was perfumed with incense like much of the rest of Tevinter cities, its scent mingling with that of the ill-gotten candles.  A sense of _something_ hung in the air—intangible as of yet, but as if _something_ were waiting to happen and the very air was anticipating its coming.  It was the feeling of drawing on magic without the magic itself.  To the mages, it was oddly comforting, but to the mundane gathered, it made their flesh crawl.

                The entire day had been spent in preparation for this event.  There were spells already in place throughout the room, carefully constructed enchanted items, made special, to seal and protect.  Runes crafted to activate once triggered.  Everything had to be perfect.  Once it had begun, there was no going back.  If a mistake were made, they would have to restart from the beginning and such an onerous task would have to wait until sunset the next day.

                 Both the mages had memorized the ritual, by heart and by mind.  There was no hesitating, no wondering.  They knew what they must do, at the proper times.  All the items were laid out for them, convenient and flawless.  It was impossible that everything was not precisely as it should be.  Nothing had been overlooked.  Everything had been checked and triple checked.

                It was time.  Above all else, it was finally time.  Years of waiting.  Years of research, study, practice, and discovery.  Over twenty, in fact, for it consumed over half of Danarius’ lifetime, and nearly all of Raith’s own.  But he was not the first one to study this subject, merely the latest.  And, he knew, the first to complete it.  At least who had documented it.  Even if someone else had done this before, they had never documented its completion—he had searched for the evidence.

                Few would have had the resources to complete such an ordeal, though.  The instruments, the tools, every piece was special, made in exacts.  Every piece was necessary.  Something could not simply be repurposed—it had to be made especially for its task.  The blood necessary for the ritual had its own expenses.  So much of it was required, so much life, just to keep the subject alive during the Ritual, just to keep the magic in check, the demons in check, to control all of it, and of course to protect the mages themselves.  The lyrium was worth more than most of the slaves combined, and that was just another piece of the Ritual.  Finding a suitable subject was difficult enough by itself, on top of the instruments required.  But to say nothing of the magical ability of whichever mages would cast this ritual…!  It would tax everything both of them knew, and everything they were.

                Leto was led, already in a spell-fed trance, to the center of the room.  He was naked and didn’t seem to be aware of it, or of anything really.  Two humans in a room of elves, two mages in a room of non-mages.  Only the two mages were clothed, and in the simplest of garments.  Due to the work, and the amount of blood that would be necessary, they were wearing naught but darkly coloured loincloths—anything else was deemed unnecessary and cumbersome in the rehearsal.  Under normal circumstances, it would be weird and uncomfortable, but the situation was such that even Raith barely noticed, and at that, not for long.

                Raith led one of the bound slaves forward.  Raith pushed her to her knees, her head over a wide bowl crafted of solid gold, her neck exposed.  The apprentice stood behind her, his fist in her hair.  Tears of fear tracked down her cheeks; she knew what was going to happen.  With a quick gesture, Raith slit her throat.  He held her still while she thrashed as she bled into the bowl, and held her aloft above it when she stilled.  They had not been allowed to drink since the day before, and guards had even been monitored to make sure they did not, even in the compound.  Else, she may have urinated.

                Blood gushed into the bowl.  Raith let it fill to the brim before he pulled the body away.  These slaves had been slaves for most if not all of their lives.  They were very tame creatures, even when being led to the slaughter.  He half-drug, half-carried the corpse to an empty cage, and brought it to the very back of said cage.  The rest of the space would be necessary later.  He heard whimpering and other noises from the cages.  He found himself glad of the woolen gags—good thinking on Marietta’s part.

                He glanced to the small pedestal, where the infant lay in its silk wrappings, in the same trance Leto was in.

                Danarius had a golden dipper for the blood, and Raith waited while his master drew out the spell-form in blood on the floor, with Leto standing at its perfect center.  Every line, every curve, was marked and planned.  The dipper was made special for it, to be filled with the proper amount of fluid, for Danarius could only refill it at just the right moments.  The dipper had even been constructed specially.  The solid gold was heavy by itself, but the weight still had to be manageable even (and especially) when filled.  Every instrument, down to the knife, was planned.  Raith held his breath over one particular arc.  That one had been difficult, and there was a chance that he may run out of blood before he could refill the dipper.  Each drop in the steady, slow trickle of red from the dipper was in time to Raith’s racing heart.  If it wasn’t enough, then they would have to start over already.  It could ruin everything, push everything back one more night.  They needed every minute.

                He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding when the dipper returned to the bowl, perfect as ever.  The blood was used, nearly all of it, and the spell-form was written.  Raith took the bowl away, placing it on the table, careful of where he stepped.

                He went to the cages, and brought out one slave.  Each one had been carefully selected for each part of the ritual, and those selected were put into separate cages.  The rest were simply for extra power.  But the gladiators were integral to this part of it—someone the subject had interacted with, spilled blood with.  That had been one of the most difficult parts in writing the Ritual.  The gladiators were also under the same trance Leto was under, which kept them docile.  They were skilled enough to cause some damage, after all, and that simply would not do.  True, they were well-trained slaves, many born and bred slaves, but the instinct to survive was a strong one, and no matter how tame, they always acted upon it, even if it were only for an instant.  An instant was enough to ruin everything, and proper replacements would be hard to come by.

                If the subject had been a free man or a knight, they would have made do, but there were so many risks involved.

                One person was all that was truly necessary.  A knife to each point of the body--but Danarius wanted no chances taken.  It was one person for every wound, and each wound must be fatal, even if not instantly fatal.

                The first one was brought to a certain point of the spell-form, and Raith put his fingers to the elf’s forehead.  His magic lanced through his skull like a heavy mace, exploding blood as well as bits of skull and brain.  It would not affect the spell form, for that spell was already cast and waiting.  Raith could feel it vibrating in the air.  The body was left there as an offering, for the moment.

                The next gladiator tried to fight; the trance was not as strong in this one after watching his comrade die.  Raith subdued him quickly and with ease, and brought him to the next point.  He died quickly, and Raith moved on to the next.  The five offerings lay in formation around the spell form, waiting.  Now, Danarius moved to the infant, to establish the connection.  Danarius cut his own hand, putting the blood against the babe’s lips.  Raith could not say if the child swallowed, but he must have got some of it in his mouth.  Then, he healed his own hand, and pricked the child’s finger.  The infant was so well under the spell that it barely cried out.  The blood of the infant on his fingertip, the magister went back to Leto, and put his finger against the elf’s lips, and whispered something to him.  The elf’s eyes were glazed over, as if he didn’t see or really hear anything, but still his lips parted, and the blood was swallowed obediently.

                The link was formed.  Not a vital part of the ritual, but a safety precaution.  There were several of those.  The golden bowl was plucked from its place again, and the dipper as well.  This time, a child was sacrificed, and he heard some muffled wails from the parents.  Raith drug the body to the proper place while Danarius, again, drew the spell form.  This one was smaller and surrounded the infant, and was a different pattern, made to bridge and nothing more.

                The spells were ever-present, like a trap ready to spring.  They were active, and waiting, and thrumming through the air.  It was an expectant, pregnant presence—a sense of change about to happen.  In the room, those present could feel it in the same way that a battle-hardened soldier could sense bloodshed before the battle began.  More blood, and the Ritual would truly begin.

                When Danarius finished, Raith began.  An entire cage of slaves, he sacrificed to the cause, feeding the spells with all of their life force.  The sheer amount of power confined in the room was enough to humble most men, to stand in awe of its might.  And underneath all of it, the vat of refined lyrium filled the air with its strange music.  Two different sorts of magic coalesced in the room, intangible to all but a mage, yet somehow sensed by everyone in the room that eve.

                Leto was its focus, and the power ran through the blood, curling around him, snaking through him.  For an instant, it lifted him off of his feet, and set him gently back down again.  He had been judged, and he was worthy.  Others had died at this point.  Despite it, the boy barely stirred, and saw nothing of what was around him.  If he did, if not for the trance, he may have balked by now.  Many others had, and so they had learned that they must be made docile.

                The mages fed their own power into the magic—ice, fire, lightning, earth, entropic energies, and everything they had, holding in reserve nothing but the spark of their own lives.  And even that must be made clear:  They were willing.

                Raith heard voices.  They spoke in every language and no language, languages he had never heard, languages he wasn’t sure had ever even existed, or did not exist yet, and the most chilling of those were the ones that echoed his own voice and yet somehow spoke in a language only his soul knew, understanding the intent if not the words, pictures forming in his mind at each syllable.  His own soul cried out for better understanding, as if… if he only gave in, he would know everything there was to know about the world, his soul would know a peace and understanding he had never experienced—and it would be rapture.

                His hand strayed, and touched the knife blade.  Its razor-sharp edge sliced into his finger.  Blood ran along the tip, and his own magic poured out of the blood, and the humming seemed to intensify to his ears.  He blinked, appalled that he had been so easily seduced—or nearly seduced—by the demons.  He heard laughter.  Oh, what easy prey mortals were, weren’t they?

                The laughter echoed in voices he thought he knew and could not know, voices he did know, voices he knew only in memory or dreams.  A voice whispered in his ear and he did not understand it, so another took its place.  “ _Do you give of yourself willingly_?”

                It was a demon, but even so, he did not hesitate.  “Yes,” he answered.  The sense of presence lifted.  He had no doubt that the demons had asked similar questions of Danarius, maybe even Leto.  And, he thought with some unease, he doubted either one had been so easily seduced by the thought of rapture.  Or maybe they had.  A quick glance at his hand assured him that the cut had stopped bleeding, and his gaze caught on the symbols drawn in a slave’s life blood on the floor.

                The symbols began to glow, to dance, to raise in the area in a sweeping grace, surrounding Leto, surrounding the infant, a thin trail of them whirling around Danarius like some kind of gentle twister.

                At this point, all of the magister’s attentions would be on the ritual and maintaining it.  Namely, keeping himself and Leto both alive.  The more mundane tasks would be Raith’s.

                Raith moved with some measure of awe to the table of tools.  He selected his tools, and went to Leto.  The magic accepted his presence, and he laid the tools at Leto’s feet.  The lyrium would answer his call.  He would be an instrument of magic himself, but magic would forge the lyrium and ink into flesh, magic would burn it in and seal it.  And all he had to do was not let it stop.  It was terrifyingly dangerous work, though—if he were to somehow ingest it, even by accident, he could lose his mind.

                As he worked, he noticed that Leto’s breathing was slowed so much that the mage wondered, at one point, if he were even alive.  Moreover, the elf blinked only rarely.  He knew the boy felt what he was doing.  Raith knew it was painful, from the way that elf girl had screamed and cried.  But the nature of the ritual was prohibiting Leto from moving, even enough to scream—barely enough to breathe.

                Raith labored, slowly, forming the proper vessels to contain the lyrium.  He re-forged Leto’s body.  There could be no other phrase for it, for everything about his physical form, at its core being, would change with the addition of the lyrium.  The preparation was a painful but important part of the Ritual.  A single tear tracked down the elf’s face, followed by another.  Unable to scream.  Unable to blink, and scarcely able to breathe.  The tears could either be because he was in so much pain, or simply because he could not blink:  Held aloft by a magic that seemed to fight every basic function he had.  How horrifying was it to be in pain, and be completely unable to even scream? 

                He noticed that all the slaves had gone silent some time ago, and wondered if that was some grace of the magic in the room, or the work of the demons.  Perhaps even both.

                This was the delicate part, and he could bear no distractions.  One flaw would prove fatal—maybe for everyone.  Leto was prepared, but for the moment, was empty—a vessel waiting to be filled, from the center of his being outward.

                And emptied.

                Another sacrifice, and for the first time, Raith saw the demons.

 

                The demons had been in the room nearly the whole time, waiting, watching.

                Danarius watched Raith move, but as if they were in entirely different worlds.  Raith moved through one world, Danarius another and the two scarcely touched enough to recognize one another.  Leto was trapped in what Danarius dimly recognized, through their blood link, as an unbearable amount of pain.

                Through the link, he could feel some amount of it, and it was crippling.  And he only felt a small amount.  If he were capable of falling, he would have fallen, legs unable to support himself any longer.  It felt like his arteries were suddenly filled with molten metal, and he was so painfully _aware_ of everything that _everything_ was pain.  Focusing his vision was painful, the blood pumping through his veins a misery.  The magic coursed through him.  Through the pain, he controlled it, focused it, gave it purpose and meaning.  It was the most he could do—all he could do, and he could not have stopped if he wanted to.  He had come too far to end it, even through the torrent of suffering he felt.  It was only for a while.  Just for a little while.  A few hours, nothing more.  And it would all be worth it in the end—surely.

                The infant, though, blessedly, felt none of it.  It was nothing but a conduit for the pain, a spout that it trickled from.

                The established link was very much like a maternal link.  Leto was suffering, writhing in agony, but would live because Danarius would live.  And if Leto did manage to figure out how to die without his master’s blessing, Danarius would still live.  There was an alternative to this link, but it was much more indirect and even dangerous, for both of them.  The infant was oh-so important; it meant Danarius didn’t have to actually _venture_ into the Fade, per se, which had been the original plan.

                Alternately, if Danarius died during the ritual, Leto would not live.  Oh, he might survive Danarius’ death by, say, ten seconds perhaps, if Raith moved quickly.  The infant may live, even so.

                Danarius risked a glance toward the child.  A demon stood beside it.  Her tail twitched back and forth as she looked down at it.  Gingerly, she raised it from the pedestal in her arms, holding it tenderly as if it were her own.  The demon was nothing, save the entire concept of sex, in a female form; curvaceous and sensuous, her every movement like nothing so much as that of a snake.  Not elven, nor dwarven, human or Qunari, though to him the Desire Demon had always resembled what he thought a female Qunari must look like:  Horns, strange eyes, about seven feet tall.  It was the unearthly air about her that most marked her as a demon, though one could not miss her long tail, the claws, or the quality of her voice that made lesser men shiver for reasons they could not name.

                “ _Fear not, mage_ ,” she said gently in her sultry, unearthly voice.  “ _I am easing your burden_.”

                He recognized the Desire Demon.  She was the same one that always showed up for him, the same one who had always been eager to answer his calls.  To a small degree, he trusted her, trusted in her nature, as much as one may trust a demon; he trusted her to be herself.  That was the most he felt he could trust in anyone, really.

                As she held the infant, he felt a certain tension release, the magic flowing more freely.

                “What did you do?” he asked, more with his mind through his gift than in words.

                Her perfect lips curved into a perfect smile, and before his eyes, she changed into Roschelle, holding an infant, but a different infant entirely in the vision before him.  She was naked, her every dip and curve more real than his memories ever could be to him.  He felt his heart ache, and drop into his stomach.  His mouth felt dry.  This was how it should have been.  Maker and Andraste, this is how it should _be_.  Longing ripped through him anew, and memories of her death—wounds he had thought healed—were bared.  He wanted to scream, to cry.  It had been so long ago.  He was a bit shocked that it could still cause so much pain.  He had been prepared for physical pain, and he knew there would be pain with the ritual, for both he and his slave.  But he had not been expecting emotional pain like this.

                He felt Leto at the other end of the spectrum, dimly aware of his anguish the same way he was aware of Leto’s pain, with the exception that Leto reached out to him through it.  He felt the boy’s presence, comforting and compassionate.  Why?  Why was Leto so compassionate as to extend that comfort to someone who had happily caused him so much grief, someone he hated?  Yet it was still there, for what it was worth.  “Why do you despair so?” she asked him in Roschelle’s voice.  He had nearly forgotten the sweet sound of her voice.  “I simply chose a form that I thought would bring you a moment of joy.  Did it not make you happy to imagine your dead wife and child?”

                “I like you better as yourself,” Danarius answered instead.  He knew better than to get angry.  One does not become angry with a demon; it accomplished nothing.

                With that, she was merely a demon again.  “ _As you wish_ ,” she said with a slight incline of her head.

                “What did you do?” the magister asked the demon.  Why was the magic flowing so freely now?  The lyrium sang its soft, sweet song.  Leto’s compassion, he still felt, strong as ever, in response to his hurt, and he could not understand, for the life of him, why his slave could be so compassionate.  Would this be a part of him that was forever lost when he took away his memories?

                She smiled down at the infant.  “ _I only awoke his power.  Do not fear, it will be dormant again by sunrise_.”

                He paused.  “The child is a mage,” he said, and felt it was unnecessary.

                “ _What do you expect, with both parents gifted_?” she answered, and looked back toward Leto and Raith.  Danarius inwardly explored the link he felt with Leto, and sensed the boy’s fear under his compassion.  Leto was terrified, compassionate toward anyone else in pain, even Danarius, but perhaps only because it distracted him from his own fears.  His fears threatened to crush him.  Danarius could barely believe the elf’s own terror.  Leto knew his memories would be gone when he awoke, and he was afraid of the Ritual too.  He was afraid for his family, and himself.  Afraid for the infant on the pedestal.  He was afraid of losing himself forever--and he knew his memories were about to leave him, maybe because Danarius knew that, but the boy knew no matter the reason why.  And Leto was losing a battle with his own terror.

                _It will be better this way,_ Danarius told him.  Raith was preparing the ritual to erase Leto’s memories—a somewhat tedious process, but necessary and useful.  He was aware of other demons in the room, lesser creatures, beginning to poke with interest at the corpses.

                _It won’t,_ Leto argued.  _I’m going to die._

                _You’re not going to die._

Leto’s response was delayed, either because the pain elevated to a point where Leto could no longer form coherent thoughts, or because he did not believe him.  Or both.  When it came, his “voice” was oddly crippled.  _Will you leave nothing left of me?_

                He had asked that question several times now.  It was a plea for him to leave something, anything.  Danarius was about to attempt to calm Leto, but the Desire Demon looked at him.

                “ _A spirit will be necessary, to guide his soul, lest it wander_ ,” the Desire Demon said.  “ _I will do this_.”  She placed the infant down and walked, decidedly, to Leto.  Every movement she made was like sex.  The way she seemed to breathe, the way she walked so sensuously, and spoke.  She wrapped her arms lovingly around the elf, her lips against his neck while Raith worked, and she may have whispered to the slave.

                Danarius knew this part of the Ritual.  It was another dangerous part.  The lyrium was slowly embedding itself in Leto’s body.  It would be the work of hours, but that wasn’t the truly dangerous part.

                The dangerous part was in Leto’s mind.

 

                How does one describe their soul being ripped from their body, but suspended in some space, still attached enough to it to not be truly dead, but gone enough to not truly be alive either, and still feeling every indescribable bit of pain the body was in?

                Leto would have crumpled to the ground and cried, if his spirit could manage the act.  If there was ground here to crumple to.  He wanted to try anyway.  He wanted to curl into a ball, and cry like a child, and never move again, for any reason.  He wanted, simply, to die.  Every desire he knew was for the pain to stop, and nothing more.  He didn’t care about anything else; he just wanted it to stop.  He wanted to die, and for the pain to stop.  If he died, the pain would stop—that he felt certain of.

                He assumed this must be the Fade, in some dim recess of his mind that wasn’t blackened by the screaming pain that demanded all of his attention.

                “ _Do you wish to die_?” a voice cooed to him.

                He almost immediately replied with “yes” and then stopped himself.  Why was he here?  There was a reason.  His family.  If he died…  No, he wanted to live!  He wanted to live, or Danarius might decide that he had not fulfilled his part of the bargain.  His master had promised him that his family would die if he did not survive this.  He wanted to live, more than anything.  He didn’t want to die here.  If he died… he wanted it to be in the light, in the open air.  Not here!  “No,” he answered, a bit surprised that he could speak at all through the torrent of pain.

                Pain was such a mild word.  Agony.  Hurt.  Torture.  Anguish.  _Pain_.  Nothing described what he was feeling, because there were no words to describe it, no proper phrase for what he was feeling.  It was so much more than _pain_.

                “ _Do you wish your suffering to ease_?” a sultry voice asked him.  He was surprised he even heard it, surprised he was coherent enough to make sense of the words.

                “Yes,” he gasped.  It arced through his very soul, searing into him, making him scream anew in an effort to release the pain.  Dimly, he heard a song.  “Anything, please!”

                “ _Very well_ ,” the distinctly feminine voice said, and took his hand in hers.  The pain was not gone entirely, but it receded to something bearable.  It was the difference between a broken leg and a fractured leg.  And someone hitting it with a small mallet.

                Leto looked up, and wasn’t even afraid of the demon he saw.

                She smiled pleasantly at him.  She had perfect teeth, and a beautiful face.  She tilted his head up, and kissed his lips, drawing him close to her, and he couldn’t think of why he should resist her.

                He felt like something was slipping away.  He was losing something…  Something he felt was vastly important.  Losing…

                What was his name?

                “What’s my name?” he whispered when her lips parted from his.

                She kissed him again until he forgot he had asked the question, but he remembered when she answered, “ _I took it_.”

                That seemed a strange thing to take.  Why would anyone want that?  And didn’t he need a name?  It seemed dreadfully important for some reason, to have a name.  “Why?” he wondered, and she abruptly let go of him.

                He shrieked in pain, all the force of it rushing through him like water from a broken floodgate.  It was like a thousand needles being pushed through his flesh at once, a thousand knife wounds, like every bone in his body was broken and being stepped on.  And she took his hand again, and it receded.

                He looked up at her.  “I…  Why am I here?”

                “ _I took that answer too_ ,” she told him gently, and she began to lead him away.

                “Where… are we going?” he asked her.

                She smiled again at him.  “ _I thought we’d take a walk_ ,” she answered.

                Oh, what a pleasant idea.  He couldn’t imagine for a moment why he wouldn’t want to do that.  She had such a lovely voice.  “Oh,” he said, and was silent for a moment as she tugged gently on his hand, guiding him forward.  He took a hesitant step after her, then another, and stopped, his fingers laced in her clawed hands.  “I…  Will I be gone forever, if I come with you?”

                She looked back at him, and her smile was warm and inviting.  He had never seen a smile so pleasant to look upon.  “No,” she promised him.  “Only sealed away.  It won’t hurt; I promise.  And you won’t notice it when it’s gone, not truly.”

                His expression was dubious.  “But who I am will be gone.”

                “Do you know how many thousands, over my long immortality, have begged with me to give them a second chance?  And here you have it—and you are afraid of it.”

                “But…  I don’t know who ‘Fenris’ is.”  He looked at his hand in hers, and was too afraid to let go of her.  His green eyes lifted, back to her face.  “Will we be anything alike?  What will happen to _me_?”

                She embraced him, holding him against her tenderly, a mother to her child, and his eyes closed for a moment.  When he opened his eyes again, it was his mother—or an image of his mother—holding on to him.  But when she spoke, he could hear the demon in her voice.  “You are both two different people.  You will be sealed away and forgotten, nothing more.”

                “Will nothing of me remain?” he inquired, his voice quavering brokenly like a lame horse over broken pottery.  He glanced at her, and saw the demon again.

                Her hands cupped his face as she bent to kiss him again, and he didn’t know what to do except to let her.  “A bit of your nature will remain.”  He looked at her, eyebrows drawing up questioningly, and he did not have to put his question into words for her to understand.  “Your sword skills, your fears, your desire to live above all.”  She ran her clawed fingers through his hair, the same way Danarius did.  Hadn’t Danarius had his head shaved?  He couldn’t… remember…  “And you have such a desire to live.”

                And he did.  He didn’t want to die.  With every fiber of his being, he wanted to live.  How many people had he seen die?  How many?  He didn’t know any more.  So many faces, so much pain.  He didn’t want to just be another body.  He wanted to live.  Down to his soul, he wanted desperately to live.  But at what cost?

                Her grip on him loosened, and he broke away, backing from her, even as the pain enveloped him again.  He stared at her, the pain pounding through him.  _Pain,_ his swordmaster had once said, _means you are still alive._   “I can’t,” he pleaded with her desperately.  “I _can’t_.”  He shook with terror.  He had never been so afraid of anything his entire life.  _I was scared my first time in the coliseum.  I was scared when my mother lay dying, when my sister could not birth the twins.  I was scared when my father died, and scared when I was whipped and beaten.  I was scared when Danarius raped me.  I was scared when I killed Ginger, and scared when I had to kill Ahline’s baby.  I was scared when Varania drowned her child._ All these times he had been afraid of something, reminding him that there were other fears besides this, all of it added into it.  All those moments would be gone forever.  He couldn’t give them up—he couldn’t…  He was too afraid.

                The demon took a step toward him, and he saw Ginger’s face instead of his mother’s.  “You have to come with me.”

                “No…”

                Another step.  Lura’s this time.  “Please, my love.”

                “I can’t…”

                Varania’s this time.  “You have to come.  You’ll die if you stay here.”

                Die?  That gave him pause, but only for a moment.  “But at least I’ll be _me_!” he screamed back at her, and the despair and the pain made his eyes brim with tears.  It was the hardest decision he had ever had to make.  Harder than killing Ginger, harder than killing Ahline’s baby, or Shanamyn the half-elf, harder than sucking off the magister to save his mother, and harder than bartering his body to his master to save his sister.  Those had been easy choices, when it came down to it—he valued his family more than anything, and it was all to keep them safe.  But this?  This was only about him, and the decision was not so easy to make.

                A pause, another step, his father this time, and his legs buckled, dropping to his knees.  He looked up at the autumnal hair, the leaf-green eyes.  “You can do this.  You don’t want to die,” he told him, his voice gentle and soothing, reaching a hand out to him to help him.  He took it.  His father’s hands were callused, and as strong as he remembered.  His father’s image helped him climb to his feet.

                The demon, herself again, took his hand, laced in hers.

                With every step, he seemed to feel something fade away, but could not quite grasp what it was.  Every step he took, another memory faded into an abyss.  And he kept walking.  Every time he realized something was missing, and thought about it, the next memory was gone just as quickly, and another, in no particular order.  When he tried to stop, to gather his thoughts, the demon’s loose hold on his hand would begin to slip away, and the moment he lost her hand, the pain would flood back.  She would wait for him, but he had to stumble back to her, and take her clawed hand again.  She would not stop with him, and his memories continued to fade.

                “What… are you taking now?” he asked the demon, but couldn’t seem to make sense of the question even as he asked it.  Everything was fading so quickly.  Every step took something new, burying it, taking it away.  It left him feeling empty, hollow, and he only knew it was gone for the emptiness it left in its wake.

                She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, and turned to face him.  “ _I took your memories—the images in your mind, the people, the places._ ”

                He felt lost, and stared at her, confused.  Places?  There were places outside the Fade?  There were people?  He didn’t… understand…  She embraced him again, kissing him with all the passion a Desire Demon possessed, and he forgot to ask any more questions.

                He felt the sensation of being pushed down, but couldn’t say that that was what happened exactly.  He was lying on his back, and she straddled him, kissing him, her hand between his legs, and distracting him.  Something important was going on.  Something he should notice.  He was losing something, and he needed to pay attention.  Needed to…

                Needed to do what?

                He couldn’t remember past her kisses, or her hand on his cock.  He couldn’t remember much of anything, and couldn’t even remember why that would be important.  He had been afraid not a long while ago, hadn’t he?  Why had he been so scared?  What had caused him so much fear?

                She lowered herself on him, and as she crested and fell, her breasts heaving, he seemed to lose more.

                Not just images, faces, places.  He lost thoughts.  He lost his life’s narrative.  Every thought he had ever had was gone, plucked from his memory like a tray of delicacies at a party, bit by bit.  She stopped, embraced him again.  She led him away, and he knew nothing but to follow her, and even then, the memories here were fading.

                He felt the pain again, and shivered, his entire body trembling.

                Body?

                He was dimly aware of a body as its suffering again reached him, a hot brand against his flesh, a pronged whip clawing across his skin.

                The demon smiled back at him, whispered something that whatever was whipping away his memories took.  He reached out for the demon, felt his lips begin to beg her to take that away again, but everything was going so dark and he couldn’t form the words.  Who had he been about to beg to help him?  Was there anyone who could help him, or would?

                Then there was pain.  Pain didn’t describe it though.  Agony didn’t describe it.  Suffering was a word, and nothing more.

                This was the feeling of death without the dying.  It was what the earth felt when miners scratched and burrowed into it.  It was what the forest felt when the trees were cut down.  It was all the heartache and suffering in the world compressed into one body, one moment. 

                There were no memories, no thoughts; there was room for nothing but the Pain that had become his entire world, the point of his entire existence.  He was a vessel to experience it, and nothing more.  A slave to torment and suffering, and nothing more.  He only existed so the Pain of existence could run through him like a flood, and if the pain stopped, so, too, would he.  And so, despite its awful, awful existence, he clung to it, because the alternative was so much worse.  The Pain shut out everything.  It washed away everything, searing everything away— _sealing_ it away like a wound.  Everything… gone.  Just Pain…  And yet still he held onto it, knowing by instinct alone that if he held tight to the pain and suffering, he would live.  To let go meant to die, so he held on to it like a long-lost lover, beckoning to it, taking it into him.  No words could ever hope to convey his suffering, nor the suffering of the earth, nor the oceans—all were silent and unimaginable.  It was something that was never-ending and could not be given voice to.  To try to describe it was to go mad for lack of words.

                He thought he smelled blood.  What sounded like an infant’s cry pierced the air.  Someone screamed, “He’s not breathing!”

                Then there was, blessedly, nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that was Fenris' first memory: Undefinable, blinding pain; the scent of blood, death, and viscera; and screaming. No wonder he needs therapy.


	43. Blood Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Ritual has run its course, but something is wrong...

                “He’s not breathing!” Raith screamed.  Danarius ran, dropping to Leto’s side.  The elf had crumpled the second the spell ran its course, falling unconscious and unaided to the floor, in the dried and drying blood.  All the slaves were dead.  It had taken all of them.  But it had worked.  It had been a success, and it had worked.  But…

                There was no breath.  No air rattled in his lungs.  The pain had been so much that the elf had simply stopped breathing, in a crumpled heap on the dried rune on the floor.

                “Get Marietta!” Danarius yelled.  Raith was running in an instant.  The apprentice wheeled to a stop at the door, remembering at the last moment that it was barred from the inside.  Grunting with the effort, Raith heaved the heavy bar upwards, shoving it out of the way enough to open one of the large, carved double doors.  He shoved it open, all but crashing through the doorway into the dim light of the hallway beyond.

 

                Marietta had been told to wait nearby, in a small study, on standby.  She was not allowed to sleep per se, but she could nap, and a servant woke her in hourly intervals, so she would likely not be caught napping if needed.

                Now, it was near dawn.  She was tired from the long night, but so far, she had not been required, and suspected she would not be.  True, the subject was an elf, but she was still looking forward to the finished result.  She had always liked lyrium—liked its qualities.  She liked the way it looked, and liked that it was dangerous.  The taste was faintly metallic and not particularly pleasant to drink, but it was addicting to a mage the same way that alcohol was addicting; one does like the feeling and the power, after all.  Blood magic was more useful for that.  It required something everyone had, after all, and the power was so much more potent.

                She had just begun to think about breakfast as she washed her face when the door burst open.  At first, she was angry at the rude manner in which it had been opened, and outright offended when the door slammed—hard—against a bookcase, and bounced off the side.  Books fell to the floor.

                “What—“ she began, but then she saw Raith, clutching the doorframe.  His tawny blonde hair was matted with sweat and blood, his eyes feverish and dark with lack of sleep.  He was flushed from his sprint, and panting.  He was dressed in so little he might as well wear nothing.  He looked like some sort of vulgar barbarian, come to ransack and pillage; not at all like a magister’s apprentice, soon to be a magister himself.

                “Come—quickly!” he said.  She dropped the cloth she had been holding to wash her face, and did not turn to see if it fell back into the bowl or not.

 

                The elf was glowing softly in the dim light of the morning.  The candles had been burned out completely over the course of the night.  The only light in the room was from the darkened windows—and the lyrium etched so artfully into his skin.

                It was quite possibly the most beautiful thing Danarius had ever seen—either because he had waited so long for this, and worked so hard to achieve it, or because it truly was, he couldn’t say.          

                But the elf wasn’t breathing.

                Was his body rejecting it?  Some of the previous test subjects had, but he had taken such precautions, had conditioned his pet, had used every possible safety means to keep his precious pet alive…!  That his slave might die now, after everything he had worked so hard to achieve, just didn’t seem fair.  All those years of planning and work, all the money and expenses—all for nothing?  No— _No_!

                Danarius did everything he knew to keep Leto alive, in a desperate, feverish rush.  There was a bit of lyrium potion left, and he drank it without hesitation, using the power to help fuel his own depleted magical resources, like blood magic, and poured every ounce of skill he had into Leto, to try to keep him alive.  It took all of it to keep his heart beating, but he still was not breathing.  No breath rattled his lungs, no air escaped his lips.  His slave still lay dying.  Still alive, but fading almost too quickly.

                He heard movement, even in his feverish state.  Was it Raith, back with Marietta?  He looked to the door, but it was shut.  His gaze shifted around the room, catching on the cages.  One slave was still alive, buried under a body, trying to hide perhaps.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the stained bandages on the slave’s hands—moving.  He made a gesture, and the slave gasped.  The blood fueled his magic, and it worked into Leto.  The breath the elf took was forced.  Every breath was forced.  He was not breathing on his own, but he was breathing now.  His heart was beating, slowly.  Again, forced.  Danarius swiped sweat from his brow.  “Don’t die…  You can’t die…”

                Not after all of this!

                Had he used too much lyrium?  Was that it?  None of the other subjects had this much lyrium (and thus had not required so much work).  But he had tested it with different amounts, and that always seemed to be the same.  But he had never used _this much_ before.  Was there something that had been left out of the Ritual?  Some crucial point that had been forgotten or neglected?  Perhaps a line did not intersect where it should have…?  Had there been enough slaves?  Perhaps he had needed more life and blood…?  Or maybe it was something else?  When he bound it into his soul, had something gone wrong?

                He heard noises now, stirring and thrashing and a creeping feeling up his spine confirmed his suspicions.  He looked up, and this was why the slaves had been bound.  Yes, to keep them from fighting, but also because…

                The corpse rose to its feet, the mouth gagged, and it was rotting prematurely.  Its hands were bound, and it fought its bonds.  The cord was breaking, and it would have broken already, except that the rope had been spelled.  There was no option except to leave Leto for the moment to tend to the growing threat posed by the corpses.  He destroyed one, and another, ignoring for the moment the ones securely locked in cages, though they stirred behind the bars as they found their footing.  The child corpse rose, and struggled against its bonds, staring at the pedestal.  They desired to feed, he knew.  Demons of hunger were simple creatures, knowing only of the desire to eat, to consume, and would eat anything, even if it still lived while they consumed it.  He had watched, from a distance, as a group of them devoured prisoners, in the gladiatorial arena.  He had seen enough of them in his time, but they never ceased to be dimly terrifying in the most primary, basic parts of his mind.

                The Desire Demon ushered her lesser brethren back, out of the circles, away from himself and the infant both.  She was protecting him, but in passive sort of way.  She also held no compunctions about slaying her more excitable brethren, and did.  Danarius cast, setting them afire, destroying them in turn.  The Desire Demon ripped them asunder dispassionately.  One of them strayed close to the infant’s pedestal, and the Desire Demon abandoned Danarius to protect the infant.  Danarius barely noticed, so absorbed was he in keeping the creatures away from himself and Leto.  He looked up when he heard the infant scream, saw a corpse straining to reach it, saw the Desire Demon tear it in two.  Teeth clamped around Danarius’ arm.  He grimaced, and put a hand against the corpse’s head.  It wheeled away, a mouth full of blood.  Blood ran down his arm, dripping to the floor.  Red blood splattered on the unconscious elf’s chest.

                Danarius grimaced, but used his blood to power his spells.  There were more corpses after all, gnawing on the bars that Raith had placed them behind.  The locks groaned against the weight of the bodies.  Magic danced in the air, coiled around him, and outward.  The possessed corpses did not even cry out.  They did not know pain, nor fear—only hunger.  The bodies collapsed in bloodied pieces, and the Desire Demon waded through the survivors like a shark among wounded fish.

                She looked back at Danarius when the last of them was destroyed, and simply winked out of existence.  The magister took a deep breath, realizing for the first time that his heart was pounding and he was streaked with sweat—fear and desperation.  He was a bit short of breath from the brief fight after a long night of nothing but torment and strain.  His mana had been nearly depleted before it, and it was almost painful to cast without a mana store, even for a blood mage.  He was… so exhausted.  If the elf’s life were not in such peril, he may feel inclined to simply lie down on the bloodied floor and stay there.  Danarius’ legs trembled, and he slowly went to his knees, staring down at his slave in despair.

                The door opened, but didn’t shut—they were running.  Marietta knelt beside him.  The mages’ movements were rushed.  The three tried their best, doing everything they could to keep Leto alive, but he just wasn’t breathing on his own.  Not magic, nor common means could make him breathe, and Marietta did try to breathe the breath of life into him with her own mouth.  For all her hatred of elves, she was a doctor at the heart of it.  She breathed into him, pumping against his chest with her hands, and again.  She repeated the process.  The other two used magic.  Blood magic, regular magic.  Nothing was working.  The elf only rarely breathed, and only when the woman forced him to.

                “You’ll have to start again,” Marietta said, shaking her head as she swiped her mouth.  “Cut out the lyrium, and use a different slave; _he’s dying_.”

                Danarius stared down at his life’s work.  Everything he had worked so hard on.  Years of work, planning.  Months of preparing for this moment, and his precious pet was _dying_.  All of that preparation, all of that work…

                He found the blade they had used for the ceremony lying on the floor.  Raith looked on despairingly, just as upset as he.  Dawn’s light was lightening the room, highlighting the blood, the bodies, and somehow not at all detracting from the softly glowing lyrium.

                But the life of a half-starved, mundane slave had been enough to force the elf’s heart to beat.

                What would a sacrifice of two mages do?

                Rather, with one hand, he cast, and the other, he stabbed Raith, in the throat.  Raith’s eyes widened in surprise, and he choked, sputtering.  Marietta managed to jerk backwards, but was caught in the magic.  She struggled violently, then succumbed to it.  He felt her life force draining, and Raith’s power fed Danarius’s magic.  He stabbed Marietta in the chest, leaving the dagger buried hilt-deep.  She slumped, on Leto.  He shoved her off of his pet, almost angrily.

                He poured his magic into him, all of it, powered by the life force of two mages.  He fed all of his desperation into it, all of the magic.  It left him feeling raw, and some deeper form of exhaustion consumed his being.  It enveloped the elf, humming around him.  He simply had no more mana, and wouldn’t until he slept.  Dimly, he also knew he was on the precipice of death.  One more spell would be his last, yet still, he worked to keep the boy alive.

                He heard the infant on its pedestal begin to cry.  He had nearly forgotten the half-breed.

                The elf took a shallow, rattling breath, then another.  Danarius could have wept for joy.  His breathing was shallow and difficult, but he was _breathing_ , and when the magic subsided, the elf continued to breathe.

                And—an unforeseen side affect, the likes of which he would explore later:  A bright light in an empty void.

                It had worked.  The sacrifice had worked.  He slumped, breathing heavily.  His entire being ached with exhaustion.  He wanted to simply fall over—did not really have the strength to even wander to his bed (or any bed for that matter)—and sleep for, oh, a year or so…  Strength of will kept him awake—and the feeling of triumph.

                In joy, he cupped the side of the unconscious elf’s face, running his fingers down the lyrium veins.  Beautiful.  Stunning.  Dare he say it, something bordering on divine.  His life’s work.  The culmination of a lifetime of study and preparation, and here it was:  Alive.

 

                He had his unconscious slave moved to a guest room, locked, and guarded.  A terrified servant stood in attendance of him, washing off the blood under supervision.

                Danarius ordered a bath prepared, and took his time reaching his private chambers.  He took a long, grateful soak, and was happy to have all the blood washed off; that felt good.

                His life’s work:  Completed.  He closed his eyes, enjoying the feel of the steam and the warmth of the water after such a long, strenuous night.  It felt good to let the tension flow out of him.

                And just think, it had only cost him a small fortune in slaves, lyrium, and tools—and nearly his life.  There was the small matter of Raith and Marietta.  He would attend to that soon enough.  Marietta’s family would have to be informed that she had died serving her master.  That was only proper.  She had no dependents that he was aware of—and he liked to be aware of his more high-ranking servant’s affairs—so he only had the matter of sending her last week’s pay to her next of kin, plus a small bonus.  The corpse could be cleaned.  She had been killed with magic, and so it would be a simple matter regarding the Ritual’s nature that she had simply done something wrong and died.  Her common-born family would not know enough to question it, even if they somehow got a look at the knife wound.

                Raith was another matter entirely, though thankfully had no family who would care about what he had done.  He had, after all, abandoned them utterly when he came seeking entry into Danarius’s service.  He might have curried favor with his estranged family again had he spoken to them, or at least sent them some small stipend, but his selfish apprentice had done no such thing.  Raith could simply be cremated and buried—Danarius would see to the expenses himself; it was only fair.

                Not all the magisters were so discreet.  Some dueled publicly.  Others scarcely covered their tracks when they did anything that might be nefarious—much too arrogant, those.  He preferred to keep personal matters just that—personal, and as discreet as could be.  He liked directing attention to one thing, while the real act was going on somewhere else.  It was less messy that way, avoided more conflict.  And, most importantly, there were fewer attempts at his life when he was not _openly_ cruel.  He played the game of politics and magic with a skill and grace few could hope to equal, but lacked the desire to ever be appointed Archon, and that was exactly as he would have it, to tell the truth.

                There was a very good reason his servants were highly paid, after all.  And even better reason his slaves had little to complain about.  He enjoyed plucking the most miserable ones from wherever they had been.  He _liked_ taking the slaves who were suffering the most.  He took care when he did that; he chose only the most despaired, but those most healthy as well.  They would see him as kind in comparison, and, grateful, work harder.  He rarely sold their children.  True, many disappeared from the compound, but that too, they did not speak of.  He had no need to force them in to silence; they willingly did not speak of those things.  Life was too good under his order for them to risk it.

                Leto and his mother had been a small gamble.  Free-born children his age were easy enough to tame—Leto was proof enough of that.  Varania would have made a decent slave, given time.  It was his mother that he had been most suspicious of.  And yet, the woman had done nothing to make her not worth his wile.  True, she had tried to teach her children how to read, but he simply made sure that she was too busy, too exhausted, to try very hard at it.  A slave that could read was dangerous to him, in a way, but that woman had little drive to do anything for herself.  For her, it had always been about her children.  Women were strange like that.

                His biggest gamble in slaves, he mused, had been the Dalish, who he had suspected had been too old but had risked it anyway.  That had ended on a fine note—a satisfying one, and fruitful, for he learned in his experimentations, and Leto’s obedience was put to test moreover, so even the small financial loss was compensated.  If the girl had turned into an obedient slave, she would have made a spectacle in the arena, to be sure.  But, everything had worked out for the best, after all.

                 Danarius was anxious for when his pet would finally awaken.

 

                He still slept.  Well, that was fine.  He would move him anyway.  Danarius had paid and sent the elves on their way.  Of course, he deducted their room and board, as well as a small fee, which he gave to Lana for her “help” in assisting the elves book their passage to Seheron.  In truth, he had just wanted to have that much more knowledge on where his pet’s family were headed, in case he ever needed them for anything.  He did like to plan for even the most unlikely of circumstances.

                The magister allowed for another day for his affairs to be arranged, and it was a busy day indeed.  Letters had to be written and sent, affairs checked, fees paid, a few feathers smoothed as it were.

                The Black Divine himself came that day, briefly, to see the still-unconscious elf.

                “He has not risen at all?” he had asked.

                “He does not stir,” Danarius admitted.  “But he has been through much, and when you see him next, he will be well.”

                “I look forward to that.”  And that had been that.  They had moved on to discussing the Ritual itself in its entirety.  Danarius left out nothing, and why bother?  This was, after all, the Black Divine; a fellow mage, who had no delusions about the inner workings of the magisters.

                The man seemed interested enough, asking questions, and listening intently.  When all was done, though, he shook his head.  “I can’t see this done to the Templars,” he admitted with a sigh.  “Not even a small number of them.”  The Templars in the Imperium were more like a personal guard for the mages than what they were in the rest of Thedas.

                Danarius did not have to ask why.  All the blood magic involved was impossibly expensive.  “I understand,” he said, though felt no less pride in his work.

                “It is a most wondrous thing, and shows great talent and skill—but the expenses are such that I cannot justify making it commonplace,” he said, with some regret, but then smiled.  “And I think it would be a shame to see such a thing commonplace anyway.”

                That was true enough, though the magister did not miss what had been implied and not said:  There were too many Templars, and two mages for every Templar would be horrendous, and pointless.  Danarius escorted him to the entryway himself and bid the man farewell.  The Archon had requested, too, a report of the Ritual, which of course the magister had already prepared a bit of beforehand—mostly the details of it.  He added a few here and there, and listed what had happened thus far, as well as a promise to visit him two years hence, when his pet had been properly trained again, and had come under some mastery of his abilities.

                But the memory tampering was delicate, and he dare not risk anything awakening those memories for the oh-so fragile first two years.

                A part of him wondered—should he have known more about Leto before the Ritual?  What about him would change?  Habits?  Mannerisms?  Maybe even the way he talked, moved, walked?  Would he be completely different, or the same without his memories?  How much of a person’s personality was shaped by their memories and the people around them?

                It was almost a shame…

                Ah, well, no matter.  He was still anxious for the elf to rise, but by no means desired him to rise _yet_.  If he slept for the next few days, that was perfectly suitable to his needs.  He could sleep through the transport, if he would.


	44. Lyrium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danarius pays a blood price and unleashes a little piece of hell into the world to wake Fenris from a coma.

                He did sleep through the transport, to a manner that worried Danarius after a day passed at the country manor and still the elf had not roused.

                He had not stirred, or roused.  He just… slept.

                He had healers called, and studied the condition himself.  It was generally agreed upon, after some debate, that the elf was in a coma of some sort.

                At first, Danarius was insistent that he would wake.  He _had_ to wake.  He had done so much to keep him alive.  He just… had to wake.

                A week passed, though, and he hadn’t stirred.  That was fine—the Ritual must have taken a lot out of him.  If he slept, he slept.  The skin around the lyrium markings was raw and red.  It was cracking, and bled from time to time.  If he were awake, he would move, and scratch at them, and make them bleed more.  He told himself that it was best that he slept through it.

                A second week went by, and his brow creased with worry.  He had been in a comatose sleep for nearly four weeks.  His pupils didn’t react to the light.  He reacted to no stimuli.  Nothing.  He might as well be dead.  Feeding him was a trial, and involved a metal pipe down his throat, which bruised the tender flesh.  He inquired his healers as to this matter.  They were just as puzzled as he.  He wrote to a scholar he knew, who studied lyrium and its traits regarding the condition.

                Danarius was dimly amused that the hair on his head was growing back, even over the lyrium.  At first, it had been varying different shades—primarily black, and he had first naturally assumed that his pet’s hair would always be that dazzling shade of jet, reminiscent of the Black Divine’s Chantry, for that matter.  But, first in the places the lyrium was on his scalp, it had started to turn white.  It happened slowly at first—a few strands and ever-widening patches.  Now, he could almost watch his hair turn rapidly from ebony, to gray, to alabaster.  His eyebrows, curiously, remained dark—which made sense; there was no lyrium there.

                Three weeks, and he wondered how much longer he could bear this.  The elf still did not wake, nor stir.  He didn’t know what was happening to his slave, and no blood magic meant for reading thoughts could touch his estranged mind—and Danarius did make the attempt, more than once.  It was supposed to be a simple spell in blood magic, yet still his pet’s mind eluded him.  He didn’t know why that was either; he could read a sleeping person’s thoughts, but the elf was so far gone that he could do nothing.

                The elf was bathed, and fed, and his hair combed, and otherwise tended by slaves.  Oils were put on his skin to help with the blistering, and he noticed that if anything, his skin only darkened.  Strange, considering that Danarius had kept him out of the sunlight.  What if it were the lyrium that darkened his skin like that?  It did look darkest around the veins, but that could just as easily by minor scarring.  It was difficult to say, but the comparison with his paling hair was quite striking.  He just wished those sage eyes would open.

                By the end of the fifth week, a reply letter arrived.  He tore it open immediately.  There was the typical drivel he had been expecting, and little else, though a few things he could think on.  The scholar mentioned that it might render him sterile too—that was fine. 

                The scholar also mentioned, as delicately as possible, that many people, when exposed to lyrium became… addled in some way.  Templars, grown old, often slowly lost their memory over time until they remember little at all.  And others who worked with it—such as dwarves—could become lyrium-addled—touched in the head, basically.  Danarius hoped not.  The elf slowly losing his memory over time he could work with—that would be years off—but if he ended up lyrium-addled…  He didn’t know what he would do.  Kill him, he supposed, as a failure.  Or keep him as some kind of living furniture.

 

                The girl walked beside him, and he couldn’t say how long she had been there.  She was light of foot, and he welcomed her presence if for no other reason than because when she was beside him the scenery began to change.  The path they followed curved around a bend, and suddenly they were in a forest in the summer, the sunlight filtering through the trees.  He could hear birds twittering.  The girl walked along beside him, silent as ever.  He glanced at her again, frowning at the markings on her face.

                She walked in front of him, and he followed her through the forest.  They waded across a shallow stream, along its bank.  They followed a deer trail, and she pointed out a hawk wheeling above.  She led him to a lake, a waterfall cascading down into it.  The earth formed a sort of natural bridge over one of its tributaries, and they sat down over it, looking down at the water.

                “Do you remember me?”

                He looked at her, her red hair, her freckles.  “No,” he said, and even felt sorry about it.

                She nodded, and shrugged.  She looked down, sad.  It almost made him wish he had lied.  “This place is so fragile.  If I tell you everything, I might lose you,” she admitted.

                He looked at her, and didn’t know what to say.

                She looked up at the clear blue sky.  “I wanted to show you this place, when I was alive.  I wanted to show you so much…”

                Then the girl looked up at him, as if she might say more, then her complexion paled.  She turned and fled, disappearing into the trees.  The forest vanished, replaced by more of the landscape he was familiar with.  The demon knelt beside him, watching him.  He looked at the demon, and simply rose and walked away.

 

                A sixth week passed, and still the elf slept.  The healers bathed him daily, changed the sheets often, and managed to get him to swallow enough to keep him alive, but he simply did not move, for anything.  Nothing could rouse him.  Danarius wondered if he would ever wake up, and the thought caused a stirring in him that would not rest.  He couldn’t bear it any more.

                He cut himself, and summoned the Desire Demon.

                She came at his call, but in her own time; she disliked being at a “mere mortal’s” beck and call.  “I have to wake him,” he said without delay, staring down at the elf.  “He’s useless to me if he does not wake.”

                She looked down at him, and stroked her fingers through his pale hair.  It was getting long, left uncut.  The redness was fading, and it had been over a week since last he bled, but the skin around the lyrium had been permanently scarred, he had seen, when it had healed.  “He dreams,” she answered.

                “Bring him back,” he insisted.

                She stared at the boy.  “For this, I require more than what I have asked before.  I enjoy helping you, Cillian, but I have limits.”

                No one called him by his first name since Roschelle died, except his younger brother, and he hadn’t spoken to him in a very long time.  It was strange to hear it on the lips of a demon.  He had never told her his name either, but it was not surprising that she knew it.  He sighed.  He had suspected that she would want something.  “What do you wish?” he asked.

                She glanced at him sidelong.  “What we all wish.  I wish to experience your world through a mortal body,” she confessed.  Danarius stood, reserved, unwilling.  He said nothing, but his expression must have been enough for her; she laughed.  It was a deep, throaty, womanly sound.  “Any mortal will do.  There are ceremonies for joining me with the un-gifted as well, as you well know.”

                He paused.  Now _that_ was something else entirely.  “Do you care if they are elven, or human?”  He wondered if it were even possible for them to possess a dwarf.  He made a mental note to test that theory one day.  He knew they could possess a corpse, but that was altogether different.

                She paused.  “In your world, an elf is seen as lesser, is it not?  Then make me human,” she said decidedly.

                He nodded.  “Do you care what they look like?”

                She paused, her tail flicking back and forth.  “Someone attractive, and young.  I wish to enjoy it.  I care not for the sex of the youth,” she added as an afterthought.

                He nodded amiably.  He could certainly understand that.  “I think I have one suitable.”  His eyes strayed to the prone body of his slave, glowing softly, even under the sheet.  The lyrium did that from time to time—flared and died.  Under anything, he had discovered, it would shine.  That one would never be able to be stealthy.

                “Then prepare the human.  I will return three days hence.  That should be plenty of time, and I will bring you the boy’s mind back when I have my body prepared,” she said.

                Danarius sensed her beginning to go.  He called out for her to stop.  She paused, but clearly looked annoyed.  “Wait.  Where will you go?”

                She considered, thinking.  “I want to travel.  Near, far—it doesn’t matter.  I just want to experience your world.”  She smiled.  “Kill things, and people.  True, I will cause harm, but not to you, and not near you.  I will be just another runaway slave.  For a while.”

                He considered.  Letting loose an abomination to cause unknown havoc in the world, or risking the elf never waking?  It wasn’t something he wanted to consider.  But he could not bear for his creation to languish.  “I agree, demon,” he answered.

                She nodded, and was simply gone.

                He wasted no time.  He gave an order that all of his human slaves were to line up and stand in attendance, outside.  Danarius gave them less than an hour to assemble.  Most were there, and those not ran to join the line.  He made a mental note to have them flogged for disobedience.  Better yet—have them all flogged.  He frequently punished the entire group for one individual.  And if he punished the elven half of his slaves as well—well, that just further increased the carefully planted animosity between the two.  It created a nice distrust for all of them, and decreased the chance of pity they would have for one another.  It kept them from siding with one another, if they should think to rebel one day.

                He walked down the line, immediately ruling out others as well as listing some as possibilities.  Those he ruled out, he dismissed back to their duties, though first he sent them to be beaten for tardiness, but others he kept in line.  He walked back down the line again, continuing to eliminate possibilities.  He planned on giving the Desire Demon the best choice available, as was her due.  He debated silently for a time, and finally picked one—a young girl, maybe about sixteen.

                She was pretty—blonde with soft brown eyes, bow lips and a small amount of freckles.  Why had he not had her bred yet?

                He stopped in front of her.  “You,” he said.  She shrunk before him, and he detected a faint tremble when he addressed her.  She was a meek girl, suitable for a slave.  “Do you have any children?”

                She swallowed, her fingers twisting in her skirt—a nasty habit.  His older sister had done that, he remembered, even after the madness took her…  This place was bringing back memories—not all of them pleasant.  In fact, most were not.  “N-no, m-master.”

                He wondered if she were nervous, or if she had a stuttering problem.  “Are you a maiden?” he demanded.  If so, _why_?  Was there something wrong with her in some way?

                She nearly burst in to tears.  “I—I…  I…” she stammered miserably, before she began to cry.

                He nearly struck her, but another slave girl beside her spoke up.  This one had brownish blonde, stringy hair, and an unfortunate nose, but she was tall with a lean, strong body.  “She only recently came into her womanhood, Master,” the girl finished for her, putting a comforting hand against the blonde’s back.

                The blonde girl sniffed, swiping at her eyes, trying to stop crying.  A late bloomer then.  That wasn’t out of the ordinary.  Still perfectly acceptable.  “You’ll do,” he informed her, and sent the other slaves, all but the blonde, to be punished immediately before going back to their chores.  She had begun to cry again.  She probably assumed he was going to rape her.  To be fair, it wasn’t her fault that she was ignorant.

                “Come,” he ordered.  He wasn’t interested in the girl, and almost felt like telling her that, just to see if she would stop.  That would probably just make it worse though.

 

                Acacia followed her master up to the big manor.  She had never actually been inside it before.  She had lived in a place where the master of the house had always been gone before, and it was strange enough with him back.  Things were harsher in some ways.

                The overseer had beaten them before, all of them.  Sometimes, he raped the women, or had them bred—it wasn’t something solely done to the knife-ears.  That had always frightened her, though her late blossom into womanhood had spared her much of what she had seen her fellows undergo.  She had no hips, no breasts, for the longest amount of time.  Some of the boys had openly mocked her, and other girls just pitied her, but she felt no self-pity for it; she had seen the things that happened to the young women, and did not envy them.

                Her friend, Damaris, was pregnant already, and had not enjoyed getting to that point.  Acacia had lain awake, terrified, when she heard it happen in the wooden pallet next to her, knowing that, for her, it was only a matter of time.

                She had never imagined it would be the magister.  She was so terrified, but she had to do whatever her master told her to.

                Acacia had never known any other way of life, or that there was any other way of life.  Anyone who wasn’t a slave was almost like a different being than herself—like she existed in one world, and they another.  They were almost unreal to her, except some of the servants or the overseer.

                She had never dared to dream of anything else.  She lived every day in the present, never thinking of her future, save the inevitable rape that would occur.  All of her thoughts lay in doing whatever it took to avoid the taste of the whip, or in getting all of her scarce meals.  The overseer had denied her food plenty of times, and she knew what it was like to be hungry.

                She had never seen a real cooked meal up close, or even imagined what it might taste like.  They were fed in the same trough as the dogs, and she had to fight as well as anyone over what scraps she got, and had been bitten by the dogs on more than one occasion.  But she, like nearly everyone, had once stolen a grape from the vineyard, out of hunger.  She disliked it, but she had never tasted anything like it.  It made her ill, and someone had seen, and told the overseer.  She was punished, and never dreamed of stealing food again, no matter how hungry she was.

                Acacia felt a certain measure of fear at actually venturing _inside_ the manor.  That was the servants’ place, after all.  She felt immediately out of place, like at any moment the magister would turn and accuse her of trespassing where she did not belong.  But she paid attention, and watched for any cues that might indicate that he wanted her to do something besides follow him.

                He did nothing, though.  He walked down halls, so grand she could never have imagined they existed only a stone’s throw away from a place she walked every day.  She passed tapestries—great works of weaving—that made her want to stop and stare.  She witnessed priceless artifacts of some sort on display, expensive-looking rugs (she was instructed, briefly, to not walk on the rugs).  The polished wooden floors felt strange beneath her feet, the marble tiles even stranger.  They went down a stair, down, down a winding stairwell.  She had been on stairs before—once that she could remember.  These were much, much longer.  It seemed to spiral for a longer time than she thought possible, and then she stood at the bottom.

                There was a small room, all made of stone, with an iron door.  He opened the door with a key that hung on a ring outside the door—that seemed a strange thing to her.  Why keep a key next to the door?  Surely one must enter the door…  But then what was the point in locking it?

                He went through the door, and she followed, for he had not told her to wait.

                There was a hallway, this one not so grand as the others, and not decorated.  It was dark down here, save for the light from the torch in the hallway.  To her astonishment, the magister upturned his palm, and fire appeared—from the very air!—on his palm.  She had never seen a mage performing magic before either, and she must have gasped in astonishment, for he paused briefly.

                She felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment, then wondered, _What is going to happen to me?_ It was not the first time she had wondered this, but perhaps this was the first time she had had such conviction behind the phrase.

                He searched through the keys for a moment, and turned to a door with his free hand.  He unlocked it, and pushed it open.

                “Get inside,” he ordered her.  It never even occurred to her to protest.  Orders were easy to follow.

                The door shut behind her, and she heard it lock, and then he left her alone in the dark.

                She had been expecting rape.  She had not been expecting this.

 

                The demon was trailing behind him again.  He turned and looked back at her.  She did not pretend as though she were not following him.  She looked at him, and smiled as if she knew things he did not—likely, considering he felt like he knew almost nothing.  Not who or what he was, though he felt like those things had been important, once.  Nothing seemed important anymore, not really.

                He felt like this was the first time he had seen her this close, but it wasn’t out of the question that she had been here all along.  He waited, and wondered if she would say something, or do something.  When all she did was look and watch him, he turned and continued his path.  Maybe, _maybe_ if he could keep walking, it would lead him to somewhere else.

                He wasn’t sure what he was expecting.  He only knew the sights and sounds here, after all.  Maybe just something different.  Not only was all the landscape the same, the only available path went around and around in circles.  He could not venture off the path, and couldn’t even say why exactly—he just knew it was impossible with the strange certainty of a dream.  Sometimes, he would stop walking, or walk back the way he had come, or simply stare into the distance at the Black City.

                And still the demon followed, at a short distance, watching and waiting.

                For what?  Did she intend to prey upon him?

                “Why are you here?” he asked her.

                The Desire Demon sidled up beside him, brushing her arm against his as she did so.  The path was slender here.  He turned to face her, and put more distance between them.  “Why do you think I’m here?”

                He regarded her in silence for a moment.  “To prey upon my soul, I suppose,” he said, and sounded bored even to himself.  At least that would be a change.  Monotony was enough to drive one to madness, after all.  For some reason, deep inside his mind—the places he couldn’t remember—trickled out a small fear of going mad.  Among other things.  Though he did not know it, the spell wasn’t completely locked in place yet; some things simply leaked through—base things, such as fears.

                She laughed gently.  “Your soul?  Ah, I’ve no use for something so broken,” she answered, and her smile became a little saddened.  “But a lesser demon might want it.  Be glad of my company, for it will keep them away.”

                He only turned, and kept walking, losing interest in this conversation, just like he had lost interest in unraveling the mystery of where he was, and was beginning to lose interest in discovering who he was.

 

                Acacia explored the confines of her cell, and found a small stone bench.  She sat on it, and stared ahead, for there was little else to do.

                She waited, and later, a man brought down some things for her.  A large jug of water, small loaves of bread, and another container she could guess the use for.  He just as quickly left her alone in the dark again.

                She sipped at the water, so very used to partitioning everything she had.  In reality, the bread was flat, tasteless, and unsavory.  But Acacia had only ever had a few bites of bread--stale bread.  She was interested in it, and did not know enough to be unhappy with it.

                She waited in the dark, wondering what would happen to her, and the magister came back down.  He did things to her.  It didn’t hurt, exactly.  It felt strange sometimes, and she found that she couldn’t describe any of those things very well afterwards, even to herself.  He came back in intervals, and gave her other things to eat.  She wasn’t sure what all of those things were, but he told her to eat them.  She had never not followed orders from her betters.

                He smirked in the dim light of the lantern.  “Do you want to be down here?” he asked her.

                If she had known better, he would know that he was mocking her.  She had only the faintest inkling that he was.  “I-I…  N-no, Master,” she stammered.

                He raised an eyebrow.  “Are you a stutterer?” he asked her.

                She bowed her head low, ashamed.  “Y-yes, Ma-m-master.”

                He seemed oddly amused, and she couldn’t place why.  “If you can count to… five…  I’ll let you go.  I’ll set you free,” he told her, vastly amused.  “But you mustn’t stutter.”

                She blinked, not at all understanding what he meant.  “W-why…  I-I d-d-d-on’t under—u-understand,” she choked out.  She didn’t speak very often, and mostly chose to listen when she could.

                “Do you mean to ask why you should want to be free?” he inquired.

                She blinked.  He put it so eloquently.  Sometimes, she would like to not stutter.  “Ah, um…  Ye-Yes.”  Her brow furrowed.  “I… I’ve… a-always been…  Why-why would y-you want t-t-t-o get-t rid of-f-f me?”

                It was practically a speech for her, and she knew it was terrible, but it was heartfelt.  His offer only made her feel dejected.  She was even unwanted as a slave?  Was she so useless?  She had thought…  She had always done a good job before…  But he only laughed, terribly entertained, and she knew it was at her expense, but she couldn’t manage to figure out why.  “I only hope my pet becomes just like you,” he mused to himself, and left her alone in the dark.

                Acacia had no way of judging how much time had gone by, but she ate, drank, and slept.  She slept a lot.  There was little else to do, and the stone bench and floor were not too far a cry from the wooden pallet, though the pallet had been warmer.  Tevinter was usually a warm place, but the ground was cool enough, especially in the winter months or when the rains came.

                This was high summer though, and she didn’t mind getting away from the mosquitoes.  She didn’t like bugs very much.  She felt idle though.  She should be helping farm the grape vines.  There was work to be done, after all—always.  Why was she here?  
                It was her master’s business, she decided, and left it at that.

 

                The wandering soul was not certain of how he came to be here, but he found himself walking up a cobblestone path.  The city was oddly vacant, yet somehow cheery despite all that.  As he walked, he saw someone leave a building, and come out to walk beside him.  He studied this person, frowning.

                The elf smiled back at him, but said nothing.  He simply walked beside him.  This elf had auburn hair, and leaf green eyes, and always looked at him like he wanted to say something, and didn’t.

                They just walked together, down the lonely streets.  “Are you alone here?” he finally asked the other.

                “I’ve been waiting,” the elf replied.

                “For what?”

                “For whom,” he corrected, with a smile.

                The wandering soul fell silent for a time.  “For whom are you waiting for?”

                “Those most important to me,” he said, and looked at him intently as if the wanderer should know.

                He looked at him, but it was simply a riddle.  “I’m sorry” was all he could think to say.  The other nodded, and they continued down the road.  “It must be worth the wait.”

                “Yes,” he said with an agreeable nod.

                They fell back into a comfortable silence as they walked.  They passed by empty shops, and empty houses, an empty market.  The demon sat on a bench in the park they passed through.  The elf took one look at her and fled.  He watched him go, and looked back at the demon.  He sighed, and would have continued on, except the city with its cobblestone path had bled away.  The man was gone too.  There was nothing else for it, except to continue.  The demon watched him go.

 

                Acacia only wondered if she had done something to displease her master in some way, or if this was how she was serving him.  She didn’t really understand very well.

                Her bread was gone, despite eating only when she was very hungry, and the little water left was stale, and the chamber pot stinking.

                She heard the door open, and thought that if it were her master again, that if he wanted her to live, he should order someone to bring her a bit more bread, and water ultimately.  And for his convenience, someone should empty the chamber pot.  She could do that, she reasoned.

                But, rather, it was a servant, and not come to give her these things, but come to collect her.  She was confused, but followed the servant out.  What was going on?

 

                He felt like he had been here forever, as long as he could remember anyway.  Which, granted, wasn’t much.  At least it _felt_ like it wasn’t much.  The troubling part was that he had no idea.

                He dreamed, and didn’t understand the dreams.  Most of them were memories of pain.  Sometimes someone was yelling.   _He’s not breathing!_

                What did that mean, anyway?

                _He’s not breathing_.

                Who was “he”?  And why was it important?  It sounded important in the dreams, significant.  But he couldn’t understand _why_.

                He felt vastly lonely.  His dreams were empty, and felt hollow.  He slipped and tumbled through them, and most of them were the same.  He relived the same dream over and over again, oftentimes very much aware that he was dreaming and trying to steer the content of the dreams away.  But he was unable to.  It was always the same.  Just a world of pain, and the same person yelling, right before oblivion.

                He preferred this sort of dream.  He wandered in a lifeless world, alone.  Forever alone.  He saw no one.  No friend, no stranger.  This was a world of loneliness, and even here, he felt the dull, throbbing ache.  Why wouldn’t it just go away?

                But it was better than the blinding pain from the other dreams.  The memory-dreams.

                He was startled when he felt the presence of another being.  She walked beside him, tall and proud.  From the core of his being, the word for what she was stamped across his mind:  Demon.

                “Don’t be afraid,” she told him.  He wasn’t sure that was very good advice coming from a demon, but did not say so aloud.  “Are you lost?”  He felt like he may have seen her before, but everything was so jumbled together, and far apart at the same time—so confused!—that he couldn’t say for certain.

                A long pause before he answered, “I feel lost.”

                She smiled, a little sadly, it seemed to him, though knowingly.  “I understand,” she offered.  For a time, they walked in silence, she beside him.  “Do you like it here?”

                A longer pause than last time.  “No,” he answered.  “Why?  Is there… anything else?”  He sounded hopeful.  Surely, the demon, after all, must have come from somewhere.  Or was she just another manifestation of his dreams and nightmares?  Was that it?  Was he insane and dreaming up demons, just to have someone else to talk to?  The thought made him uncomfortable.

                “Be careful what you think, here,” she advised him, as if she read his mind.  Maybe she had.  “You will summon far worse than I, with those thoughts.”

                “Then you’re real?” he asked, feeling relieved.  Relieved that he was not mad.  For some reason he couldn’t name, not being mad seemed terribly important.

                She nodded.  “I am as real as you are.  Though I am immortal, in a sense.”

                He frowned.  “How can something immortal possibly be real?”

                “Your kind were immortal once, elf,” she told him.  He didn’t know what to say to that, so simply said nothing.  “Though no longer.”

                He resisted the urge to roll his eyes.  It only seemed to prove _his_ point, not hers.  “So.  You’re an immortal demon, then,” he said, reiterating all that she had told him.  He was so starved for companionship that he was willing to accept the talk with the demon.  After all, what could possibly come of it?  She had already said…  Had she said--?  Hadn’t she said that she didn’t want his soul?  He couldn’t remember exactly.

                “Yes,” she answered, and there was a silence again as they walked.  It was only then that he realized that she seemed to be leading him.  He saw no reason not to follow her.  What else was there to do?  And, with her leading, there seemed to be new paths opening for them.  “There is a world beyond your dreams, mortal, though you do not remember it.”

                He paused.  “Why are you telling me this?”  He stopped and looked at a large vein of lyrium.  When he got too close to those, the throbbing ache seemed to grow worse, reminding him of it.  As if he could forget.

                She cocked her head to the side as she looked at him.  “Do you not wish to return to it?”

                He frowned.  “Why?  What’s there?”

                “Beauty,” she answered, simply, and stopped to look around the world he knew:  The Fade.  “People.  Life.”

                He listened.  He was so incredibly lonely…  And this place was wrought with wrongness to him.  It would not be so bad to leave it.  And… _life_?  He felt a deep stirring at the core of his being at the meaning of the word itself.  A desire welled up inside him—the desire to live.  More than anything else, to live.  He realized, with the sort of slow realization of a man rousing from the succubus of drink, that so long in this world meant to teeter on the edge of death.  With that realization came the horrifying reality that he had been willingly blind to before.  The Void seemed a neighbor to the Fade.  If he stayed too long…  If he slept—for that was what he was doing now, he was dimly aware—for too much longer, he would slowly fade into the Void.  Maybe parts of him already were, or had.

                “I want to live,” he whispered.

                She smiled.  “Hold on to that thought, and let go of everything else,” she told him, reaching out her hand to his, taking his hands in both of hers.  She had claws, and she pulled him against her, her firm breasts mashed against his chest, and her lips were cool against his.  But he felt everything else go—all of his dreams, this conversation, the demon herself.  All of it faded the way dreams tend to do, and let go.

 

                It had been hours.  It might feel like only a few minutes in the Fade, but time passed differently here.  In a dream, hours went by in minutes, and vice versa.  And the elf was in a coma.

                They hadn’t cut his hair, he noticed, and it came nearly to his shoulders.  Danarius was inclined to let it grow.  His hair looked… nice, against his darker skin tone.  It also amused him to let the pale hair grow.  An elven goddess had white hair—he couldn’t remember all their names; they were strange—but it amused him to make his pet not only a mockery of the Qunari customs, but of the “elvhen” ones as well.  It was a striking contrast anyway, and he liked it with the lyrium too.  He just wished the damn elf would open his eyes.

                As if on cue, the elf began to stir, shifting for the first time, breathing irregular.  He was trying to wake…!  Danarius sat up in the chair, anxious now.

                The elf’s head rolled, away from him, toward him, and stilled for a moment.  Fingers twitched, legs kicked.  He had read that that happened to those asleep too long—their minds tested their bodies.  The lyrium’s glow brightened, and then the blue glow consumed the elf completely—which was mildly alarming at first—then it subsided back to its more regular pale glow.  He jerked his head again, and his green eyes fluttered open.  They opened halfway, blinked, and opened wide.  Then the elf let out a long sigh, eyes sliding closed again, as he passed into a more normal sleep.  A sleep that he, blessedly, moved in, shifting uncomfortably, then stilled.  At the same time, Danarius tested him, touched his arm.  The elf barely stirred.  He gripped the elf’s forearm, hard enough to bruise it.  His slave jerked, eyes opening again, but didn’t seem quite capable of staying awake—not yet.  Danarius understood; his pet was exhausted.

                Fine; he could rest.  So long as he would wake again; he could rest.

                He turned, and was not at all surprised to see the Desire Demon standing behind him.  “What of our deal?” she asked him, and nodded to the elf.  “Your slave will wake.  Give him an hour, maybe two, and he will wake.”

                Danarius paused.  “I want him capable of cognitive thought and reasoning.  He’s useless to me if he can’t understand me,” he informed her.

                He was briefly annoyed when she laughed.  “I never do things by halves,” she said, though also seemed indignant.  “Your slave will need… help.  He’ll be able to talk, and function, but has not moved in weeks; you’ll need to be patient with him.”

                He frowned.  “What are you saying?” he demanded.

                She shrugged a shoulder.  “He won’t be able to walk immediately.  He may have trouble so much as sitting up for long periods of time at first.  Don’t be cruel to him; it’s not his fault—it’s yours.”  She smirked.  “You should have called me sooner.”

                Danarius pinched the bridge of his nose, as if that would stifle the headache he felt coming on.  He reasoned that he had plenty of time.  Two years.  “Will he be able to fight like he used to?”

                She shrugged.  “His body knows what to do, and deep inside, his mind does too.  It will just be a matter of re-learning it.  He will do so quickly, I suspect.  Don’t worry.  He’ll be everything you want of him if you are gentle… if you let him recover.”  And she looked back at the sleeping elf, and her expression became unreadable.  “He will awake with no memories—all the learning abilities of a child, but with the mental capacity of an adult.  If you are cruel to him, he will not forget it.”

                He nodded, impatient.  “Yes, of course,” he said.  “Now, about that brat you want—she’s prepared for you.”

                “I mean it, Cillian,” she said softly.  “Be careful that your desires do not cloud your judgment.  Do not let your accomplishments be your own undoing.”

                “Come, the girl is in the room next door, and everything is prepared,” he said, moving past her.  The hall was empty, and the demon did not follow him, so much as pass through time and space, and appear when he was ready for her.

                When it was done, and the stuttering girl was there no longer, and in her place, stood a demon in human garb, she said that she would depart.  He offered her clothing, and she took that.  With no form of dignity, she began stripping in front of him.  Danarius found himself looking away out of a sense of propriety.  He offered her gold, and she turned it down, saying that she had no need of it.  She reminded him that she still had more than her share of power as a demon, and that the “garment” she wore was merely her means of which to see and experience his world.

                So he let her go, in the dead of the night, cleverly evading the guards, and she was gone.  What havoc she wreaked, what mischief, he didn’t care to know.  He had his pet, after all.

                He went back to the room the elf lay, and sat, and waited, patiently, for his eyes to open, truly open, for what was the first time, for all sakes and purposes.  The elf was already stirring when he entered the room.  Was it pure chance, or some last gift of the demon, who could say?  But the ceremony to instill the demon in its human vessel had taken a fair amount of time.  It was impossible to say.

                Finally—finally!—those pretty sage eyes slid open, slowly.  His gaze tracked the room, and Danarius sat, and waited, watching him look, watching him blink.  He watched his facial expression contort first to pain, then confusion, and back to pain.

                The lyrium was painful, of course.  It was a dangerous substance, after all, to all but mages.  And even then, some would argue that.

                The elf fumbled for a moment, and tried to sit up, but fell back on the bed weakly.  “Don’t get up yet,” the magister advised.

                His eyes tracked to his master, the confusion plain on his face.  “What… why…?” the elf stammered, half-formed questions.  Perhaps too many questions to name at once.

                “All in good time,” he told him.  He imagined his slave was hungry, thirsty.  He had best attend to that immediately.  “I imagine you’re hungry.”  It wasn’t a question, and the elf only looked at him, still clearly confused as ever, and just as clearly in pain.  He rose.  He had sent the servants away from this hall, for this, so he would have to physically go to the one he had waiting a short distance away.  He disliked yelling whenever possible, after all.  He should have the forethought to have a bell or something—he had been too anxious for this.

                “Wait…” the elf said haltingly.  Danarius gazed down at him.  “Who…  I mean…  I don’t remember…”

                “I’m your master, a magister of the Tevinter Imperium—Danarius,” he answered, though that may not have been what the elf was asking of him.  “You will address me as ‘master,’ as is proper for a slave.  You will…”  He found himself sighing, and giving up on the matter as the elf’s eyes began to close.  “You will learn all the proper etiquette in time, my pet.”

                “What’s… my name, Master?” he asked him, eyes opening again, trying to stay awake.

                And the magister answered him, “I will call you ‘Fenris.’”

                The sage eyes blinked again, and slid closed, falling back asleep.  It would take some small amount of time for the servants to steep a broth right now anyway, so it was all right that he slept again. 

                He regarded the elf with the same admiration a craftsmen did a fine tool that would serve him well.  All he had to be was patient.  He had learned patience.  He could be patient with his pet.  His poor Fenris could barely stay awake right now.  He was too weak to sit up.  It would, clearly, take time.  And work—mostly work.  He had the healers he had hired.  They would have to help him re-learn to walk, and do the other therapies his pet would need until he was again dexterous and strong enough to take up sword fighting.

                From his research, it would take a few months, but it would be worth the wait in time.  All he had to do was be patient—and, gentle, the demon said.  Whatever that was supposed to mean.

 


	45. Accidents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris is making some amount of progress in recovery while Danarius reminisces about his teenage years. Hadriana is thrown out of her home and left alone with nothing.

**Part Four**

                Hadriana had seen Minrathous once, when she was but a child.  She had gone to have her phylactery made, which, in the Imperium, was a formality more than something she _had_ to do.  And so she had been promptly turned out of the city, with its grand cathedral, the palace, the towering spires, manors, markets, beaches and docks, flags and statues, painted carriages and burning incense, to milking the cows and tending the sheep, to peeling vegetables and sweeping the floor, to feeding the chickens and collecting eggs.

                At the time when she _could_ have protested this, in front of other mages, she had been too little to want to be separated from her family, and so she had not.  Once, the matter would have been pressed and she would have been ripped from them as soon as her magic was discovered, but this was Tevinter, and the Chantry’s practices sickened the mages, and it had been greatly debated and ultimately lobbied that this would no longer happen.  Some mages were still old enough to remember being ripped from their families, and held the practice in no high regard.

                In some cases, she would not have been given the option, but there was a mage who lived just outside her village and was willing to teach her, so she had gone back home rather than the nearest Circle, under the understanding that she would go back to the Circle for more formal training when she was older and more learned, a concept she disliked almost as much as her mother’s desires to marry her off to the wealthiest merchant she could manage.

                The hermit-mage had agreed to tutor her in magic, for a small fee her family could scarcely afford, and resented her for it.  She did her best to help the family, and learn useful spells, but still they hated her for her birthright.

                Not because mages were not seen as valuable in the Imperium, but because her being mageborn meant that she had a certain freedom her sisters did not, did her sisters resent her.  Her sisters were married off young and begot with children as quickly as possible, for the more hands to work the fields the better.  Hadriana had only recently come of an age where it was appropriate for her to be wed, and so her mother had looked for a match for her.  Hadriana had refused, and she had the power to back her refusal… and woe to the one who tried to force her hand in marriage.

                She didn’t want to marry, much to her mother’s displeasure.

                She had never done anything pleasing to her mother’s eyes.  She had tried very hard for most of her life, but had lately come to realize that nothing would ever please her, so much as if she were to become Tranquil.

                Well, she did not want to become Tranquil, very adamantly.  Her sisters had tried to convince her to undergo the process, as had her mother.  Her brothers didn’t care, and had scarcely noticed her existence it seemed to her.

                She remembered when she had become a woman, and her mother told her that she had a match picked out for her, the only remaining attribute to the match the small matter of her dowry.  Hadriana had dug in her heels and stubbornly refused.

                “I will burn him to ash if he touches me!” she had screamed, and fled the room.  Later, she overheard her parents arguing.

                “…  I don’t know what to do with her,” her mother said to her father, exasperated.

                Her father looked up from his work, repairing a tool.  “She’s young yet.  Might be that she will change her mind,” he offered peaceably.

                Her mother rounded on her spouse.  “I rule this house, if you rule the field,” she said, as if quoting something to him.  “We agreed that I would raise our children, while you supported the family.”

                And he fell silent, and did nothing to rebuke his wife, not even in his gentle way.  And, oh, how she and her mother had quarreled in the days to come.  Hadriana often went to bed hungry and in tears over their arguments.  She wanted to go to her father for help, but it was as her mother had said, and thus she barely knew the man.  She had, in an effort to make peace with her mother, offered that she might go to the Circle if someone would take her the long way to Minrathous.  This idea was not met fondly either; all the money, clothing, and food that went into raising Hadriana would be wasted if she continued her education, her family felt.  What good, they had demanded, was an education?

                Finally, her mother had it with her.  “If you won’t obey my rules, then leave,” she said.  And her words might as well have been law.

                Hadriana looked to her family, who were scattered—in the field, at the block chopping wood, the chickens, and the garden.  All looked away.  None came to help her.  “But I…”  She had nowhere to go.  This was the only place she had ever known!

                “Harrietta…” her father said, resting a big, callused hand on his wife’s back.  “She’s just a girl…”

                “Then she should obey her mother,” she insisted.  “Hadriana.”  She whirled back to face her daughter, her husband’s hand falling away.  “You will marry that man, or you will _leave_.”  The man she wanted to wed Hadriana to was a wealthy Soparati merchant from a neighboring town, only interested in her because she was a mage, which meant some social climbing and status for him.  And he was over twice Hadriana’s age.  They said it was a very good match, because Hadriana had such a humble birth, and he had outlived two wives already, and sired several sons.  But she wanted so much more than that.

                Abashed, she had turned to the road with nothing.  No food, no water—just the clothes on her back.  And her magic—at least she had that.  She went to her tutor.  The path to the shack he lived in took two hours in the forest, and it seemed longer than usual that day.

                The Tevinter sun was warm, but the forest provided a shade, the trees and plantlife naturally cooling.  A gentle breeze ruffled the leaves.  Birds twittered, and sometimes she saw  one—a sparrow here, a swallow there.  It was a lonely path, and always had been, twisting away from the village, into the forest.  The path was brightly lit, sunshine spackling the forest floor.

                Her parents had never really gotten along, not in truth.  They may have several children together, but her mother disliked her father.  She said that he was a selfish man.  He owned the mill and fields.  Neither were particularly prosperous—just necessary to support the small village.  But they did seem well-run, and clean.

                She remembered walking down the dark hall at night, and overhearing her parents talking.  “He has six children to feed, and he’s out of work,” she had said.

                Her father glowered.  “That doesn’t excuse thievery, Harrietta,” he said firmly.

                “His children were starving.  Would you do anything for our children?” she pleaded with him.

                Her father hesitated.  “I suppose…  He could work it off, rather than rot in prison,” he said, a bit reluctantly.

                “But he needs to feed his children _now_.  The poor things are starving, and the mother is cripple,” she went on.  Her mother was considered an upstanding citizen, always eager to help those in need.

                Another pause.  “I will… garnish his wages then,” he said, again, reluctantly.  “I could use another set of hands loading wagons.”

                Her mother had lifted her chin a little.  “He has a bad back,” she countered.

                Her father had scowled.  “That didn’t stop him from having six children,” he muttered.

                The woman had stiffened as if she had been struck.  “Johnathan!  You have resources, food, a family, a good home.  This man just needs a job to feed his children—surely you can give him that.”

                And he made a face, and scratched his stubble a bit more.  His hand touched the small of his wife’s back, gently, though she stiffened at his touch.  “I’ll find something,” he told her.  She nodded, but stepped away from his touch, and left him there alone.  Hadriana had watched from the dark of the hall.  She had been little enough to not really understand, but she had understood enough to just go back to bed, and ignore the way the tree outside scratched on the wall, sounding like some monster at the window.

                Hadriana stopped to catch her breath when she reached the top of a small hill.  She usually took the path more slowly, but the events of the day had spurned her to walk quickly.  She always walked faster when she was upset about something, as if she could really hope to run from her problems.  If only she could.  If only problems were tangible things that could be run from.

                Her mother had told her that her father was a selfish, vile man who only ever thought of himself, and only was redeemed from his nature because she could make him see the light of the Maker.  She said that her work, the work she did trying to help others, was the Maker’s work.

                But Hadriana wasn’t so certain.  She had fervently believed in her mother, about everything, and helped her pass out bread to the poor, and did other chores.  But when her mother wanted to marry her off to a wealthy merchant, and said that she could better do the Maker’s work as his wife, she had begun to lose her faith—not only in her mother, but in the Maker.  Why was marrying that man the Maker’s work?  Her mother had told her that it was so she could continue her work in another city, and that her father would no longer have to support her, so that money could be used to help the poor.  And there had been other reasons too, but Hadriana just didn’t want to marry, no matter how reasonable it sounded.

                The path opened to a wide meadow.  She had always thought, if she could paint, she would enjoy painting this meadow in the late summer to early fall.  It was picturesque, with the flowering trees, the honey bees buzzing softly.  Butterflies mingled with the flowers in the grass.  Birds scratched at the dirt.  The garden was fenced in by a mish-mashed fence of different woods, moss growing on it.  Sometimes, she would spot a deer nosing at the herbs and vegetables, a rabbit in with the lettuce.  The one-room hut rose out of the grass as if it had grown there, moss covering the stones, the ivy curling over the thatched roof.  There was a well-worn path through the grass to the hut.

                Hadriana strode up the path, rapping gently against the door of the hut.  There was no answer, which was peculiar.  If he wasn’t in the garden, he was often in the hut.  Perhaps he had simply gone on a walk, like he tended to do.  She knocked on the door again, this time more loudly, and first thought to wait for him, so she did.  She waited nearly all day, and well after dark.  She went to the stream nearby for water, and there was a privy pit nearby, so she did not have to go far.

                She grew hungry, and walked in the woods, looking for anything edible.  It was getting in to fall, which was fortunate; there was a wild apple tree nearby.  She wasn’t very good at climbing, but it was simple to use the staff her tutor had helped her to make to knock an apple down.  It nearly hit her on the head on the way down, and she ate it greedily.  She tossed away the core and the seeds, but still felt hungry.  She knocked another down, and took it with her back to the shack—maybe he had finally come back?

                But the shack stood empty.

                She sat again, and waited.  It was boring, and the mosquitoes started to buzz.  She thought about putting up a barrier, just to ward out the insects, but she couldn’t maintain it indefinitely, and it would only leave her tired afterwards.  She needed to get inside somewhere.

                Rather than anger at her tutor’s continued absence, she felt concern.  Where could a blind old man possibly go for so long?  Had he fallen somewhere, and was hurt?  She was tempted to go looking for him, but it was already dark.  She resolved to go in the morning, and see if she could find him.

                Hadriana hesitated, and ventured into the shack.  It was a small, one-room hut, with a stove in the corner that vented from a chimney in the roof, a single pallet for a bed, two shelves, a cupboard, and a haphazard clothespress she had never actually seen him use.

                Jameson was an odd man, she had always thought, to delight living in such squalor.  He had always told her that he “had everything he needed”.  She had never been quite satisfied with that, though, but she had her own ideas.  The man looked like he might be Chasind.  If so, he was a long, long way from home, but he never made any real mention of where he had come from.  If it were true, it wouldn’t surprise her.  Rather, it would only make sense; he didn’t mind living in the middle of nowhere in squalor.

                She wondered where a blind old man like him could have gone, anyway?  She hoped he weren’t hurt somewhere, needing help.  Or, worse, dead.

                But his pack was missing, she noticed.  That wasn’t so unusual; he would go looking for herbs in the forest sometimes.  She had no idea how he discerned which were which, though, and was too embarrassed to ask.  She felt like it must be rude to point out his obvious disability, but sometimes couldn’t help but stare at his nearly white eyes.  He had once mentioned that he had fought Qunari years ago, and one of their mages—Saarebas—had blinded him in battle, and he had been considered useless and allowed to retire after the event.  She had no idea why a blind old man would want to live alone in a shack so far from civilization.  It seemed so lonely.

                Hadriana stoked a small fire to help ward off the evening’s chill, and was going to brew tea—just in case Jameson was merely late.  She reasoned that he would welcome some hot tea with her news.

                But she opened the jar of leaves, and found it was empty.  She put the jar back on its shelf, and sighed.  Well, no tea then.  She poured the water out, and put the kettle back in its place.  She paced about the room, and decided to try to read a little.  It was dark, but she was a mage and could summon light enough to read.  He had a couple of books that he kept in a cupboard, where a normal person kept dishes and cups.  And where a normal person might put books, he kept his cups and dishes.  The shelf, now that she thought about it, was missing a couple of things.

                But when she opened the cupboard, she felt suddenly cold, and like a weight had dropped into her stomach.  Her mouth felt dry.  The books were gone.  There were only three, but all of them were about magic.  Had he been robbed?  She felt like that was rotten at its worst—to rob from a blind old man.

                But why would someone take one of the dented tin cups?  And she noticed a bowl was missing too.  Now that she began to look, there were other utensils missing—a cooking pan, a spoon, and other things.  Suddenly concerned, she began to look with more earnest.  She checked the other containers, and found that they were either empty or gone.  She knew about the small trove he had—a loose plank on the floorboard.  She lifted it, and found the small pouch of coins gone, along with the most rare of books he had—the one he hadn’t let her read.  He had said that she wasn’t ready for it yet, but he had promised to teach it to her in time.

                She wanted to cry.  He was gone now.  He had left her alone, and never even told her that he was leaving.

                She shoved the board angrily back into place.  She curled onto the floor, and shook with grief.

                Her family had cast her out.  Her village had shunned her.  And now Jameson was gone too?  Was she alone in the world?

 

                “I quit,” the woman said with all the surety of one who had already made up their mind.  “And I’m only telling you as a courtesy.”

                Danarius was not amused.  “May I inquire as to the reason, ma’am?” he asked, very politely.  He had been expecting this conversation sometime today, but that didn’t mean he had to enjoy it.

                Miss Amaryllis looked positively outraged that he would even bother to ask.  Her teeth ground together in fury, fists balling angrily.  “ _Your pet elf murdered Larissa!”_

                He looked at the woman, not at all roused to emotion by her outburst.  “It was an accident,” the magister said smoothly.  “I believe my poor pet was quite devastated.”  It _had_ been an accident.  No one had really guessed the extent of Fenris’ abilities.  He had been re-learning to walk, nothing more.  His legs were still shaky, and he couldn’t stand up for long periods of time—which was to be expected; he had spent six weeks in bed not moving.  His little wolf had wasted away to practically nothing—a shadow of what Leto had been before.  But it was really only a matter of time until Fenris put back on the weight, the tight corded muscle; Danarius had absolute faith in him, and Fenris was making progress anyway.  Larissa had been helping with the physical therapy—walking with him, someone who was there when he—inevitably—had to stop, or pushed himself too hard and fell.  The demon was right; Fenris was doing everything he could to please Danarius, and he was always so apologetic when Danarius checked up on him and he still had to have help everywhere.

                He liked that—a lot actually.

                At any rate, the elf had tripped, and Larissa had caught him.  His hand had gone right through her—the woman had died almost instantly.  Fenris had been sick over the entire episode, but Danarius imagined that he would get over it.

                “He didn’t even _try_ to kill her.  I don’t want to die because your slave can’t control the abilities you gave him,” she snapped.

                Danarius blinked slowly.  “I warned you that he was dangerous when I hired you, Amaryllis,” he said smoothly.  “It’s even in your contract.”

                Her jaw set, her brow drawing down in a glare.  “That the lyrium was dangerous.  That being in close contact with it might be dangerous.”

                He sighed.  “Then I believe you need to review your contract.”  He opened a desk drawer, and flipped through it.  He had a copy of Larissa’s contract here—just one of the forms he had on hand that he would inevitably need when her family tried to complain about it.  It was identical to Amaryllis’s.  He flipped to the proper page.  “’I understand that my close proximity to the subject is dangerous.’  The latter half of this paragraph details the manner in which lyrium is dangerous, yes, but the next section also makes mention of how the subject—Fenris—will undoubtedly be dangerous.  You must see him much as an untrained mage at present.”

                She stared at him as if he had suddenly sprouted a second head and it was offering her tea.  “Untrained mages rarely accidentally kill people by touching them.”

                “Why did you think I was paying you so much?” he mused.  “Because there _wasn’t_ a chance of death or dismemberment?”

                “He’s your slave.  That makes him your responsibility.  Control him.”

                He grew weary of this conversation.  “I presume you are forfeiting your bonus, then,” he said.  He had promised the attendants a bonus if they stayed until he dismissed them.

                 She raised her chin.  “Yes, and glad of it!  Good luck getting anyone to take care of _him_ in the meantime!  Do it yourself,” she snapped.  And with that, she turned on her heel and marched out of the room.  Well, that had been pleasant.

                He imagined that he had more than one slave, though, who would only be too happy to get away from the fields for a while.  Any mother could help Leto— _Fenris_ —re-learn basic skills.

                He must remember to call him Fenris.  Rarely, but still occasionally, he thought of him by that name.  Leto and Fenris, for all sakes and purposes, he was discovering, were entirely different people, and it was so much more than the simple difference of what he had imbued in his skin, or the colour of his hair.

                Leto had been afraid of him.  Fenris only tried to please him.  Every objective of Leto’s had been for his family.  Fenris just wanted to be able to walk, and not need help.  Again, he almost wished he had known Leto better, as a person.  It would be fascinating to note all the minor differences between them.

                One thing he had noticed almost immediately, though, about Fenris:  Leto had had a slightly different accent.  It wasn’t blatantly obvious, but he _had_ noticed the difference.  That, thus far, had been the strangest thing about the memory wipe.  His accent had lost all traces of his Seheron background, and now reflected more of the Tevinter accent—which was normal, considering that that was what he _heard_.  Still, it was strange.  Speech patterns were a bit different too, now that he thought about it.

                He should go check on him.  It had been a while.  The last time he had seen him, the elf had been in a state of shock over what he had done.  He would get over it, in time.

                Danarius was tired of the endless paperwork anyway.  He was having to issue some formal decree stating that he would be interviewing candidates for his suddenly vacant apprenticeship over the summer.  He disliked the matter entirely, but with Raith gone, he needed someone else, both to please the Circle and because he needed a likely heir.  But that didn’t mean he had to enjoy the process.

                A reprieve would be nice, and he did like to check on his progress.  He left the room, and Amaryllis had already disappeared, likely to collect her things.  He took the longer route to where he was going, down hallways, stairs, and paused in a large entry hall that housed portraits of each generation’s head of household.  The styles changed the farther he walked down the hall, with the newest ones farther from the entrance.  The family resemblance was plain.

                He had told them to move the elf to one of the guest rooms.  What was the use in having a bodyguard, after all, if he sent him all the way to the slave quarters, and the servant quarters were simply too far to be practical as well.  So, it made sense to have him down the hall instead, even if Fenris wouldn’t be _useful_ as such for a while yet.  It was better that the elf learned the layout of the manor.  Besides, it sort of tickled his fancy to put his new favorite pet in one of the nicest rooms in the manor.  And didn’t a master _usually_ spoil a favourite pet?

                But he hadn’t specified.  Still, the coincidence was… amusing.

                There had been a remodel six years or so ago in this wing after a fire, and nothing even looked the same, but that wasn’t the point; the point was, they had happened to put his little pet in what, in the distant past, had been the room his mother had happened to _die_ in.  Across the hall from where his room had been, next to his brother’s room.

                Oh, he had _avoided_ that room for _years_ after her demise, as if he could still feel her ghost wandering it, and down the hall.

                Later, in his teenage years, he had actively defied the feeling.

                Shallise…  _That_ had been stupid; he saw that now.

                Stupid to ignore his father.  Should have listened, should have attended to his studies, should have done a number of things differently.  But he _hadn’t_.  Fifteen and reckless, a young mage and felt invincible.  And Shallise had been a year older, and pretty, with a lilting laugh, and had a funny way of trilling her r’s when she spoke that, she told him secretly, was the remnants of a speech impediment when she was younger.

                He had first happened across Shall when she was, in theory, dusting the main hall.  She was alone, and didn’t see him.  She was in a world of her own, really—he suspected that was usually the case.  She danced about the room, jumping, turning on her toes, lifting herself up on toes, spinning and never getting dizzy, to music only she heard with her pointed ears.  Her skirts swirled, climbing to her knees as she moved.  She had fantastic legs.

                And he, oh, he just couldn’t help himself; he stayed in the shadow and watched, utterly fascinated, as she danced.  She cleaned, but mostly she danced.  Her dance came to a frenzy, and she moved so quickly he couldn’t follow all of her movements, and could never hope to mimic them.  When she finally swirled to a halt, taking a bow to an invisible audience, he clapped.

                She had frozen, alarmed, turning around to face him so quickly that she stumbled back.  She was breathing hard from her dance, her face flushed.

                He had praised her, and kissed her hand, and she had giggled, and told him to come watch again sometime. 

                In the present, Danarius walked on, and only thought of Shall again after he climbed the steps to what was now a wing for honored guests.

                In the distant past, he had found her again a week later in the hall.  This hall, for that matter, dancing again, with a cloth as she polished, her black opalescent hair pinned up to keep it out of her face.  She was in the uniform of a maid, but she seemed to look different in it to him—or maybe he was just distracted by the length of her calves.

                Anyway, she had spied him early on this time, and danced, and spun, and kicked up her skirts.  She stopped, her back against a door, smiling shyly at him.  One of her legs rubbed against the other, the smile staying about her lips, and she had slipped into the room—the same one his mother had died in, and he would have had it no other way.

                Following her in, accepting her invitation, had been an attempt to slay the ghosts that haunted his thoughts.  He insisted that it couldn’t be there, and would prove it.  His mother’s ghost would never allow this, after all.

                He hadn’t _thought_ his father would find out—that had been foolish, for find out he most certainly did.  He himself was scolded, punished, and sent away to apprentice under another magister.  Shall, he had discovered, had been fired, of course, but he saw her again, years later, at a ballet, and thought she must be happier there.  He hadn’t tried to speak to her; didn’t see a need.  She looked happy—he had supposed that was enough.

                A part of him had wanted to approach her, to ask if she remembered him, but, well, he had been married at the time and had simply let the chance slip him by.

                He also supposed… that was why he wanted Leto—Fenris.  They looked alike—most elves did, to a degree.  But they both had the same hair—well, Leto and she.  She was fairer of skin, but still tanned, and they had the same look in their eyes that meant strength, confidence, the heart of a warrior.  He had wanted her too, wanted to possess her, to cherish her.  Maybe he had even loved her, once, before he really knew what that meant.  And she had been taken from him.  Well, no one could take Fenris. 

                He wouldn’t allow it.

 

                The door opened.  Danarius didn’t have to look about the room to find Fenris.  It was daylight, and the room was bright.  The lyrium glowed softly, but that was not what drew his attention.  Rather, to Danarius, ever since the Ritual, the elf’s life had shone like a single candle in a void.  He felt, with a sense of assurance, that no matter what, he would _always_ be able to find Fenris.  It was as simple and natural as breathing.

                The same “light” as it were that he could “see” was also a link between them.  The same spell that had sustained Leto’s life then now channeled Fenris’ power.  To Danarius, he was like a living battery—a storage supply of lyrium that could not run out.  He had experimented with it, but it only seemed to work in proximity to one another—which was fine, considering Danarius’ plans for his slave.

                The elf looked up, and tried to sit up.  “Master,” he said, just as quickly averting his eyes.  It was important, in elven slaves, to make it clear that they were not looking at their betters; their wide irises made it more difficult for a person to tell what they were looking at.

                He was learning quickly, at least.  “Don’t,” he said, stopping him from the attempt.  His pet was gaining back some of the lost weight, but he had never been particularly heavy, and just looked frail right now.  Danarius was keeping him well-fed—things that would help him gain weight in a healthy manner and gain some strength back.  But in the meantime, he looked frail, and _was_ frail.  Though not as frail as he looked, he reminded himself.  But that was hard to remember, because he _looked_ like nothing but skin and bones right now—gaunt, tired, and shaking when he was too active.  The first week had been the worst of it—he had to sleep more often than not, and sometimes just talking had worn him out.  But it was endearing how hard he had tried, when Danarius asked him everything he could remember about the Ritual, and Fenris had been able to tell him next to nothing. 

                Fenris had stared down at his hands, and thought, and his green eyes slid closed for a moment, and when he opened them they looked haunted.  “I remember screaming—someone was screaming,” he reiterated.  “And it hurt so much…”  But that was all he remembered, and Danarius had been careful about questioning him.  Oh, how his slave had apologized, and looked up at him worriedly.  Danarius had been calm, and told him it was all right that he did not remember.  The lad had been visibly relieved that his master was not angry.

                Fenris ceased trying to sit up immediately.  He was sitting on the window cushion.  His mother had liked to sit there, toward the end, and read while she watched the birds outside.  Similarly, she also could not get around so well.

                “You look better,” Danarius commented, walking closer to him.  Fenris stared downwards, until his master told him to look up.  He looked at him, watching his eyes for recognition, for thoughts—for anything.  His colouring was better since he had woken.  Food had helped a great deal, and moving around, but it was said that it tired him out quickly.  “Are you able to walk very far?”

                Fenris looked nothing but remorseful.  “No, Master—I’m sorry,” he added quickly, and seemed truly regretful of this.

                _He wants nothing but to please me.  All my slaves should be so loyal._   “Take your time.  I don’t want you to hurt yourself,” he told him.  “But I’d like to see you walking normally.”

                “I’m sorry, Master,” Fenris said again, sounding miserable.  _Because he thinks he failed me,_ Danarius thought to himself.

                Well, let him think that, even if it wasn’t his fault exactly.  Maybe it would make him push himself a little harder—there was no harm in that, so long as he was careful not to hurt himself.  “How are you getting on since Larissa died?”

                Fenris absolutely wilted.  There was no other word for it.  The elf stared down at his hands for a moment, then back up at his master; he had not been told to look away.  “I…  I’m not certain, Master.”

                “Don’t fear your gifts; I gave them to you,” Danarius told him.  “You will learn to use them—all of them—in time, my pet.”

                And there it was.  Leto had flinched every time he had referred to him by the term.  Fenris barely blinked.  “I will, Master,” Fenris promised him.

                “I know.”  He glanced out the window.  It overlooked the vineyard, and he could see some of the winery from here.  “When you can run again, I have a sword master who will train you.”

                He could tell the news startled the elf, at least a little, and then he only seemed to wonder at it.  Danarius bid him farewell, and informed him that he would have a new pair of attendants come in the morning.

 

                Fenris watched the door click shut, and looked back out the window.  He wasn’t allowed outside—yet.  But he liked the sunlight, and it was more interesting than the confines of the room.

                Somehow, it saddened him to see the slaves in the vineyard below.  They worked from before dawn to well after dusk, and he was confined in here, recovering from some ordeal he could barely remember, save for the pain, and that wasn’t something he cared to remember.  But it wouldn’t go away.

                He didn’t see why not.  Everything else had gone away—a bitter thought.  None of it would go away though, and every moment still hurt.  But it was all he knew.  He couldn’t remember not being in pain.  Everything was pain.  His master had been giving him things to help stifle it—a variety of tablets he had to swallow, leaves he was supposed to chew or drink steeped as tea, some foul-smelling liquids he had to choke down.  It all helped, some more or less than others, but he would take anything for it just to be dulled for even a little while.

                He felt lost.  Alone.  Some part of him _knew_ —knew beyond a shadow of a doubt--that “Fenris” wasn’t his _real_ name.  And it bothered him, just a little.

                _Little wolf, hmm?_ What did that _mean_ anyway?  Was there some ulterior meaning behind the name?  Why would he call him that?  His master called him his “pet”.  But it still didn’t make much sense, and he doubted it ever really would.  He supposed it didn’t matter—in truth— _what_ he called him, exactly.  Fenris certainly didn’t remember his real name, and his interest in it faded more and more every day.

                For the first week, he had been obsessed with the idea.  He had asked, tentatively, what it had been, of Larissa.  Amaryllis barely tolerated him at all, but Larissa had tended to indulge him whenever she could.  She confessed only that she had never met him before they were introduced, and so she did not know his name either.

                Oh, why couldn’t _Amaryllis_ have died instead of Larissa?  Larissa, who always spent extra time with him, who took the time to talk to him about the way he would need to behave once he was well again.  At least _someone_ had taken the time to tell him about the etiquette he would need to follow.

                He looked down at his hands, imagining his right hand covered in blood, soaked up to the elbow.  It had gotten under his fingernails, and he had felt like it would never come off.  Of course it came off—that was ridiculous.  But…

                He didn’t want this.

                Why would anyone want this?

                There was no doubt at all in Fenris’ mind that the constant pain he felt came from the lyrium.  And sleeping at night was nigh impossible between the pain and the light; it was _never_ dark, and the lyrium somehow just seemed brighter in the dark.  That was an illusion, but he did petulantly feel that way; it just showed up more at night.  Nothing to be done except to half-smother himself with a pillow, and the pain—there was nothing for that except the ways to dull it; it never got rid of it completely.  The light at least would be better if it were consistent—sometimes it was fainter than other times, and he felt like sometimes he could control it, but then was quickly proven wrong.

                _Larissa…_

                He had never intended to hurt her.  He had never _wanted_ to hurt her.

                Fenris wondered if it were possible to get rid of the lyrium.  He didn’t see how, except to carve it out, and he was reasonably certain that that would kill him.  And Danarius, he didn’t think, would approve anyway, so he banished the thought.  He wanted to please his master.  Something compelled him to do so.  Maybe because he was the first person he had seen upon waking, or because he sought some kind of acceptance, from anyone.  But the why didn’t really make much difference.

                He shifted on the seat, frustrated by how much effort it took.  They called it “muscle atrophy,” and had explained to him that he had been comatose for about six weeks.  They had moved him every few hours to help prevent bedsores, but there was nothing that could be done about the atrophy except him waking.

                He felt like he had _already_ failed his master by staying asleep for so long and letting his muscles deteriorate.  He knew, on some fundamental level, that that really wasn’t _his fault_ exactly, but that changed little.

                Fenris just felt that much more determined to be walking normally and gain back the lost muscle mass.  Six weeks didn’t seem like a lot, but it did its damage.

                Even without the assistants today, he had tried to walk on his own.  Not far, not even out of the room.  He kept a hand against the wall, and tried to walk around it as many times as he could.  It was exhausting, but he needed to keep it up.  _I’ll get stronger_ , he promised himself.  It was so frustrating, and if it had just been Amaryllis, it would be humiliating.  But Larissa had always been encouraging, didn’t treat him like a child, and been more than helpful.  Amaryllis _had_ just treated him like a child, had glared when he fell, and rarely offered assistance.

                Larissa had been the one that cooked and brought him lunch, and sat down to eat _with_ him, gently helping him figure out the motor functions of that process.  His fingers didn’t feel as dexterous as they should be, but she had barely seemed to notice.  It would have been embarrassing, except that she just smiled and told him that she believed in him.  If it had only been Amaryllis, he knew he still wanted to get better, but he wasn’t so certain he would be quite as willing.  Amaryllis had always been disheartening at best.  All the looks she gave him just reminded him of his failures—how he couldn’t stand at first.  But Larissa had put one of his arms around her shoulders—she had had broad shoulders for a woman—and, slowly, walked with him.  She had had to half-drag him at first, and it took effort for both of them.  But he got _better_.  He had _improved_.

                He didn’t know what he would do now.                                                     

                Maybe once he could walk again—unaided and for longer periods of time—he would be allowed to go outside on his own, or somewhere else around the manor at least.  He was getting impossibly sick of this room, and the hallway, the bathing room, privy.  It had been a trial just walking to the garden, even aided, from here to practice his lyrium abilities.  It was either practice those, or when he phased by accident, fall through the floor, so he had to practice.  He hadn’t even seen all of the manor, or the manor grounds.  He was sick of these rooms, and now that Larissa was gone, he wondered how often he would get to go to the garden.  Those were the only places he had seen so far, and he would be only too happy to be away from them and see something new.

                Not only that…  He wanted his master’s _approval._   Every time he looked at him, he had studied him—that was fine—but he was judging him, and Fenris always felt like he was falling impossibly short.  Maybe he was just embarrassed and self-conscious that he couldn’t walk yet.

                Study swordplay after he was well enough to run again?  It seemed impossible, as things stood now.  He had seen a couple of the house guards carrying swords.  His hands were callused—fading calluses, but still callused.  He didn’t know _why_ exactly.  Maybe before the ritual, he had studied swordplay, or had he done any kind of work like the other slaves he had seen?  He wished he knew.

                But why would his master have put a common field laborer through this “ritual” anyway?

                He flinched, looking out the window.  The overseer was hitting a human girl—a slave—down below.  In the fields, he noticed, elves and humans were kept separated.

                It was sort of embarrassing…  When he woke, he _knew_ instinctively that he was an elf.  He had words and terms and meanings, but he lacked history—that was what was embarrassing.  Larissa had told him about elves, humans, and the other races—about their differences, and a bit about their history, at least in Tevinter.  He had listened with rapt attention, absorbing facts like a sponge absorbed water.

                He looked at his hand, at the lyrium carved into the flesh.  A couple of weeks ago, before Larissa had died, he had fallen asleep—right where he was now, at the window.  Anyway, he always had such vivid dreams, and it had been an alarming enough dream that his body had just reacted to what it perceived as threat, and he had phased—right through the damned floor.  He had woken falling through the floor, and was alarmed enough that he fell four stories before he made it stop, and hit the polished wooden floor of the great hall badly.  He had broken his leg in two places.  So, in agony, naked because he had lost his clothes when he had phased, he had lain on the floor gasping.  Thankfully, someone had seen him falling, and the servant had gone to check all the lower floors, just in case.

                A man had found him there, and immediately called for help to get him to the infirmary.  Fenris had been embarrassed—more than embarrassed—about it.  Of course the mage there healed his leg, but it had done nothing to help his recovery.  Danarius wasn’t angry about it, but he seemed disappointed in him, which in a way was worse.

                All the same, Danarius had even seemed a bit concerned after he had broken his leg, and had come to see him in the infirmary on the second day.  It still hurt, and he had been told it would for several days.  He was kept on bed rest in the meantime, and was just sedated enough not to randomly phase.  Just in case, they had carefully put two large beds directly underneath him, for three floors.  _That_ was embarrassing.  Worse, that he was grateful for it.  Danarius had sat in the chair beside the bed, and asked him about the fall.  Fenris had apologized for it, and confessed that it was difficult.

                “Fenris,” Danarius sighed.  “Your ability is exactly what you make of it.  If you _believe_ you will be clothed, that the floor is solid, and whatever else, it will be.”  He had lifted Fenris’ hand, and traced the lyrium along his arm with his fingertips.  Fenris watched him.  “I understand how your ability works, pet.”  He smiled, just a little—a pleased, contented expression.  Fenris thought darkly, _At least one of us does_.  “You are afraid it will happen, so it happens.”

                The other made a face, then flinched when he shifted his leg.  “I don’t… understand, Master,” he said quietly.

                The magister touched the lyrium, and the branch ignited at his touch, giving the room a bluish glow.  “You are afraid it is true, so for you, it is true.  Fenris, you, my beautiful, perfect creation, are the only one in the world capable of creating their own reality, to a point.”

                Fenris still hadn’t understood what he _meant_.  What did _any_ of that mean?  However, despite that his master never explained it to him, it was actually true.  If he could convince himself that he would not fall, he didn’t.  If he convinced himself his clothes wouldn’t fall off of him, they wouldn’t.  If he told himself he could lift an object while he had phased, he could.  Alternately, he could walk through solid objects the same way.  Danarius had been pleased with him when he made progress in that regard too, and it had made him strive to try harder.  Besides, practicing that had been the only time he had been allowed outside in the little garden.

                He had sat down and talked before—long, numerous conversations with his master about the lyrium.  Danarius asked him questions about it all the time, in fact, always making notes.

                What does it feel like?  _It hurts.  It’s terrifying._   But he hadn’t said that aloud, not to his master anyway.  He couldn’t say something like that to him.  He had been troubled, and looked around the room, trying to remember the sensations he felt when he phased and his body was swallowed by the lyrium.  His eyes slid back to his master, then he looked down.  “It feels like I’m the only thing alive in the entire world…”  His voice was soft.  “Nothing else looks real, or even feels real.  It feels like… like I’m dreaming.”

                Danarius had been silent for a long time, making notes, maybe coming to conclusions he did not divulge to Fenris.  The magister looked up again.  “How does it _look_?” he inquired.

                That one had been more difficult.  The elf thought about the question, trying to put into words what he saw.  “Everything looks…”  He struggled.  “ _Faded_.  As though I were viewing the world through a fog, perhaps.  There’s a… wrongness.”  Fenris sighed, flustered at his inability to describe it.

                Danarius had leaned forward, intrigued.  Fenris didn’t know what he had garnered from that bit of knowledge, but far more than Fenris could puzzle out.  Danarius scribbled furiously for a long time, and looked up again.  “Do you hear anything when you’re there?”

                Fenris felt confused, like he was missing a part of the conversation.  “Master?”

                Danarius blinked, as if realizing what he had said.  He frowned.  “When you phase.”

                He frowned, trying to remember what he could hear.  The sights were always so distracting, and what was happening to his body for that matter, it was hard to puzzle out.  “The lyrium… seems louder.  That’s all, master.”

                That one hadn’t been as interesting to Danarius, but Fenris had always wondered what epiphany his master had discovered when he would write so quickly, and seem so pleased.  What did his master know about him that he didn’t?

                The door creaked open again.  He looked up, but it was just open, all by itself.  He looked at it for a moment.  It seemed so far away.  In reality, it was about ten feet, but that seemed impossibly far for him right now.

                He was half-inclined to leave it like that, and decided that he should.  He glanced back out the window.  The overseer had stopped beating the girl, and she was limping, carrying a heavy basket off to the winery.

                He had been watching them for days, and sometimes wondered if they knew.  He felt like he knew some of them, just by watching.  The humans were closest to the manor, and he saw the elves less often, but knew they were out there somewhere, because he saw them walk by at night.  One thing both groups had in common was their downtrodden, soulless looks about them.  All the life and will crushed out of them if it had ever been there to begin with.

                Something sprang up beside him, little claws gripping the cushion, and a small furry body crawled onto his lap.  It was one of the manor’s cats—for catching mice.  She was gray with random splotches of white, with blue eyes.  His first instinct was to push the cat away, but she was warm, and seemed to genuinely want his company—no one else did—so he left her there.

                She laid down in his lap contentedly.  Without thinking about it, he scratched her ears, rubbing her head.  In a moment, he found himself stroking her fur.  He heard her purr contentedly.  He leaned his head against the wall, feeling tired for some reason.  All he ever did was sleep.  Why was he always so tired?

                The simple answer was that he had been malnourished and was suffering from muscle atrophy.  But that was hardly a suitable excuse to Fenris.  He felt useless.

                He sat with the cat, and had to shift again after a long while.  The cat grumbled her displeasure, but found another suitable spot on his lap to fall back asleep on.  When the day wore on, and a servant did come, with a tray and a cart, the servant tried to shoo the cat away.

                “No, it’s all right,” Fenris insisted as the cat darted under the bed rather than out the door.

                The servant sighed, flustered, and gave up on the matter.  “You keep that cat out of the food, and off the furniture, then; she’s your problem,” the woman muttered, tromping off with the cart.  She shut the door behind her.

                Of course, she had placed the food on the table, and not somewhere closer.  And the cat couldn’t possibly open the door by herself if she needed to go out.

                He sighed to himself, and, _slowly_ eased his feet to the floor.  With a hand against the wall, he steadied himself as he rose.  He teetered for an instant, and held his breath as if it could help.  He regained his balance and, swallowing, took a nervous step forward, then another.  One foot in front of the other, and he had reached the table.  He was halfway there, and he hadn’t even had to hold on to anything.  He took a deep breath before continuing to the door.  Once there, he rested briefly.  His legs were aching, his joints complaining with every step.  He was half-tempted to just lie down on the floor, and stay there.

                He opened the door, just enough for the slender cat to make her escape if she needed to, and started the journey back to the table.

                Fenris was a bit proud of himself when he didn’t fall.  Maneuvering the chair was difficult, and he was shaky by then, but he pulled it out enough to sit down.  He more or less collapsed in it, shivering, and waited for the shakiness to stop before he even looked at the food.  His eyes slid closed.  Part of this was the pain.  Some combination of the constant agony from the lyrium, the pain he felt from trying to walk, and the amount of effort he put into it sometimes made him feel physically ill, even if only for a little while.

                Reminded that he needed to eat, he lifted the lid on the plate, and lost his appetite.  Fish.  He hated fish.  They smelled disgusting.

                Well, there _were_ vegetables on the plate.  That didn’t make the fish smell any better though.  He felt little paws on one of his feet, a warm body rubbing against his leg.

                He frowned down at the cat, not sure he trusted himself to lift the little thing so soon.  Well, if he didn’t push himself, he’d never get anywhere.

                So, he leaned down, and lifted the little cat around her middle, settling her back on his lap.  She rubbed against his torso, and lifted her paws easily up to his shoulder, rubbing her head against his face.  It was irritating, but somehow comforting.  She didn’t care about the lyrium.  Not one bit.

                He looked away, rubbing the cat’s fur affectionately as he did.  Amaryllis had been weary of getting too close to him.  The servants tried to avoid him.  Larissa had been careful to never touch his bare skin if she could help it.  Even Danarius seemed a little reluctant to get too close to him.  They were afraid of the lyrium, of what it could do, of what powers it granted to him, and the radiation from it.

                But the cat didn’t care—not one bit.  “Do you want the fish?” he found himself asking her, which was stupid.  She had no idea what he was saying, _and_ she didn’t care.

                “Mrrew?” she inquired, and he tore off a piece of it, offering it to her.  She licked it, and ate it right out of his hand, daintily, and licked his fingers, but never once went for the plate itself.  The manor’s cats wouldn’t last long if they made habits of jumping on tables, after all.  He ended up feeding her nearly all of the fish, and she licked his hand clean with her rough tongue, before she curled up on his lap to sleep contentedly.  Only then did he pick at the vegetables, sip at the mint tea, but he did taste the flavor of the leaves they brewed along with it to help with the pain—there just wasn’t any disguising that.

                He sat in the chair with the cat for some time, and was disappointed when she got up and simply left him there.  Fenris reasoned that maybe she would be back.

                He covered the remains on the plate with the lid, and made his way to the bed, where he laid down for a while, listening to the manor for the most part, and half-hoping the cat would come back.

                The door creaked again, and he felt hopeful for a moment, and turned to look.  His hope turned to surprise, however, and he made an attempt to sit up, only really succeeding because of the headboard.  “Master?” he said quizzically.  Twice in the same day?

                “You have been sleeping poorly,” he told him, rather than asked him.

                Fenris did not make eye contact.  He had been instructed not to, very clearly.  He said nothing, unsure if the statement warranted a response or not.  But it was true; he was always tired and could never seem to fall asleep easily, because of the pain he felt from the lyrium, because of how sensitive his skin was and that he tossed and turned.  Because of the light, and inability to block it out—though he tried.  And above it all, the faint ringing he was mostly used to, but if it were too quiet, he could hear it.  He assumed it was the lyrium, but who could say?  It was incredibly faint, and high-pitched.

                “Drink this,” he told him, and passed him a silver flask.

                The elf, given an order, accepted the flask and unscrewed the stopper.  He drank a bit, and made a face.  It burned going down his throat.

                “It’s wine,” Danarius told him.  Wine wasn’t normally kept in a flask, but it was easier to carry that way, and maybe something else was mixed into it.  Unbeknown to the elf, this was true, and the flask concealed the odd colouring that the “something else” had given the wine, even if the flavor was masked enough.  Fenris was also reasonably certain that he would drop a heavy wine glass.  “Not particularly good wine, but I do own a winery, and you need better rest.”  He turned.  “Drink all of it, and leave the flask in a place the servants will see it.”

                “Yes, Master,” Fenris replied as the man walked from the room.  The door shut on his way out.  So much for the cat returning.

                He sighed, and propped himself up on the headboard, sipping at the contents of the flask.  He wasn’t sure how he felt about it, exactly.  He didn’t mind the taste in his mouth so much, but the aftertaste was foul, and he wasn’t sure he liked the burning sensation.  It tasted better toward the end of it, and he felt a pleasant buzzing sensation.  The pain was dulled, and he felt more relaxed than he could remember being.

                He set the flask down on the stand by the bed, and slumped against the pillows. 

                His eyes slid closed.  He felt like sleeping would be easy, he was so relaxed.  And the pain was so much… _less_ than before.  His breathing began to even, and he slept.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was excited to finally get to where I can add Hadriana. I really enjoyed writing her back story.


	46. Abandoned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris, Hadriana, and Varania are all feeling isolated and alone. Each of them has a way of dealing with the feeling and trying to cope, though some do it better than others.

                “He’s getting so big,” Lura giggled, tickling Shai.  He squealed, kicking and laughing.  It had been six months since Shai and his twin had been born.  He was sitting up, and kept putting his hands on the floor, and moving as if he wanted to crawl but had not quite figured out the motions just yet.  Lura was usually the one to play and care for him, so Shai had grown more attached to the elf that had been a whore than his own mother.

                She did not resent Lura for that.  To the contrary, she liked that.  It gave her time to do other things.  Mother had a job now.  It had been hard the first couple of months, but she had a job.  She worked a lot, but it was enough.  Lura was very pretty and confident, and had found a job of her own, working nights at a local bar in the alienage, as a barmaid not a whore.

                An “alienage”, Varania had learned, was a place of open sewers, of brown, brackish water, a place that always smelled faintly of piss even when there were flowers—mostly weeds—blooming.  It was a place of ramshackle buildings and little sunlight.  A place of cracked tiles and broken cobblestone.  If someone were to paint a picture of misery, they only had to paint the alienage in Seheron.  Or, at least, that was what the young mage saw it as.

                Lura and Mieta saw it as a place they could live, a place where they did not have to call a man “master” or fear to go.  It was a place they could be a family together.  It was a place that they could build relationships with their neighbors and make friends.  It was a chance at a new life.

                Humans could do almost anything they wanted with the elves in the alienage.  They would hit them, yell at them, and all around bully them if they could manage it.  And there was no justice for it.  No one would do anything about it.  City guards would frequently just look away... if they weren’t a part of it.

                As a slave, she had some protection from it; her master would never tolerate his property being abused unless he gave the order.  She had never been afraid to go outside as a slave, and now she didn’t dare venture out of the city walls.  It became quite clear to her very quickly that to venture alone outside the alienage—especially outside the city—was dangerous.  She was glad that she was a mage; she wasn’t as helpless as some.

                Every day there, she saw elves in the streets—thin vagrants surviving off of garbage and catching rats, and sometimes even cats.  Some elves went to bed hungry, and others had naught but a few scraps for supper.  Why not just sell themselves as slaves, though?  They would be fed at least.  Varania supposed, again, that she was more fortunate than most—for her mother had a skill people would pay for, as did she, and Lura had a job.

                A month ago, an elven woman had been raped.  No one had done anything, because it had been a human who did it, and the other elves disliked it, maybe even were angry with it, but the reasoning was that it had occurred outside the alienage, so if they stayed in the alienage, this wasn’t a problem.

                And it wasn’t that the elves weren’t _allowed_ to own property elsewhere, like maybe by the docks, but when they did, they always moved back to the alienage.  The alienage may have an open sewer that flooded sometimes, and rats, and it was crowded, but humans rarely ventured down there; humans always broke their windows outside the alienage, robbed them, sometimes even killed them.

                Mieta made no mention of it, always saying that it was nice to not have to address a man as “master,” that she was happy to be able to cook for herself and her family, and that she was glad to see her grandchild grow up free.

                Varania didn’t understand at all.  As a slave, she had food, she had shelter, and someone to provide her with clothing, and tutorage, and everything she needed.  No one had spit on her since the others her age had matured past that, no one had thrown rocks after that either.  It hadn’t smelled.  There weren’t rats—mice maybe, but no rats.  Now, she was treated like scum by the humans and called names.

                Lura didn’t even seem to notice, which made Varania angry sometimes.  Lura said that she had had silk gowns and jewels, and a big feather bed with fine linen sheets, but that she was more than willing to give it up for this.  Varania didn’t understand that at all.  She understood that Lura had been a whore, but all the nice things she had, no one was allowed to hit her or be cruel to her--didn’t she understand the value of that?

                The food was better, though—Varania would give her mother that.  She had never known her mother could cook before.  But she could.  And she had wasted no time at all trying to teach them to read.  She had bought a large piece of parchment, and some charcoal sticks, and was teaching Varania and Lura their letters, and just getting into sounding out words.  The process was slow, as Mieta worked all day and was tired at night, but she was determined.  And Varania did remember her promise to Leto.

                She missed him.  She missed him more than anything.  He was her confidant, her friend, her brother.  She wished she could see him again.

                She couldn’t imagine a world in which he was gone from her life forever, and it filled her with a sick sadness to think that it could be so.

 

                About three months had passed since Fenris had opened his eyes.  Danarius gave it another three or more before he was running and well enough to handle a sword.  In the meantime, he was well enough to listen to lectures from the sword master, so that was what he did.

                He also made Fenris get riding lessons.  Not so much because he wanted him to learn how to ride horses, but because it wasn’t too strenuous for him, and would still help build muscle in his legs.  The horses needed to be exercised anyway.  It kept his pet busy.

                Fenris’ learning rate was… disturbing.

                The Desire Demon had been absolutely correct:  He learned things at the rapid rate a child did.  He absorbed facts like there weren’t enough.  Danarius never had to repeat himself, and the sword master told him that the elf was a devout pupil, good at memorization.  Danarius sometimes wondered if Fenris might end up accidentally learning how to read if he weren’t careful.

                He was looking much healthier now that he had gained some weight and was sleeping well.  The elf was developing an addiction to the wine, and Danarius controlled, utterly, his access to it, exactly as planned.  He had no need of harnessing this weakness he was instilling into the elf at the moment, but reasoned that it may be useful later.

                Fenris had abilities he had not planned on.  But that made sense:  It was impossible to really _know_ how he would turn out.  He had known he would have untold power.  He had known he would have a connection to the Fade.  What Danarius had _not_ realized is that Fenris would actually pass _into_ the Fade when he phased.  He had talked with him a lot about it, and come to the natural conclusion that the elf’s soul and mind would exist in the Fade while his body remained active in the real world.  Part of the Ritual had involved making that transition safe and easy to accomplish.  He had been expecting that much—it was one of the many reasons Fenris’ very soul was bound in the lyrium and lashed so strongly to Danarius for that matter.  It was why the elf had such vivid, probably very lucid, dreams.

                What Fenris described when he phased was very, very like the Fade, and not reality at all.  Or, at the very least, a part of it.  His body, for all sakes and purposes, did not make the full transition into the Fade that his mind and spirit did.  The Fade was technically whatever you made it out to be, drawing memories and reality to form what was around the individual.  In that light, it made perfect sense that Fenris had learned to bring his clothing into it, in time.  He had even learned, more recently, to hold objects while doing it.

                His slave could phase through furniture, through walls and the floor—most of that by accident presently.  And the reason he could do this was that, for him, in his reality, those things stopped _existing_ for him.  _Fenris_ stopped existing in the real world.  Half in the Fade, and half in reality, he was part of neither and moved through the Fade as if it were reality, and through reality as if it were the Fade.  Fenris would always exist in a twisted, warped version of reality, a world that was only limited by imagination really.  He could pass through solid objects because, for him, they had stopped existing.  Moreover, and much more pleasing, Fenris was _awake_ throughout the process, unlike when a mage would use lyrium or blood magic to enter the Fade.  Fenris’ existence would make it much easier for Danarius to go into the Fade, if he ever needed to for some reason.

                Fenris was learning to selectively choose what pieces of reality were real to him, what objects were real.  He could interact with the world around him, but right now, mostly he would just pass through things, like a ghost.  He did most of his practice outside; for a long time, he would just fall through the floor when he did it, but curiously not through the earth.  Fenris had tentatively asked the magister if he could be moved to a ground-level room, but Danarius had refused, and gently mentioned that the manor sat three feet off of the ground, and there was a crawlspace under it.  Fenris had flinched at the idea of being trapped under the manor, and agreed to stay on the fifth floor, even though for quite a while, he would fall through about two floors on a semi-regular basis.

                The ability was complicated.  Danarius imagined scholars would flock to study the enigma that was his little wolf.  The subject was fascinating, and already, he was getting requests by scholars and other mages to study the phenomenon.

                For the moment, Fenris was occupied, and determined.  He was obedient to a fault, and almost painfully loyal to him.  Leto had been flippant at times, irritable and rude at others—and always whiny.  Fenris had none of that.  Aside from the accent change, the most noticeable difference between Leto and Fenris was the way they walked.  Leto had never walked so much as strutted, _especially_ with a sword in hand.  Off the sands of the coliseum or the training ground, Leto was more cautious but never exactly timid—he was _confident_.  It may change in time, once the elf relearned the sword, but he still walked differently than Leto had.  Part of that was that Fenris spent most of his time indoors, whereas Leto had been the opposite.  Barefoot, Danarius’ slaves, he had seen, learned to walk one of two ways:   The first was to step carefully but solidly; the second was what Leto had done—to walk primarily on his toes, which strengthened his calves (he had had nice legs, Danarius lamented), and also forced him to stand more erect to keep his balance.  Fenris had a tendency to slouch, and walked very much flat-footed.  Leto, Danarius mused, had been significantly more poised.

                The magister studied his most recent letter from his younger brother.  His oldest was getting married, and he had sent him an invitation.

                The mage glanced out the window, wondering if he should accept the invitation.  It would be a two-day journey to the city the wedding was to be.  He would have to send a gift no matter what he chose to do.  He watched Leto trotting the dappled gray mare he rode.  He certainly had a good reason not to go, if he so chose.

                He sent his niece gifts every year of course, for her naming day.  But he never actually saw her that often.

                It would keep up appearances well if he were to attend, of course.  And leave Fenris, he supposed.  He would be fine.

 

                “You’re breathing harder than the horse,” Damaris commented, strolling into the barn.  She was supposed to be with him at all times, whenever he was walking, as he was still occasionally unsteady.  It would be weeks before he could not need her.

                Fenris looked up at her.  Damaris was pregnant—and just beginning to truly show.  She said that she was about four months along.  He wasn’t at all certain that she should be doing half the things she did, but she always insisted that she would be fine.  He was dubious of the point.  “The horse has four legs,” he interjected.

                “You were _riding_ her, though,” she teased him, offering him a hand to help him off the hay bale.

                He accepted, but put more weight against the post at his back with his other hand—something she noticed and scowled about.  “She wasn’t comatose for six weeks,” he shot back.

                “So you should be well-rested,” she said with a devilish smirk.  “Come on.  You reek of horse—time for a bath!”

                The bath had other purposes too, but it was also to not smell of animal and possibly offend his master in some way.  He was always insistent that he be clean.  Fenris followed her out.  He had to rest a couple of times before they made it into the manor; his legs still got shaky, and he felt bow-legged from being on the horse too long.

                Damaris already had the bath ready, she promised, all the long way up to his room.  He did not cherish the idea of the walk up there, but the hot water would be welcome.  It wasn’t so much about the washing as that the hot water was good for his muscles too.

                He hooked some of his hair behind a pointed ear.  He didn’t like it always getting in his face.  Damaris had once offered to teach him how to braid it, but he had turned her down.  Maybe he should see if that offer still stood.

                She also said that it would help with his dexterity he was still trying to gain back.  The shakiness was awful.

                And he knew that she was pleasant to him only because she had been told that she had to be.  He could sense it in the disinterest in her eyes, and the way she regarded him.  She disliked him, and he suspected it was because he was elven.

                He had never wanted to point it out though.  He didn’t want to cause problems, but he did know that she was only here because she had to be, and she preferred it as to the vineyard.  So she only hated him less than the vineyard.

                Fenris had only asked about the vineyard once, and that was all it took.  She had whispered to him about what it was like, in the hot sun day after day.  She spoke of how their clothes soaked with sweat and stuck to their backs, and dried day after day, unable to wash them—for those that had clothes anyway.  She told him how closely they were watched, and the labor they had to do.  She spoke of how heavy the baskets became, or about how heavy the manure was, but no matter what she was doing, it always hurt her back.

                She confessed that she had never stepped foot in the manor before she was told to assist him.  The first time she had seen the meals the servants gave him, she nearly cried.  He hadn’t understood then, and she had told him about the trough, and fighting for scraps with the dogs.  Fenris hadn’t felt inclined to eat at all for the rest of the day, and now only felt guilt—terrible, crushing guilt—every time he consumed anything.

                But he had to eat.  Danarius had told him that he must, even if he would rather give it all to Damaris.  And the slaves both knew he had given her several things from his plates, but she had usually declined, saying that she would rather not know what she was missing.

                She thought he was spoiled; he saw it when she thought he wasn’t looking.  He saw the stares she gave him, the glaring, how her lips would curl in a sneer, only for it all to vanish when she saw him turn his head.

                The water in the bath was still hot though, no matter her dislike for him.  The girl left him while he bathed.  He wasn’t quite certain of what she did when that happened, but she may have simply stood in the hall.

                He sunk into the tub up to his shoulders.  The bathing room was originally designed for guests using this wing, but there was no one visiting.  His entire body ached.  It _always_ ached, but there was something different about the lyrium ache and the muscle ache.  The latter could be soothed, and the hot water helped.  The glow was even more evident under the water.  It was beginning to even out—the lyrium glow didn’t spasm so much anymore, and it was faint enough now to be, comparatively, barely noticeable.

                He looked at his hand, and concentrated for a moment.  It was getting increasingly easier to control—the lyrium pulsed, then flared to life, all over his body.  He could feel it in the same sense that someone could feel their blood pumping through their veins, and the brightness was the difference between a candle and a roasting fire.  It cast an eerie glow about the room too.  He took a deep breath, and let it recede, sinking deeper into the tub.

                The steam on his face felt good too.

                He slipped under the water, holding his breath as long as he could before coming up for air.  His hair stuck to his face.  He swiped at it again.  He was reluctant to ask, but maybe Danarius would allow him to cut it?  It was getting so long.

                Fenris wondered if his hair had always been white, or if it had aged prematurely.  Elves didn’t have a whole lot of body hair, so he had no other point of comparison, except for his eyebrows, which were stubbornly black.  That didn’t mean much—he had seen a servant with brown eyebrows and blonde hair.

                He finished with the bath, and hauled himself out of the water.  He glanced down at the lyrium.  His skin had become a bit red from the heat of the water, and the lyrium stood out in stark contrast to it.

                Larissa had told him that she had first “met” him when he was comatose.  He had inquired, respectfully, about the lyrium markings, and she had been quiet for a moment, before she told him.  He wished he hadn’t asked, after she described in the minutest detail how his skin had looked.  The lyrium had been carved and burned into his flesh, and the skin around it had reflected that.  She said that it had been red, cracked, broken.  She said that it had bled occasionally while they washed him, and had to bandage him.  She said that in places, it had blistered and boiled, and it looked painful.  She had said that, perhaps, it was a small grace that he had slept while it healed.

                True.  If his whole body had been covered in scabs, he would have been tempted to scratch them, which would of course only make it worse.

                He toweled off his dripping hair, and dressed.  When he emerged from the room, Damaris ushered him to lunch, and she disappeared for a while again.

                Life was never a routine though, and Fenris couldn’t quite understand why not.  A routine would be so much more efficient.  But the times of day he did things changed every couple of days.  Nothing stayed the same.  He was never even sure if it would be Damaris with him, or Irie.  The only real constant in his life was Danarius.

 

                Danarius summoned his little wolf to him, who came, escorted by his nurse maid—more or less what the women were to him.  No matter; he would be independent of them soon enough.  And perhaps Danarius would sell them—that should keep Fenris well enough in line.  It wasn’t a lesson of some sort; he just wanted to keep the elf feeling lost and alone for as long as possible.

                It was really quite all right that Larissa was dead and Amaryllis gone; it was just one less constant in Fenris’ life.

                He told the human slave to depart, and wait for Fenris.  The door shut, and they were alone.  He wondered how long Fenris could stand.  He glanced at him, and went back to his work—reviewing his records books, and making tallies, writing out sums.  He took his time, and there was much to do.  When he finished, he reviewed the work, and set it out-of-the-way.  He closed the books, and put them aside, and began reviewing another paper.  Still Fenris waited.

                And waited…

                Danarius only looked up when he heard the elf collapse.  He judged it had been almost two hours.  Not bad.  He looked up, away from his desk.  The elf was dazed, but climbing to a kneeling position.  “If you stand with your legs locked for too long, you’ll faint,” the magister reprimanded the elf.  He saw the protest and denial on his pet’s face.  The only thing Fenris had remotely in common with Leto was how expressive he was.  “Or are you still too weak to stand for so long?”

                Fenris looked down.  “I--Yes…  It’s difficult, Master,” he admitted.

                Danarius nodded once, and set his pen in the inkwell, studying his little wolf.  “You’ve improved quite a bit, my pet,” he praised him.  “I’m going to be leaving you—for about two weeks.”

                The elf’s lips parted in the beginnings of what seemed to be shock, then closed, saying nothing.

                Amusing.  Just another constant in his slave’s life—removed.  “You will continue your training and work as before.  I hope to see you further improved upon my return,” he said.  It wasn’t so much a hope as a command.  Fenris only nodded.  Danarius dismissed him, and the elf climbed to his feet.  A little unsteady, he bowed low, and left.

 

                Danarius had been gone for three days.  Fenris hadn’t _thought_ that he would feel, well, _abandoned,_ but he did.  Like he had left and forgot about him—unimportant.  He was just a slave, after all.  Maybe an expensive slave, but a slave.  A worthless one too—he couldn’t even stand for too long.

                He had tried…

                Was it because he couldn’t stand?  Would he have brought him if he could only stand up without falling?  His legs had just given out.  Tired, and drained, and shaking; they had just stopped supporting him.

                He felt worthless.  What good was he to anyone if he could only just barely walk unaided?

                It felt like it was taking so long.  He wondered if he would ever get better.  Danarius had been—seemed to be—understanding.  He had told him that it takes a long time after so long asleep, and that the lyrium might be effecting some of his progress too.  But Fenris just felt like his master was making up excuses for his slave’s failures—because he was supposed to be some kind of prized possession.

                He had left him behind.

                Fenris couldn’t sleep.  No one was bringing him a glass of wine before he slept any more, and it was almost impossible to sleep without it.

                By the end of the first week, he wondered if he hadn’t simply been forgotten.  But he was determined to prove himself, determined to get stronger.  He worked harder at it, even knowing it was a process that took a lot of time.  As if, if he could just become strong enough, he wouldn’t be left alone and forgotten.

                The second week came and went, and his master was late.  Fenris grew anxious.  Not worried exactly—just anxious.  He didn’t _want_ to be forgotten.  He _felt_ useless, certainly, but… he could be useful.  He really could.  He just… needed more time.

 

                Danarius arrived home—what he thought of as his childhood home—two days later than planned, and no worse for wear.  He had simply stayed later in the city than he had intended.

                After he rested and washed off the dirt of the road, he went to visit his pet.  The elf was alone in his room.  But, rather than resting, was pacing from one side of the room to the other.  He stopped when Danarius opened the door all the way, and bowed his head respectfully, but he was pleased to see him working so hard.

                “My little wolf.  You seem steadier on your feet now—come here,” he told him.  Fenris walked up to him—Leto would have drug his feet.  But Leto was more leery of Danarius than Fenris was.  Fenris had some of his hair hooked behind his ear, but the rest was free.  The magister reached toward his slave, and felt himself hesitate, looking at the lyrium.  Something primal made him not want to touch it, then he realized how ridiculous that concept was.  Was he a mage, or was he not?  He put two fingers under the elf’s chin, and lifted his head.

                He had intended to study the lyrium, but he found himself looking at his slave’s eyes instead.  They were wide, and pleading.  Not in the same way Leto’s had been— _Don’t fondle me_ —but something else.  “What is it, Fenris?” he asked him, idly taking a lock of his slave’s hair between his finger and thumb, rubbing it gently.  It was fine, and thick, and even in the places it was growing over the lyrium, it felt the same.  “You may speak freely to me of whatever troubles you—for the moment.”

                His sage eyes blinked.  “Master…  You… left me…”

                _Abandonment._ He has a fear of abandonment.  “No, pet.  Never,” he promised him, running a finger from the lyrium vein below his lip, down his neck.  “I will never abandon you.  You are my most cherished and valued possession, and I will never abandon you.”

                He wondered if the lyrium would change anything in bed, but he was… unwilling as of yet to find out.  He didn’t know enough about Fenris’ abilities.  Maybe once his pet gained more control over it…

                But right now…  With the elf looking at him with the saddest, most forlorn expression he had ever seen…  He thought about just shutting the door behind him.  Deeply considered—gently—pushing Fenris onto the bed.  Leto had been a whiny, reluctant brat, and he hadn’t at all minded hurting him.  Fenris, though…  Yes, gently, onto the bed.  _Gently_ undress him.  _Gently_ ease inside him and find out if the lyrium made it any different.

                But Fenris barely had a grip on his abilities at all, and Danarius didn’t know enough about it either, so he dropped his hand away from his pet’s neck, realizing he had slid his entire hand against the side of the elf’s neck, and his slave had only continued to look at him with the same sad puppy expression.

                “Keep training, and learn quickly, and you will come with me everywhere I go,” he promised him, and meant it.  He turned, and left—quickly, before he couldn’t stop himself.

 

                Hadriana spent two days at the hut, sulking mostly.  She ate the things she could find that were good to eat.  She could have stayed in the hut.  Maybe she should have stayed there, worked the small garden, and made a life for herself there the same way that Jameson had.

                But she was more ambitious than that.  She wanted more than a life as a hermit.

                She obviously couldn’t go home.  She had no money or resources to speak of, no friends to call upon for aid.  This was what it was to truly be “alone.”

                However, despite everything, Hadriana _was_ a mage.  She could go to the city.  She could find work, certainly.  And the road was easy enough to follow.  She wasn’t worried about robbers or anything—the Imperials did keep the roads well enough patrolled, and even though, she was a _mage_.  And nothing would happen to her—certainly.

                She was confident that she would be all right.  But she was not confident in how long it would take to get there.  What if there was no food on the way there?  Or fresh water?  What if she couldn’t find anywhere to sleep?  She had no money, after all.

                She was afraid to go.  Afraid of the dangers on the road, and knew she could not be awake to watch for wolves and bandits all the time, realistically speaking.  She was afraid that she would get hurt, all by herself.  Or that she might eat something bad and get sick.  She was afraid of going so far from home all alone.  She would just be some worthless vagabond on the road…

                But…  Now she was being silly.  Surely nothing would happen in a civilized society?

                So, in the morning, after a wash and an unsatisfying breakfast of the things she could find, she packed up some apples, nuts and gooseberries in a tin.  The food wouldn’t last too long, but there wasn’t anything else she could use to carry more.  There was some hemp cord, and she wound it into a sort of sling, and attached it to her belt.  It jangled, and was annoying bumping against her hip, but it was better than carrying it.  She carried her staff with her, and set out on the road.  She had to walk back toward her home village to get on the main road, but she skirted the town by a wide berth.  She didn’t want to see any of them again, if she could help it.

                And she did not.

                She was almost disappointed—almost—that one of her brothers working in the field did not come to her, tell her that her mother was sorry and wanted her to come home.  By the time the village was behind her, she despaired that no one had come to her.  As it grew farther and farther away, her heart felt heavier.  No one had cared.  She wondered if they had even missed her.

                The afternoon wore on, and she imagined her siblings sitting down to luncheon.  She pried open her tin and popped a berry in her mouth, and took out one of the apples.  She tied the tin back up again, and walked as she ate.

                She took a break shortly after, venturing away from the road to find a stream.  She drank deeply—traveling was thirsty work apparently.  But when she knew it was time to move on, she found that she did not quite have the heart to.

                Hadriana was alone, truly alone.  If she stayed in the hut, maybe even for just a few more days, maybe her mother would change her mind.  She could see it all so clearly.  She could stay in the hut, and maybe visit town some time later, and her mother would hug her and tell her to come home, that she had been wrong and everything was all right.  Her family would accept her back with open arms.

                She found that she was standing, and had taken an uncertain step back, back the way she had come.  They would accept her back—they had to.  She was family, after all.

                But then Hadriana thought about the way that she and her mother had fought.  She thought about her blanket-greedy sisters, and uncaring brothers.  She thought of her absent father.  And let’s not forget the merchant that her mother wanted her to marry.

                That did it, and she turned on her heel, and kept on toward Minrathous.


	47. Sorrowful Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everyone looks for hope in sorrow, and sometimes they even find it.

Mieta worried about Varania, that was no secret.  She saw her daughter grow more estranged by the day, and her depression only worsened.  She could not entirely understand why, though.  They had good food, their own house, they called no one “master”.  It wasn’t Schavalis, true, but this was a good life, as good as any.

                Compared to slavery over the past fifteen years, this was amazing to Mieta.  She felt that a yoke around her neck had been removed.

                She could laugh again, and freely.  She openly taught her daughter and Lura to read, who she considered to be an adopted child, of sorts.  She should have been her daughter-in-law, and she felt some sorrow for that.  But no sorrow could live in her as long as the joy of freedom… save one.

                Her son.  Her talented son, who had sacrificed everything he had left for his family.  True, he may have been a slave his entire life regardless, but sometimes a slave could be granted their freedom, particularly gladiators.  He had forfeited any such chance, slim as it was.

                He had deserved so much more than what he had gotten.

                She wondered what had become of him.  She felt she would give anything to see him again, just once.  Just to tell him how important he was in her life, how proud she was of him, how much she loved him.

                Her hands were bothering her again.  Perhaps she should mention it to Varania.  The girl was getting much better at the healing arts, and was eager to practice.  In her practice, she had begun to treat the other elves in the alienage, free of charge or just a few copper pennies.  It was good practice, and the others began to like and appreciate her for it.  Maybe, in that way, Varania could become content with this life.

 

                The road seemed just as endless as time itself to Hadriana, like it just went on and on forever.  And so, as the road would never end, so too, would her journey.  Minrathous was a mythical place she could never hope to reach.  It was a place for people with carriages and horses, or slaves carrying litters.  It was not a place she could reach alone on foot.  Or perhaps it was just going on and on in loops for all she knew.  That the scenery and the path changed made little difference.  There was still the walking.  She slept little at night—and woke at every sound.  She heard wolves howling once, and had lain awake until dawn.  She was most afraid of bears, but didn’t see nor hear any.  She came across no bandits, though the Imperial guards on the road did once warn her about the dangers of traveling alone.  She only said that she understood, and they let her go on.

                She envied the people who passed her on horses or wagons, as she had neither.  She passed by villages, and smelled their pies and pasties, and couldn’t afford any of it, and, worse, looked it.  She hadn’t seen a brush in ages.  Her boots were sturdy, and practical, but worn after so much use.  Her robe was tattered with the road, and she feared she looked like a vagabond.

                She passed by a caravan she knew to be slavers, but she worried not.  They did not take citizens, after all.  And she looked so filthy that they wouldn’t be bothered to try it too, she imagined downheartedly.  The empty cages rattled past.  They would return filled, she bet.  The Imperium craved slaves.  They were the lifeblood of the empire, and there was more to that than pretty words—or so the rumors had it.  She wasn’t certain, and, to be honest, didn’t particularly care.  Why should she care about someone she didn’t know, had never met?

                The closer she got to the city, the more frequently she passed caravans of every sort.  Merchants, slavers, simple travelers, and farmers.  They paid her no mind, and she was again reminded that she was filthy and half-starved.  She looked like a pauper, and that was despairing by itself.

                She went off the road a way, and found a small ravine—more like an enclave to be fair.  It was partially enclosed, and a short distance away from the road, and well-hidden.  The stream that struck through it was just up to her waist, but it was more than enough.  She wished she had soap, but pulled off her boots and cleaned them.  She scrubbed her stockings—they had holes in them by now—as best she could and hung them over a nearby branch to dry.  It was a warm day, but a certain modesty made her reluctant to take off her robe, but the itching finally prompted her to shrug out of it.  She washed it first, scrubbing it clean against a large rock and the water.

                Her mother often had her do such chores.  She said that it built character, and taught her a lesson in humility.  She had said that just because she was a mage, it didn’t make her better than others.

                When Hadriana had first discovered that she was a mage, she had been frightened, and ran to her mother in fear.  Her mother had prayed for many days and nights to the Maker to take away the magic.  She had anointed her daughter with oils, tried to exorcise demons from her, and in the end, had taken her to a priest, who had only said that she needed a phylactery and a tutor.  Her mother had insisted, brazenly, that she was possessed.  Hadriana had fought that idea, even at a young age, tooth and nail, but her mother had _insisted_ that “demons have their claws in you, Hadriana, and by Andraste, I will not let them have you!”  Even the priest hadn’t believed her.

                She could practically hear her mother’s voice in her ears, and it made her teeth clench, and she wanted to hit something.

                Hadriana hated the way she had treated her, the chores she had made her do, how she was so insistent that she must serve others, always.  Why should she enslave herself just because someone else had need of her ability?  That wasn’t fair.  _She_ was the one with the power and ability.  _They_ should not enslave _her_.  She had fought this idea, saying that the Imperial Chantry said the opposite of mages.  Her mother had countered that she was a Laetan mage, not Altus—the Altus were the ruling class.

                She hated her mother.  She had fought against that oppressive feeling for so long, and she felt free just thinking it.  All those times she had had to tell her mother she loved her, how she had to sit through not one but two exorcisms and her siblings laugh and snicker about it for days afterwards, how her mother had tried to cast the demon out by locking her in the cellar with no food or water for two days, and any number of other abominable acts—all in the name of purging an imaginary demon.  How could someone do those things to their own child?

                She hung her robe up to dry when she had scoured it of dirt and sweat, after she rung it out as best she could of course.  She washed her under things, and put those in the tree with the other things.  Then, she got into the water herself.  It was warm enough, and she welcomed it.  She washed, and scrubbed, and wished she had scissors to cut her hair.

                As always, she tried not to look at the scars that marked her arms—permanent memoirs of making soap.  It had been a children’s chore to stir the vat of bubbling fat, and the other children had always tried to splash her with the liquid, and ruin her clothes.  When she had cried about the burns, her mother had only chided her.  Her father had, politely, made mention that Hadriana could find a different chore, but her mother only had words with him in private, away from their children, and Hadriana was sent back to the vat in the morning anyway.

                She scrubbed her hair out thoroughly, and washed herself clean with the sand she discovered in the stream.  She laid out in the sun until she was dry, but had to wait longer yet before her clothes were dry enough to put back on.  She drank, and foraged a bit for food on her way back to the road, but found little.  She walked on, feeling much better about herself, and her confidence showed in the way she walked.

                When she finally saw the city, her eyes lit up.  This was it.  This was her chance.  She had come so far, and now she had a chance.  Her spirits lifted, she pressed on.

 

                Kylie crept around the hallway, silently down the shadows.  She stole across the hall, unseen, and prided herself on her childlike stealth.

                She padded around the corner, and, timing it _just right_ , snuck into the kitchen.  The kitchens were a busy place that she was not at all allowed.  All around her, the servants were rushing, and hurrying.  Slaves ran back and forth running all sorts of errands.  She kept to the corner, and no one noticed her; they were too busy, and she was too small to see over the counters still.

                She waited, and dashed to the counter where the hot scones had just been removed from the oven.  She reached up over the counter, and had just wrapped her fingers around one of the delicious treats when a spoon came—out of nowhere!—and smacked her on the hand.

                “Ow!” she exclaimed, jumping back in both alarm and pain, letting go of the treat.

                A scowling headmistress stared down at her in stark disapproval.  “Young miss, you’ve been told not to come into the kitchens before,” she scolded her.

                “B-but,” the girl stammered.

                The headmistress turned her around, toward the door, and swatted her on the bottom with her wooden spoon.  Kylie jumped, yelping in pain, and darted for the door.  She pouted.  She had been caught, and got a spanking.  Worse, now her mother would know within the hour, and she would be in trouble!

                Her stomach growled in complaint at her failed thievery.  It wasn’t _fair._   She was _hungry_ …

                Frustrated, she marched outside, through the servant’s entrance, which was less bothersome.

                She found a secluded corner of the garden, and sat down angrily, her back to the wall.  Someone called from the garden gate.  Curious, she got up and walked over to the gate.

                “Oh, good child,” a woman in rags, her head in a scarf, said.  “The children are so hungry, and we’ve no money.  But you’re a good girl, aren’t you?”

                She looked on, her heart moved to pity.  “You have kids?” she asked.

                The woman nodded, bringing her young daughter forward.  She wasn’t much older than Kylie was herself.  “Yes, and we haven’t eaten in so long.  If you could but get us some money—you have plenty of money in that manor, don’t you?—then I could buy something for the children to eat.”

                She looked at the girl, and then saw the swaddled babe in the mother’s arms.  She felt a lump rise in her throat.  She couldn’t leave them hungry.  “I…  I’ll get my father…”

                But the mother smiled kindly.  “Don’t bother your father with this, dear.  He’s a busy man, and we don’t need much.  We only need enough to eat, and that much wouldn’t be missed, would it?”

                No, she supposed it wouldn’t.  No one would miss some money to eat with.  But how much was enough to eat with?  Kylie didn’t know too much about money…  “I’ll be back soon—you wait here,” she said.  She didn’t want anyone to go hungry, after all.  That was so sad!  That poor woman, and her hungry children!  They looked so miserable, and hungry, and filthy.  Who was she to steal a scone?  Why, she had eaten breakfast already.  She could wait until teatime for the scones, surely.  Those poor people hadn’t eaten in days, she bet.

                But something felt wrong about getting them money.  That was stealing.  There were things inside that could be sold, sure, but she had been told not to touch those things.

                She bit her lip, trying to think of what to do without asking an adult for help.  She could do this by herself.  She wanted to help other people, after all!  And she wanted to prove that she could help others without asking someone else to help _her_ help them.  That was what being an _adult_ was, wasn’t it?

                The kitchen, of course.  It was food they wanted, and the kitchen had lots of food!  She hadn’t been very stealthy last time, but she hadn’t had such need.  And she would need something to carry the food in too…  She could put it in the skirt of her dress, she supposed…

                Kylie waited nervously for a moment before sneaking back into the kitchen.  She snuck about, keeping out of the way as much as possible, and unseen—that was the important bit.  She looked up at the counter and found a roast chicken in a pan, waiting to be carved for sandwiches.  That was good, and filling.  It was perfect.  But how could she take it?  Well, no one was paying any attention to her so far.  She looked about herself, and reached up.  The chicken was small, but she had only seen four summers, and it felt heavy enough to her.

                She plucked the bird out of the pan—it was hot and scorched her fingers so she had to be quick--and put it in her dress.  She carried it by the ends, carefully, and hurried out of the kitchen.  It smelled so good—she had better hurry and get this to them immediately!

                She had barely left the kitchen when one the servant boys grabbed her by the arm.  “Young miss, you’re ruining your dress,” he warned her.

                Her blue eyes widened.  Oh, no!  He’d tell, and they’d think she was up to no good again!  “Oh, please don’t tell Mistress Obelia!” she cried.

                He frowned.  “And why not, you little thief?”

                She bit her lip.  “Some people really need this,” she insisted.

                He raised an eyebrow.  “Is that so.”

                “It is!” she said, her lower lip jutting into a pout, and with that, she turned and ran for the door.  She made it outside, triumphant, and hurried to the gate.

                “I have food,” she said.

                The woman looked down at the chicken as the young girl lifted it from her stained dress, and passed it through the bars to the other little girl, who took it greedily, thanking her for the food.  But the woman had an unhappy expression on her face, like she had bitten something sour.  “Oh, but darling, that won’t last.  We have no money to buy food, don’t you see?  And one chicken won’t last very long.”

                “I…  I’ll get more,” she promised her earnestly.  “I can get more.”  And now she was worried that she had made a mistake somehow.  An adult could have done better, she was sure.  “I’ll go now.”

                “Honey, just bring us something to buy food with—you don’t want to ruin your nice dress,” she said.

                Kylie was already on her way though, hurrying back toward the kitchen.

                “Miss Annalkylie Danarius!” Headmistress Obelia said from the door, hands on her ample hips.

                The girl froze in place, nervously.  She lowered her head and walked up to the headmistress of the kitchens.  Obelia swatted her immediately before asking her anything.

                “I was just trying to help!” Kylie cried.

                Mistress Obelia paused.  “Help who, child?”

                She looked up at her.  “The woman by the gate, with two children.  She says they’re hungry.”  Her eyes grew large with concern.  “They look hungry, and tired, and dirty.  Oh, I couldn’t just leave them!”

                But instead of her features growing soft with Kylie’s concern, Obelia’s lips pursed, her eyebrows raising.  “Oh, I see,” she said, gazing off at the gate.  The girl looked at her hopefully.

                “So you will help them?” she asked.

                She patted the young girl on the head, affectionately mussing her mop of blonde curls.  “I’ll see what can be done with such… poor unfortunates,” she said.  “You go get cleaned up, darling.”

                Satisfied, the girl rushed past her into the house, pleased that the woman was getting the help she needed.

                Or perhaps, not the help she needed, but the help she deserved, for trying to trick an innocent, kind-hearted child to steal for her.

 

                Lura walked home alone, late at night.  The alienage was a place of dark shadow, but it wasn’t a small place exactly.  And she lived at one side, and worked on the other.  She walked carefully over the board that served as a bridge over the gutter, cringing at the thought of slipping.  She had done that once, and she felt like she would never be clean again after that.

                A shutter creaked somewhere in the night.  A cat yowled.  A dog barked, and someone yelled at it to shut up.  It didn’t, of course, but she heard a door open, a whining sound from the dog, a loud thunk, another whine, and it fell silent.  She doubted it was dead, just smacked.  Who would kill a dog just because it was barking?

                No candles burned at this time of night, no fires glowed.  There were a couple lanterns in the alienage, to light the way, but for the most part the district was dark, making forlorn pools of dismal light to illuminate the despairing sight of the elven alienage.  The sky was the dark, deep blue of night, hours before morning.  The starlight glistened overhead, and it just made her feel lonely.  The moon hung swollen in the sky, and that made the loneliness worse.

                She fished her key out of her pocket—it was a heavy, brass thing whose weight she would immediately miss if she were to drop it.  She unlocked the door and strolled inside.  All was quiet here.  She locked the door behind her.  Mieta and Varania were always long in bed by the time she got home; that was fine.  She liked to be alone for a while anyway.

                She wiped her feet on the matt, and washed her face and hands in the basin.  She sighed as she walked to her room.  It was the smallest of the three and was more a large closet than a room, but she did not mind so much.  Varania needed the extra room, with a child, and Mieta had earned the larger room.  Lura was only here because of Leto’s kindness, and sacrifice.

                She felt a pang of more emotion than she felt she could handle.  Grief, disgust, sorrow, anger—pain.

                Lura shut the door to her room, and put the key on the small stand.  She undressed, and shrugged into her dressing gown in the dark.  She slipped into bed, and lay there awake, no longer desiring the quiet hours of the night to be alone.  She didn’t want to be alone.

                She closed her eyes, curling into a ball on the bed.

                She wanted Leto.

                She wanted his arms around her.  She wanted to push her nose against his chest, and wrap herself in his embrace, in his scent.  She wanted to bury her fingers in his dark hair, and kiss him.  She wanted to hear his voice again.

                But she never would.

                Her grief consumed her, as it did from time to time.  Her loss, her pain, her grief.  They were not pleasant feelings, but they were hers.  She felt like so few things were truly hers—especially when she had been a slave.  She had learned to value her memories, her emotions, because they were all she really had to call her own.

                Was love always this painful?  Was love always this cruel?

                She would gladly give her life and all the world if he could hold her for just one hour.

 

                The massages seemed to be helping, considerably actually.  Danarius had bought a slave skilled in such things while he had been away—something one of his fellows had suggested when he mentioned that Fenris was having to re-learn to walk and move.

                It had been one of the few _good_ suggestions anyone had given him in regards to Fenris.

                The slave was a eunuch, in the barest sense of the term, because she was technically female.  He could have had a “male” eunuch, but he preferred to look at a woman as opposed to a man—rare exception being Fenris:  He could look at Fenris almost all day, he felt like--studying him mostly, and there was nothing wrong with admiring his life’s work.

                 Speaking of which, his “life’s work” was improving more and more every day.  A few more weeks, and he would be fit enough to do more than listen to lectures on swordplay.  Not much more, and only for short spurts at a time at first, but the long soaks in hot water, the massages, good food, and the exercise were doing his pet some real good, and keeping him busy too.

                All of this was good news for the magister, because for the time being, he had other things requiring his attentions.  He had already told the court that he was going to his country house for a year or two, and at first that had been fine, but some details still required his attention and correspondence.  He may have to journey to Minrathous soon—in winter no less.

                At least Tevinter’s winters were mild.

                He tried not to think about it much, but he did wonder about that Desire Demon.  He wondered what she was up to, what people she had killed in her play.

                There were reports of murders all the time, but that meant little.  _People_ killed more people than demons did—and that was the truth of the matter.  The sooner the other countries learned that the better; it was barbaric to keep mages locked up like common criminals for fear of what they _might_ do.  Why not cut _everyone’s_ hands off—can’t _everyone_ hold a knife?  If they were worried about mages summoning demons and abominations, the best cure for that _wasn’t_ Tranquility; it was education and a peace of mind.  Tevinter had fewer apostates than any other country, specifically because they didn’t cage them like animals.  And, Danarius mused, prizing educating their mages, possessions were actually quite rare.  Most demonic possessions came from either mages going mad (something the Imperial Circles attributed mostly to the way anyone would go mad were they caged), or an unlearned mage.  Blood magic had little to do with it.

                His brother had sent him a letter as well, insistent that he come to visit him, or vice versa, them being so close suddenly.  He wrote him back welcoming his younger brother back to their childhood home.  He was careful to mention that the orchards were particularly lovely in the springtime, and his daughters might like the garden in bloom, his son the hunting to be had.

                Iden’s youngest, he read, was quite the handful.  Annalkylie had not been present at the wedding, and Iden wrote that this had put her out rather a lot, but a formal occasion such as that was no place for a young child, incapable of sitting still.  The twins, Agasius and Caleigh, were as alike and different as one would expect of a boy and girl their age.  The oldest, of course, was Iden’s recently married daughter, Cristabelle.

                Danarius leaned back in his chair, thinking about Roschelle, and his dead child.  Dead _children_ , if he counted the bastard-born half-elf.  He had had several mistresses, but he dismissed them once they became too clingy, or if they were got with child.  If they wouldn’t shed it, he made sure they died, usually.  He wasn’t interested in having bastard-born brats crawling to him wanting handouts when they were older.  At the time, he had never even considered Varania’s brat to be an issue; he had assumed it would grow up a slave was all, if it even lived.  Well, no matter.

                He had two possible alive bastard-born children, come to think of it.  The first of them, he had it on good information, was dead, died of fever some years back—though he took any information with a grain of salt as it were.  The half-elf, though… that was nothing to him.  His mother would likely never talk about it, and the child was, according to the demon, a mage anyway.  If any of his children ever came to him wanting handouts, he could justify giving said handouts to the mage-child, blind and half-elven or not.  It would probably die anyway, even if he didn’t have a hand in it.

                He suddenly stood up, unable to stay sitting any longer, and walked from the room.

 

                He bent, his knees dug in to hold on.  “Run,” Fenris whispered, heart racing.

                The horse’s ears flicked, and she responded to the word, going from a steady trot to an all-out sprint in an instant.  Most days, it was more of a trial holding her back than getting her to go faster.  She raced across the yard—fast, faster.  Her hooves scarcely touched the ground as she almost flew over the grass, the animal’s lean, muscled body warm beneath him.  “Jump!” he cried, and rather than kicking up dirt as she turned at the fence, she leaped.

                For a moment, he felt like he was flying.  Seamless silence, faultless movement.  A moment of crystalline perfection, and everything in the world was beautiful.

                Then her hooves hit the dirt, and she was running again.  Someone was yelling at him, which he recognized with all the care of someone with wings being told not to fly.

                All the same, he reigned the horse in, and both horse and rider were disappointed.

                He held his breath, waiting for the scolding from Master Taggart, the swordmaster—who also served a few other duties as well.  Namely, the one who had taken over Damaris’ job once it was no longer a question if he could get around well.

                Taggart’s horse trotted up to the fence, and he scowled at the elf.  “Get back in here.  You’ll be drilling ‘til you drop for that stunt,” he threatened him.  Fenris resisted the urge to roll his eyes.  He drilled him like that anyway.  For the time being, the elf still didn’t have the stamina to run and wield a sword at the same time.  However, the horse did have the stamina, and he _could_ train in some things from her back.  Taggart had said that that was more difficult, and most people learned the opposite way.  Fenris reasoned that going from horseback to on-foot should be simple, then.

                “Yes, Master Taggart,” he called back, privately pleased with himself.  Naturally, the easiest way back _in_ to the field, after all, was to leap the fence again.  The horse’s ears pricked, obviously catching on to his mischievous mood.

                He backed up the horse a good enough distance for her to get a running start for the jump, then paused.  Fenris looked across the yard.  There was an enclave in a grove of trees, a path, and a family cemetery enclosed in a low stone wall.  He could see some of the stonework from the headstones.  But what he didn’t normally see from here was his master, walking very purposefully out to it.

                He blinked, curious but not so much as to step out of line over it.  The gate opened—he heard it creak as the wind rustled the branches in the grove.  His master passed among the monuments, and then stopped at one that Fenris couldn’t see, and stared, and knelt and disappeared from view.

                “Fenris!” Master Taggart’s voice brought him back to the task at hand.

                The elf sighed, and spurred the mare into a gallop.  She jumped the fence, and landed with grace, and an arrogant flip of her tail.

                The human raised an eyebrow.  “Now, the purpose of this exercise is… _what_ , Fenris?”

                The elf replied, “My master is vulnerable while traveling.”

                “Right.  And you will better learn how to defend against riders if you know how to attack from horseback, and…”

                The lecture continued as they walked the horses back across the field.  He would have to learn how to fight horsemen, how to protect his master from such attacks, as well as a number of other things.  It was generally accepted that he would most likely be on foot, but not necessarily.  If his master were traveling, Fenris would always be close at hand.  Traveling was swifter by horse than walking, and Taggart considered it his holy duty to drill into Fenris every possible method of both attack and defense imaginable as well as a few that Fenris suspected were not only improbable, but impossible.

                Some of his lectures were about Qunari tactics as well as the Imperium’s.  Some were about war—though those were fewer because it would be less important for Fenris to learn them.

                Though, the vast majority of his lessons were defensive, because that was his primary duty.  For the time being, at least.  Taggart assured him that sometimes defense required attack, and not only as a general rule, but to attack first, but that was a later lesson.

                Somewhere amidst the drills, he glimpsed Danarius walk away from the cemetery, back toward the manor.  Something about his posture suggested an air of grief.

 

A welcome warm breeze softly billowed the curtains.  Sunlight spilled in through the window.  The air was fragrant with the season.

“You are too gentle with him,” Danarius reprimanded the old knight.

                Taggart frowned at him.  “I won’t beat him, if that’s what you’re saying,” he said carefully.

                The man had no tact, for all his battlefield prowess.  The magister frowned.  “He does things that you do not tell him to, nor do you approve of those things—yet still he does them.”  Jumping the fence on the horse was merely the latest thing.  Fenris might obey Danarius perfectly, but everyone else seemed to be a different story.  And, while the magister _could_ reprimand Fenris about it, he thought of it in the same manner that one properly trains a dog:  You don’t train the dog; you train yourself to train the dog and the dog follows.

                The knight only shrugged a shoulder.  “He’s young—a teenager…” he began, and broke off when he saw the look on the magister’s face.

                “He’s a slave, and must do as he is told, and nothing less,” he quipped.

                Taggart looked like he wanted to object.  What did he hope to say?  That he was a “person,” not a possession?  Couldn’t he be both?  That was what a slave was, after all.  Or perhaps he meant to insist that Fenris was young and needed to be let loose once in a while, like a stallion?  Well, horses were meant to be broken.  Just like slaves.  “Serrah—“

                “I won’t have it,” Danarius snapped.

                Taggart’s back stiffened.  “The boy would do anything for you, serrah.  He’s just a kid; he should be allowed to--“

                The magister’s glare cut him off.  “He’s property.  Nothing more.”

                “Serrah, please—“ he beseeched him.

                “No.”

                “He’s not even twenty—you just can’t—“

                The magister frowned.  “Fenris remembers his age?”

                The man frowned back at him, and blinked.  “Well, no, but…  He looks so young, I…”  He shook his head.  “Serrah, you just can’t do this to him—“

                Danarius had none of it.  “If he must be broken to get the obedience I desire from him, then break him,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument.  “Dismissed, ser knight.”

                Taggart bowed stiffly, and left the room.  Danarius let out a long sigh after the door shut.  If there was one thing he wouldn’t tolerate, it was disobedience.  He would even tolerate the occasional insolence—Leto had been insolent enough, he knew.  And he had tolerated it, if it had been strained.  But some of Leto’s insolent, self-indulgent behaviour had leaked through to Fenris, much to Danarius’ dismay.  Taggart just blamed Fenris’ youth.  How old was the lad now?  19?  Or was it 18?

                Danarius mulled the thought over for a long moment.  _Man_ , he reprimanded the thought.  Like it or not, Fenris was a man by rights.  Just at the age where he should be chasing after a woman’s skirts.  Danarius would wonder if Leto might not have fathered a couple of brats from before, but the whelp had been a virgin for so long.  If he had been less virginal, he imagined that he would have at least one child by now; he was of an age.  How old was he exactly, anyway?  The magister would need to remind himself to look through his records sometime.

                He wondered if Fenris could even beget a female with child.  _Possibility of sterility_.  He’d have to find out one day—far in the future.  Some reward, perhaps.

                He’d find a pretty elven girl with fine hips and gift her to his pet—selected for breeding, solely.  But that was a long way off, if ever it happened.

                And he would have to get over these mischievous notions first.


	48. Fallen Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Imperium sees its first snow in a long time. Some are filled with wonder at the sight of it, others sadness, longing, a sense of quiet beauty, tranquility, and misery.

                The woman worked at his feet first, slowly, working her way up.  Each toe got special attention, each tendon, every inch of flesh.  The oils soaked into the skin.  Her dexterous hands were like a magic of their own.

                It wasn’t the first time she had done this for Fenris.  Matter of fact, she had done it every day for nearly two months, and still had not offered Fenris so much as her name, and he was beginning to think that she might not have one, as she had been free enough with other information, and every time he broached the subject, she changed it.  He had been kind of shy to appear naked in front of her, at first.  She had only frowned at him and informed him that she had seen dozens of naked men, and the only different between he and they was the lyrium.  He had been unconvinced, and she had only said that she technically wasn’t much of a woman anyway.

                He hadn’t known what to say to that, if anything.  She had calmly explained that she was a eunuch, and he had been a little too embarrassed to ask how a woman could be a eunuch.

                But two months had gone by since then, and the curiosity was driving him mad.  “How does a woman become a eunuch, anyway?” he had to ask.

                She laughed.  Her laugh wasn’t really a pleasant sound; it was a barking thing that was almost offensive to the ears.  But it was genuine.  He felt like all the emotions from everyone he knew was not genuine.  He felt like it was all suppressed or entirely false in one way or another.  The only emotion he was sure of from anyone were the slaves—and that was nothing but misery.  A misery that he felt by association, but was excluded from by his master’s choice.  “When I was a little girl, I was cut between my legs with a knife, much like a man.  I can show you the scars, if you like,” she offered teasingly, knowing he would refrain, which he did.

                “No,” he said immediately, his stomach tightening at the mere thought of it.

                “After the cutting, there was some stitching, and then acids were used, carefully, and destroyed my womanhood.  That left scars too.  Would you like to see those?”

                “No!” he said, with a little more feeling than he had intended.

                She laughed a little, working up to his ankles, which were sensitive enough that he sometimes squirmed when she touched them.  She was silent for a long time.  “So.  I heard that you can kill someone by touching them,” she said.

                “You certainly enjoy uncomfortable subjects, don’t you?” he muttered.

                She snickered.  “My presence makes others uncomfortable, when they think about what was done to me.  I imagine you’ve noticed that your presence is treated with the same discomfort.  But yours is more obvious.”

                Put that way, they were very alike.  And lately, he was discovering other things the lyrium had granted him.  Danarius had him practicing some of those abilities—namely, the one that had killed Larissa; he hated it.  “No one insists you learn how to rip someone’s throat out with your hands though.  Or their heart, respectively.”  He didn’t practice on _live_ people, but pig corpses sometimes—after long, boring lessons in anatomy, and where all the organs were.  If his master told him to tear out someone’s spleen, he had best know precisely where that was, and whatnot.

                Her hands worked on his calves.  “I still had to learn that if I’m not careful, there are things I can do when I walk across your back, or massage your neck that will kill or hurt someone.”  She paused, her fingers lightly touching the back of his neck.  “I remember all of those things.”

                He snorted, and his eyes closed.  He had learned to just enjoy the feeling of all the tension in his muscles being eased out by her hands.  She went back to his legs.  She was silent up until she reached his back.  “You’ve never been afraid to touch the lyrium?” he asked her, quietly.

                She paused.  “It doesn’t matter, because I still have to,” she said with a shrug.  And they were quiet again.  “Someone once told me that the quickest way to a man’s heart was through his stomach,” she commented, seemingly out of nowhere.  “But I always thought that was messy, but it does avoid that whole ribcage business if you just go under it.”  Fenris almost wanted to smile; he liked her.  “At any rate, I disagree; it’s six inches of steel.”

                “Or my hand,” he said blandly.

                “That sounds messy too,” she said. 

                And he felt better.

 

                While Danarius was in Minrathous, attending court sessions, and not at all seeing why it was so detrimental that he had to be there, he also made it known that he was seeking a new apprentice, and would welcome any applicants while he stayed there.

                The talk of the Circle, so his informants said, was the same irritating things as usual—and one particular bit of gossip roiled his temper.  It was quite a political scandal that Danarius’ apprentice, and thus heir to his title, was dead.  It was a lot of work that Danarius had put into Raith, and the boy had even been doing well, a Senior Enchanter by rights when he had died.  But there was no one else in his bloodline that was a mage, which was quite the scandal in an Altus house.  His mother had been Altus, but _her_ mother had been Laetan, and was even foreign, which was of course something that was brought into the gossip.  Her foreign blood had poisoned his prestigious bloodline, and it was said that when Danarius himself passed, so too would the mages of his house.  It was true, and that was galling by itself but that didn’t mean he accepted it being repeated.  Perhaps something could be done to stop the gossip—like getting an apprentice, for one, would help.

                He imagined, with a shudder, what would happen if it were widely found that the only mage he had ever fathered was a half-breed fathered off of a Liberati mage.  He would never be able to quash the rumors and gossip then!  He was thankful they were all the way in Seheron, but he began to wonder if he should not kill the child.  He didn’t need the boy as a link between Fenris and himself any longer; if the child were to die, it would mean nothing.  Perhaps it would be best if the babe died, he decided.  It had been prematurely born, and its mother had already slaughtered the sister, so perhaps the other one would fall down that path as well.  Time would tell, and waiting for it to happen naturally was less messy and drew less attention to himself.  All the same, if the boy lived too long, he had best send someone after the child, to protect his own reputation of course.

                All the affairs of state were running, if not smoothly, then running at least.  He was diplomatic, a born politician.  He smoothed ruffled feathers, he convinced his fellows of the best course of action.  The biggest reason he had been called back to the capital was that some kind of conspiracy had been uncovered, a plot to dethrone the Archon.  Naturally, this was cause enough for trouble, but certainly not something that he needed to be there for.  After the coup so many years ago, such things were taken _quite_ seriously.  Danarius had simply taken the right side in the matter.

                However, they discussed their best courses of action to route out all the conspirators, did background checks on the guards, and he was convinced he would have to stay in the city until at least the main conspirators were brought to heel.

                It was horrifyingly droll, and he’d rather be, oh, drowning himself in saltwater than listening to some of the magisters squeal with fright like a stuck pig over the issue.

                The debate lasted several days as they talked—endlessly!—about the conspiracy itself.  Was it a conspiracy?  Was anyone overreacting?  Was it the Crows?  Everything had to be debated, from every possible angle, of course.  Conclusions were come to, conclusions were dropped, theories tested, proven, disproven.  It was infuriating.

                Earlier today, the council had decided to kill a young boy, and use his blood to fuel blood magic used to read minds—not at once; they had cut him for every mind read and eventually the boy had just bled out and died.  They had caught some of the conspirators, and questioning took time.  It was easier to read their minds, after all, so they did.  They still weren’t finished yet, so more would have to be sacrificed, as was their duty.  For small readings, the mage’s own blood would do, but there was so _much_ that it was just easier to kill a slave.  True, slaves were expensive, but they used the old, the infirm; the boy had been somewhat touched in the head and considered near-worthless.  The slaves being sacrificed were property, after all.  That included their lifespan, their blood.  Even their death did not belong to them—such was the tribute paid to the mages.

                It was their right.

                Far more interesting were his applicants, however.

                He saw them only in his spare time, and each one had an appointment.  He did his best not to be late for those—down to insisting the session must be ended, or he must be excused.  Both of those things happened at least once.

                So far, he hadn’t found a particular mage he liked yet.  Most were young, others older and wanting to be magisters.  Some were learned, some were not.  All were social climbers—a fine pursuit in the ambitious.  Their backgrounds varied, but most master mages could make decent pay in Tevinter compared to the common folk.  Magic had so many uses, after all.

                He wasn’t as interested in a mage with talent as he had been when he was younger.  Raith had possessed a lot of natural talent (though lacked confidence), but simply hadn’t grasped politics well enough to pass through the rank to magister very quickly and that was more important.  No, he was looking for one who would work hard to please him, who would relish the title more, who would work, and gladly, to earn that title.  It wasn’t always about magical ability, though that helped secure the position once it was attained.  It was about playing the game, and winning.

                He hadn’t quite found what he was looking for yet, but he had only seen a handful of the applicants, and wondered if he would even have the time to review them all before he left.  He wasn’t in any real hurry.  If they _really_ wanted the position, they could always seek him out, after all.  But in the meantime, why rush?

                He left the council house.  It was long past sunset.  And, for the first time he could remember since he was a boy, it was snowing.

                The snow fell down in large flakes, but melted quickly.  It was bitterly cold, and he could see his breath in the chill air, but the carriage was warm.  He took his time walking into the inn he stayed at—his mansion was still under construction, after all.  The snow was oddly enchanting, in a way.  Roschelle would have liked it…

                It had been so many years.  Why was he still thinking of Roschelle?

                Instead, he turned from the snow, and into the light and warmth of the expensive inn.

 

                Kylie woke from sleep, and couldn’t quite say why.  Something just felt strange to her, a restlessness that bade her to wake.

                So wake she did, and she wriggled out of bed.  She hopped to the floor, and was surprised to find the polished wood cold to her bare feet.  Her toes curled in protest, but she couldn’t find her slippers immediately, so she didn’t bother.  She tiptoed to the window curiously, and gasped with surprise when she saw it frosted over.

                She stood up on the window seat to reach the latch, and pulled it open.  Her eyes filled with wonder, widening at the sight before her.

                White things, like feathers, but cold, tumbled from the sky—but so slowly!  It was like rain, but they were _feathers_.  And it felt cold—like the stream, or like ice.

                Curious, she put on her dressing gown, and belted it at the waist as she ran from her room.  She careened down the hall, down the steps, and out the front door of the manor before the attending servant could stop her.

                She vaulted down the steps, onto the cobblestone path.  She ran out into the courtyard, and looked up.

                She laughed, even though it was cold.  She held her arms up toward the sky.  The feather-like things melted when they touched her, but they were sticking to the grass like nothing she had ever seen.  It was water, but cold—frozen?—but it wasn’t ice.

                She giggled, and laughed, and raced through the cold-feather-water, spinning in circles, and it was like traveling through the stars.

                She wanted to share this with her siblings.  That was important.  They would want to see too!

                She ran back inside, past the servant, panting and gasping, but laughing with glee.  She banged on her sister’s door.  “Caleigh!  Caleigh!” she cried, and threw the door open.

                Her sister was awake, and glaring at her.  “What do you _want_ , Kylie?  Don’t you know what time it is?” she complained.

                “Look!  There’s cold feathers falling from the sky, and they melt like ice!”

                Caleigh regarded her as if she were daft.  “You were dreaming.  Go back to bed, Kylie,” she reprimanded her.

                “Look!” Kylie yelled as she ran to the balcony, undeterred.  She fumbled with the latch.  Caleigh had big double-doors that led to a balcony, so she just threw them open.

                Caleigh yelled at her when a breath of wind rippled through the room, giving it a chill, scolding her for her childish foolishness.  “Kylie, shut that door and go back to bed, you mad child!”

                Their brother poked his head through the door.  Agasius looked sleepy.  “What’s going on?” he demanded, having been awoken by his sisters’ yelling.

                Kylie turned to her older brother.  “Look— _look_!” she cried insistently, running out onto the balcony.  The twins looked at each other, and followed their little sister out onto the balcony, for though they were seven years older, they did not believe their sometimes eccentric little sister would burst in like this for no reason.

                And the twins gasped, for they had never seen the snow falling in their courtyard either.

 

                The chill in the room was enough to wake Fenris.  He rolled over at first, and felt determined to simply fall back asleep and ignore it, but his eyes opened anyway.  The cat sleeping next to him stirred, grumbling her complaint at his movement.  He ignored her.  The drapes weren’t drawn—something forgotten.  Lanterns were lit outside, and it illuminated…

                He sat up, rubbing one of his eyes.  What _was_ that?  The cat made another noise of complaint at the movement, but moved away from her apparently mad bed-warmer.  She curled up in a ball on top of the comforter, a small grey ball of fluff.

                He slid out of bed.  The floorboards were cold under his feet, and he tried to stay on the rich carpet whenever possible.  He climbed onto the window seat, and peered out.

                White fluff seemed to be falling from the sky.  There was a word for that.  Something about rain, and ice…  _Snow_.  He couldn’t say who had ever told him about snow, but the word was simply there in his mind.  It wasn’t so strange to him; It was knowing how to speak without remembering how one learned.

                The Tevinter Imperium usually didn’t have such things as snow.  Frost, sure, and rain—lots of it in the dead months—but not so much snow, except in the mountains anyway.  But it had been a colder winter than was normal, from what he had been told.  So, there was snow.  He imagined that snow was cold, if this room were anything at all to go by.  He had no desire to find out either way.

                It was eerily beautiful, in a quiet way.  It seemed to call for silence as it fell.

                It was beginning to coat the vineyard—dead at this time of year—below in a thin layer of white that would be gone by morning.  It looked lovely.  Strange that something that usually made him feel sad could also look beautiful.

                He looked up, at the long journey each flake made on its voyage to the earth, and its inevitable fate.  It seemed like such a long way to go, just to melt.  But life was a long way to go, just to die.

                It was just as senseless.

                He drew his legs up against his chest, wrapping his arms around his legs against the cold, but also for comfort.  Everything… _hurt_.  All the time.  For a while, he couldn’t abide anything _touching_ him—that had been an interesting time.

                He had gotten _used_ to it, of course.  He _had_ to get used to wearing clothing, but the constant rubbing, the clothes touching him, he had hated it.  He hadn’t wanted anything to touch him.  The lyrium made his skin so incredibly sensitive.  Something in pain was always sensitive to touch, and he was always in pain.

                He was used to the constant ringing he heard—it was even and steady, and he had learned to ignore it.  He barely even heard it, unless he concentrated, and imagined with time, he would never hear it.  But the pain was something else.

                He couldn’t sleep without a drought of alcohol.  He hated it when Danarius left him, because he was coming to realize that he only received the drink when Danarius was actually around.

                It was so hard to sleep otherwise.

                And he felt angry, not just in pain.  He had _left him_.  Again!  He had said…  No, he had said that he wouldn’t leave him once he was properly trained.  He wasn’t, not yet.

                He wanted to be.

                He closed his eyes, willing his master to come home sooner.  He was exhausted, and just wanted to sleep, and couldn’t—not well anyway.

                The pain sometimes made it difficult to concentrate.  It was worse without proper sleep.

                His thoughts drifted to the slaves that worked the fields.  Were they freezing out there, in their ramshackle huts?  Why did it have to be like that?

                The cold finally drove him away from the window, and back under the blankets, but despite his efforts, he could not fall back asleep.  The cat was most displeased.

               

                Hadriana shivered, alone in the empty crate she had been living in for the past several days.

                The city had not been the haven she had hoped for.  Though she was a mage, she was common-born, and had no credentials, no references.  She was told that she may find a wealthy family to support her, and so she petitioned for such support, but so far had nothing to show for it.

                She had followed the advice of one of the lesser magi from the Circle, and went to the Chantry asking for support of some kind.  However, they were… less  than helpful.  She had no particular skill to offer them in her magic.  Nothing new or exotic, no talent someone else could not do.  The most she had been able to do was put down her name as an apprentice mage looking for someone to apprentice under.  She did not know enough to pass her Harrowing, or she might have had an easier time finding assistance.  They had given her a list of names instead of any real help, houses that might sponsor her.  Well, that hadn’t turned out, had it?

                And so, she shivered in the cold, and watched the snow come down.  She had never thought to see snow.  It would come the year she had been kicked out.  Of course it came now, and not sooner, nor later.  Of course it was now.

                It was colder than she had ever dreamed possible, and her fingers and toes were numb.  She could not wear her boots, she discovered, at night, though it was cold.  If she did not sleep on them, someone would steal them for sure.  She was not usually a heavy sleeper, but the cold and her own exhaustion made her doubt herself.  Why, someone had tried to knock her over to steal them more than once.  Fortunately, she was a mage, and they did not think to try again.  But she could not do magic in her sleep, and she slept on her boots.

                The staff was a good wood, but there was enough rotting lumber that no one was too interested in stealing a long stick for firewood.  At least, not yet.

                She wondered if the snow would ever stop, and decided that she didn’t like it at all.  How could people live in places where the snow was common?  Why would they ever want to?

                She had been living in the streets for weeks, and had lost track of the time.  She was filthy, though she tried to keep clean, just in case she finally got in contact with someone who would sponsor her, or even apprentice her.  That would be a dream-come-true.

                She was able to do a few minor healings for a few coppers here and there, but she couldn’t charge any more, because the people who could afford the treatment could afford better than a flea-ridden girl in filthy rags.

                It made her want to cry.

                She was always hungry, it seemed, because the coppers she got did not get her far.  She spent what she had earned on food, usually.  She was told to go to the work house if she really needed coin and a bed, but… the work house?  She was a mage…

                A beggar had told her that she had best learn to beg.  Her foolish pride disliked the idea, but… what else could she do?  She was almost willing to try it.  Surely, she looked pathetic enough for the task!

                And a man asked her, once, if she were hungry.  Said he had needs, and it took her a moment to realize what he meant.  He wanted her to sell herself for a bowl of soup and a crust of bread.

                She had ran away from him rather than face him.

                But sometimes, when she got really hungry, she thought about it.  It couldn’t be that bad.  And she did need the money.  She was so hungry, and she wanted a bath so much.  She wanted a real bed, and food.  She wanted a fire, and clean clothes to wear.  She wanted new shoes.  And a home…

                Sometimes, she just couldn’t help it; she cried at night, miserable and alone.  She scratched at the fleas that had made her their home, and found no relief from them.  She managed to cut off her long brown hair, hacked to the nape of her neck, because it was just so filthy and ratted that there was nothing else for it.

                She feared when her boots would fall apart.

                Hadriana wondered if coming here had ever been a good idea.  She should have stayed and taken her chances in the shack.  She should have come to her mother begging forgiveness.  Maybe she should have even married that fat merchant man.

                And when she thought those things, she found tears in her eyes as she realized how desperate she had become.

                The snow continued to fall, heedless of her troubles, because, despite how miserable a single individual is, the universe and reality will crush them, and keep going, as if they were never there.


	49. Cold and Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varania is doing the best she can out of slavery but still has doubts about freedom while Fenris sees nothing but tragedy and sadness around him. Meanwhile, Hadriana finds salvation at last when Danarius narrowly avoids being assassinated.

                Varania was learning her mother’s trade as best she knew how, while she looked for work as a mage—something that would accept an elf with no credentials or contacts of course.  It was harder than it sounded, on both accounts, even though mages weren’t exactly commonplace.

                One thing about Seheron was that she was always worried about the war going on.  Why her mother wanted to move here was beyond her—she worried constantly about the Qunari, but Mieta was always so unconcerned.  Though, she had said, she had grown up with Qunari frequenting her city.

                Varania had never particularly enjoyed sewing the way that Mieta had, so she learned more slowly.  Though, there were things she could help with at the shop, and do.  She learned to measure for garments, to calculate yardage, among a few other details.  At first, she simply memorized what she needed to know—the thing about not being able to read or write meant that one often had a good memory for such things.

                But, with her mother’s instruction and studying alongside Lura, she was getting better at reading and writing.  Numbers made more sense to her, and she still struggled a bit with some words, but she managed now.

                It was exciting, in a way, to know that she could read, and to be confident that she would get better at it with time.  It was something she wished she could share with her older brother, and for that, she was downhearted.

                Varania wondered what had become of him.  She wondered what that ritual had made him look like, what it had turned him in to.  She wondered, oftentimes, if he thought about her as much as she thought about him.

                She wanted to tell him so much—about Seheron, and the alienage.  About working, and Shaislyn growing up.  His hair had been a brownish gold when he was born, a shade somewhat prevalent in Mieta’s side of the family, but as he got older it had darkened to a coal black—a texture and shade Varania assumed must be from Danarius’ family, to her dismay, as it appeared nowhere in Varania’s heritage, as Mieta quietly stated, and Varania had argued with Leto as evidence.  Mieta had only looked at her oddly, and reminded her that Leto’s shade of black was a blue-black, and Shaislyn’s was the grey black of coal with scattered strands of brown like a hearth after the fires had burned out--and the texture was all wrong anyway.

                His sister had looked more human than he did, she reflected.  It was like all the human in both of them had gone primarily to her, and left Shaislyn looking like something caught between elven and human—but a part of neither world, not really.  He looked too human to be elven, and too elven to be human.  Everyone who saw him stared, and couldn’t seem to help it.  She had asked, and heard that most half-elves look completely human, down to their eyes.  Shaislyn… was not so fortunate.

                But, she was determined to learn to love him, if it killed her.  Leto had wanted her to love Shaislyn, so she wanted to too.  And it wasn’t Shai’s fault—it had _never_ been Shai’s fault.  She had her regrets, her sins, but wanted to live each day anew.  If she was always burdened by the past, no matter how painful, she could never move forward.

                It was hard sometimes.  Sometimes, she felt indescribable guilt over what had happened with her daughter—and worried sometimes that she was mad.  Other times, she felt like she could never love Shai, for the sins of his father, and that worried her too.  She worried about her brother.  She worried about her mother, when her hands bothered her, when she would shake.  She worried about the suddenly uncertain future before her.

                And yet…  She had been born a slave, and she was free now.  Her son would be free.  Her mother would be free.  All of that, for her brother’s sacrifice.  It was more than a fair trade, of course, but it was a hard one.

                As she scooped up her son from the floor, she smiled.  There was something about a smiling toddler that prompted others to smile.  He didn’t know he was blind.  Didn’t know he was half-elven, not yet.  And, for the time being, he was happy.  She wished that happiness could last.  She wanted it to last for him, and, for the moment, it was the best she could do towards loving him.  But it was a step.

                She swung him around, and got herself dizzy rather than him, since he couldn’t see to be as dizzy.  She collapsed into the old rocking chair.  It groaned with the sudden weight, but it was steady.  One of Lura’s customers at the bar had given it to her.  Lura was quick to make friends, and everyone seemed to want to be friends with her too.  In that, Varania was a bit jealous; she was very shy around strangers.

                The toddler squirmed, and she set him on her lap, seizing his little hands in hers.  He squirmed again, kicking, and she tickled him, and hugged him.  She could see his father in his smile.

                _Danarius, you bastard,_ she thought as she plopped her son down on the floor.  _You sick son-of-a-bitch.  What are you doing to my brother right now?_

 

                The snow from the night before had melted away, and the sun beat down confidently overhead.  It wasn’t as warm as was summer of course, but it was more what the Tevinters were used to seeing.  Clouds in the distance seemed to hint at a possible rain later in the day, though—normal for this time of year.

                Fenris was outside, as per usual, doing drills.  They were getting into more complicated maneuvers now, and the memorization he had done before was paying off.

                Taggart stopped for a breather, and Fenris leaned in the saddle.  The leather creaked.  His legs had long ago stopped aching from riding, but he still was anxious for a time to come when he could trust himself to be able to make the movements he needed to on foot.  The horse was _fun_ , in a fashion, but it wasn’t the same.  Furthermore, he was assured that once they were back in Minrathous, he may not use the maneuvers he learned on the horses hardly at all, so it wasn’t as important.  They were really doing nothing but wasting time on it, he felt.

                But, no, that wasn’t true.  In travel, he would encounter the horses and riders.  He felt like after this, fighting on foot should be easy—controlling the horse and wielding even just the wooden swords was difficult.  It would give him a good foundation, at any rate.  Until he could move like he should again.  How long was it supposed to take anyway?  He was getting impatient.  Sure, he did some drills and maneuvers on foot, but he did not have the same endurance he had on the horse.

                Something caught his eye, and he looked up, beyond the practice field.  The slaves were doing something.  Digging trenches, it looked like.  What for?  Damaris had talked to him a bit about spring and how it rained quite a bit then, but this looked like more than an irrigation trench.  Not that he knew what that looked like either, though!

                He left the mystery be, and was ready for more drilling when Master Taggart was.  When they led the horses to the barn, he happened to look up again, and stopped.

                Some of the slaves had died overnight, in the cold.  Some of the others might be sick.  And, it didn’t matter—human or elven, the bodies were thrown in to the same ditch, after they were stripped naked.  The other slaves were silent throughout the process.  The overseer, too, looked on in silence.  He saw Damaris carrying a small bundle—her baby.  He had never actually “met” her baby, but he knew she had given birth several weeks ago.  He saw her kneel, and unwrap the bundle, and take out a small pink thing that must be her baby.  He wondered what she must be doing, then the truth dawned on him.  He felt his throat go suddenly dry.  The entire world seemed to narrow down to a young mother wordlessly dropping her lifeless child into a mass grave.

                He remembered the snowflakes--to go through so much only to melt.

 

                Hadriana was lost.  Minrathous was a big place, and there were some sections a “beggar” simply wasn’t allowed, but there were so many twisting back alleys and paths that she was quickly lost.

                And she had been lost for two days.  Not that she knew where she was going, for that matter.

                It was such a big place, after all.

                Toward sunset of the second day, she saw the Chantry of the Black Divine, and felt relieved to see the magnificent structure; it meant she had some idea of where she was.

                It being late in the day, many of the merchants were packing up their wares.  That is to say, shackling their slaves and ushering them back to warehouses for storage.  She watched all of this from the shadows for a time, and when most of the people had gone, she walked where the stalls had been, running her fingers along the cages.  At least the slaves were fed—and _cleaned_.

                She was so hungry.  Desperation and half-starvation had led her to become considerably less picky about the food she ate, and would even eat things she thought unfit for consumption even just six months ago—the sort of foods fed to slaves, and sometimes even worse than that.  She had even consumed _meat_ —and the thought of cooked flesh normally made her convulse.

                Hadriana was worried that she was getting sick.  Sometimes, she felt dizzy, and weak, and wondered if that was simply the hunger, or if the cold and starvation were both getting to her.  She was thirsty too.  Fresh water was sort of difficult to come by.  There were public wells, of course, but the best of them she wasn’t allowed near, and the ones she was were… filthy and brackish.

                She wondered if she might have made a life for herself back in that little hut, or even out in the wilderness.  She supposed that she could always go back to it, and become a hermit.

                The thought filled her with despair, but it had to be better than dying alone in a ditch somewhere, nameless, her body simply hauled away like so much rubbish.

                She thought dismally, she could always sell herself into slavery.  Though, she believed that was actually an “indentured servant” not a “slave.”  Was there really a difference, truly?

                And anyway, who would take some flea-bitten girl anyway?  This whole venture had been mad from the start.  Why did she think she would ever have amounted to anything?  She wasn’t special.  There was nothing outstanding about her.  Mages were cultivated in Tevinter, and many apostates fled _to_ Tevinter, so there was no real… _shortage_ of them.  What had she ever been thinking?

                At the bottom of her despair, head hanging, something glinted in the light of the fading sun.  She turned toward it, and her eyes widened.  She hurriedly scooped up the dropped coin—it was silver, real silver!

                She clutched it tightly, and quickly cast about for anything else that might have been dropped, but no such luck.  Still, she was so very hungry!

                Her stomach growled in agreement with that thought, though she was so weak that it was more like a plaintive whine.  She changed direction and headed to another part of town; she had a better idea of where to go from here.  With coppers, she could spend that anywhere, but silver—someone might try to rob her, and she was so tired and hungry that she didn’t know what she would do.  Defend herself, she supposed, but at what cost?  Magic was tiring on an empty stomach and ill-rest.

                She hurried, eager for her first real meal in… she didn’t know how long.  It felt forever.

                A woman screamed, and she stopped in her tracks.  The wind shifted, and she smelled smoke.  Hadriana turned to look, and saw the flames.

                It was nearby—in one of the nicer districts, the one with the high-end inns.  She wondered how that could be.  There were mages, and guards, and other such in those districts—why would it be burning?  And how had it caught flame?  She watched the flames climb for a moment, wondering how it had gotten up so fast, then she turned, remembering how hungry she was.

                She had gone maybe three steps before she stopped again.

                It wasn’t the sound of the hurt and the fearful screaming and crying out that caused her to stop; it was the realization that she was a mage, and if she went to help, she may receive the opportunity she so desperately needed.  So, she slid the coin into her pocket, and turned, running toward the flames.

 

                _Nice try_ , Danarius thought, standing a block away from the fire.

                And the lyrium bomb might have worked to kill him too—it was certainly proving effective right now—but he had decided, randomly, to see the progress on the manor before he retired to his rooms at the inn.  Someone had set it off anyway.

                Of course, there was no way to _prove_ the explosive had been meant for him, but…  Well, what were the odds otherwise?

                He pondered over who the culprit could be.  He certainly had a few enemies amongst the magisters, and it was far from unheard of for the magisters to try to kill one another; though that normally happened in duals more frequently than assassination, but it wasn’t out of the question entirely.  It could even be Qunari, though then it wouldn’t be lyrium, but that powder they used that made their ships so deadly, and mages all the more important in the Imperium.  Or something more sinister—revenge for that coup perhaps?  He wondered.  There were so many different possibilities, some more likely than others.

                Perhaps he would never know the truth, and he was resigned to that idea if that is what it came to.  He was curious, but not exactly appalled or shocked.  Rather, it was perfectly expected.  It was a good chance to kill a magister, to be sure.

                His guards stood around him, ever watchful, and silent.  He had sent a servant to another inn a decent distance away to prepare proper accommodations for him, but in the meantime, he thought about it.

                People rushed to and fro, and he thought it was interesting how people had a tendency to stand and watch a tragedy, rather than do anything useful about it.  Also interesting to note was that it was instinctive for people to, once immediately free of a burning building, to turn around, sometimes just beyond the door, and stop moving, blocking the way for others.  Fascinating, really, and the stupidest thing in the world to witness as a bystander.

                He saw one girl—it looked like a poor begging girl—kneel beside the wounded who had been drug out and set aside, but ignored in favor of dragging out more wounded.  He wondered if she was going to frisk them for change.  But, rather, a blue healing light sprang from her fingers.

                A mage?

                He felt oddly intrigued.

                A mage, a beggar?  He supposed it wasn’t completely unheard of, just unlikely.  Well, perhaps if she had been born poor, or cast out for some reason…  No friends, no contacts—yes, it was possible.

                The girl went from one injured person to the next, and he saw her grow tired.  There were other mages now too, but still she worked, and helped, and then someone spoke to her, and she lent her power to the spell to contain the fire.

                His carriage came, the room prepared.  He told them to wait.  He strode past the onlookers, right up to the begging girl, and tapped her on the shoulder.  She jumped, startled, and looked up at him.  She was filthy, and her hair was ragged, but her eyes were clear and blue.  “What’s a mage doing begging in the streets, girl?” he asked her.

                She looked down, her face flushing under the grime.  “Mesere?”  And she swallowed, and her back straightened with forced confidence.  “I was cast out from my family, and I came here.”

                He had guessed right at least.  He looked at her, really looked at her.  She was exhausted, and about to drop.  She looked half-starved and miserable, but more determined than she had any right to be.  He wasn’t… beyond charity.  And he wanted an apprentice.  A girl plucked from the streets like this would be eager to please, and beyond grateful.  He considered for a moment, but only another moment.  “Come with me,” he told her.

                “M-mesere?” she squeaked, surprised.

                “I’m in need of an apprentice.  Isn’t that what you wanted?”  And he began to walk away.  The girl hesitated only once, and followed him, still in shocked silence.

 

                Hadriana couldn’t believe it.  She felt like she was in some kind of dream.  If so, she didn’t want to wake up to the life she had been living before.

                While she had slept—in a real bed!--he had a small package delivered to her room.  It had been a robe.  Plain, but clean, and it fit properly.

                She was washed and clean, belly full, her hair brushed and trimmed to something more suitable.  Her new master had promised her new robes, and in the meantime, had simply handed her a small purse and all but shoved her out the door.

                Her blue eyes gone wide with shock, for the umpteenth time since last night, when she discovered that it was mostly silver.  She had never even seen so much money, and he had just given it to her, and told her, in no uncertain terms, that if she came back with so much as a copper left in it, that she would be reprimanded for failure to obey.

                She felt wonderful.

                Danarius had saved her, she knew.  He had saved her from the streets, from the fleas and lice, from starvation, and from her own misery.  She’d do anything for him.

                She was so happy that she could cry tears of joy.  And to think—she had almost not stopped to help!

                This was…  It was the best thing that had ever happened to her in her life.  There was no mistaking it; this was it.  No matter what, she had to be a good apprentice.  She had to be attentive, and dutiful, and do everything in her power to please him.

                But, in the meantime, there was the small matter of the purse of silver.  She almost giggled at the thought.  And she had been so pleased with her single silver piece!

 

                It was… pleasant… to see the girl so happy.  Hadriana was, overall, a hard-working apprentice so far.  He had set her, in the past few days, to a series of menial tasks, and she worked hard at them to excel.

                He judged that she was about the same age as Varania, actually, now that he thought about it—maybe a year older at the very most.

                He asked her only once what her last name had been.  She had only looked away.  “I’ve none any more, master; I’m disowned.”

                So Danarius nodded, and left the matter be.  If she ever wanted to talk about it, she would, he reasoned.  There was no need to question her about it.  Besides, she seemed happy enough now.  Gone was the miserable girl of a week before.

                He thought of Fenris.

                He seemed to… collect… broken things.  And if they weren’t broken to begin with, he pushed, prodded, and forced it until they were.  Yet, he still wasn’t quite certain as to _why_ he did that—only that he liked to, and didn’t see a point in not doing it.

                It wasn’t just Fenris and Hadriana either, when he thought about it.  All of his former mistresses had had some problem somewhere.  One of them had a type of separation anxiety (similar to Fenris), another had gotten off on being insulted, and another one had… father issues—just to name a few.

                He had once commented on it to a woman.  She had looked at him—right in the eyes, and said, “You’re drawn to people like that… because they remind you of yourself,” she said, and downed the rest of her scotch.  “I suggest you just get over it and move on.”

                She hadn’t known exactly what she was referring to—just a problem he had, she had assumed.  But it was Roschelle, in reality—Roschelle and Shallise.  He didn’t _want_ to just… get over it.  It seemed cruel and insulting to Roschelle, at the very least.  Shallise was one thing, Roschelle quite another.

                No, he never truly wanted to get over Roschelle’s death.  It had been his fault.  It had been utterly avoidable.  Was Varania not perfectly fine?  If he had only known, she need not be dead now.  His child wouldn’t be dead either.

                When he thought about it, he realized that the child would be about twenty-three years old.  Married, probably.

                He wondered, dimly, if he would ever truly just get over it.  He had been told more than once that he needed to, that it wasn’t healthy, that he was going to drive himself to an early grave because he wouldn’t let go.

                But there was work at hand, and he had best stop dwelling on the past.

 

                Hadriana disliked Fenris almost immediately.

                It wasn’t that he was an elf, or a slave, or any of those other trivial things, like that he was taller than she was or even that he had abilities that non-mages should never have.

                No.  It was because the first thing her new master inquired of his steward was about Fenris.  It was because she had to listen to a long lecture from her master, in grave detail, all the work that had been put into creating his little slave, and that she must never speak of it as well, to anyone.  She didn’t know how that could ever come up in conversation, but she agreed to the terms.

                And then she had actually _met_ the slave in question.  He was well-mannered as would be expected, but Danarius fawned over him like his prized possession.

                And Hadriana quickly realized that Fenris _was_ his prized possession.  And her distaste grew to dislike with the same realization.  She was his apprentice; _she_ should be more important.  But Danarius had… hinted… very strongly—that his former apprentice had died _for_ Fenris.  That stupid slave meant more to Danarius than…

                Than all the slaves he had sacrificed.  More than the two mages he had sacrificed, and all that money on top of it.  More than any of that.

                If…  If it ever came down to it, he would sacrifice her for Fenris too, and the thought made her throat tighten with fear.  He was a _slave_.  She was a _mage_ —a _human_ mage!  An Imperial citizen at that!  _She_ was more important than he was!  _She_ should be the one he fawned over.  Not… not the other way around.

                But he _did_ fuss over Fenris.  There was no other word she could think of for it.  He had Fenris brought to him, and introduced her to Fenris.  The elf had bowed low to her, keeping his gaze fixed to the floor.  It was actually a very courtly, practiced, graceful movement—his bow.  It didn’t even seem to bother him that he was a slave, which was one of the most infuriating bits about it.  He should be beaten and low, and humiliated, and ashamed; she would be.  But he didn’t seem to feel—that she could see—any of that.  If he had, she may have been at least a little satiated, but this was simply not the case.  She couldn’t understand it.

                And when introductions were over, Danarius started drilling the elf about what he had been doing since he had left.  After he answered those questions, the magister started asking more personal questions—how Fenris was getting along physically, how he was sleeping.  “You look tired, Fenris,” he commented, raising the elf’s face to look at him, and inspected his eyes.  “Are you having trouble sleeping?”

                The elf’s face, she thought with some venom, was extremely expressive.  “Yes, Master—I’m sorry,” he quickly apologized, looking truly regretful.

                The worst part about the entire thing was that she was positive that it was _genuine_.  She may have been able to keep from outright hating Fenris, except that the elf’s devotion to his master was _genuine_ , and not just because he was his slave.  He would be that devoted anyway.  The term “slave” was just a formal title for him, a _physical_ title.  But Fenris was his slave in mind and spirit as well—he would be lost without Danarius.  It was baffling to her.  “I want you to go directly to bed,” Danarius decided.

                Fenris looked very much like he would like to protest, and seemed to have some inner struggle over it.  The compulsion to obey his master ultimately won out.  “Yes, Master.”

                And he sent him away.  Once Fenris had left, Danarius summoned another servant, and gave instructions to deliver _brandy_ to the damned elf.

                Once the servant had gone, Hadriana saw her master smirk.  “He can’t sleep without a drink,” he commented, obviously pleased with something.

                “Master?” Hadriana inquired.

                He turned to her.  “Here’s a lesson:  Manipulation.  Take my pet, for example.”  He flicked his wrist in the direction Fenris had left in.  “I mentioned to you that he is in constant pain.  I keep him on a steady supply of medications to ease the pain, and if I ever have to punish him, I’ll take them away.”  He paused.  “The best way to punish someone and correct their behaviour is by withdrawing a reward.”  He glanced at her.  “But the medications aren’t enough to completely banish it—which is also by design.  Fenris is still in too much pain to sleep very well without the drink, and I withdraw that every time I leave.  Why do you think I do all of that?”

                Hadriana paused, and thought about the answer.  “You’re… creating a dependency on the medication and the alcohol,” she said slowly.  He nodded, but looked as if he would like her to go on.  Why would he stop giving him alcohol when he left?  “Oh—and he’ll associate your presence with being able to sleep.  So, he’d… associate you with…”  She struggled for a moment, and felt like she had lost her train of thought.

                “Comfort,” Danarius finished.  “I make him slightly uncomfortable when I am gone.  I change his schedule frequently, and eliminate people he sees too often.  The only consistency in his life is myself, and when I’m gone, he’s unable to sleep.”

                It all seemed so clear to her now.  Of course that was a good idea.  She could only wonder, _why?_   A slave was a slave, and would work regardless.  He had mentioned that he wanted Fenris as a sort of bodyguard, but it was all the same.  A well-trained slave still took up arms in their master’s name.  He could be trained and disciplined just as easily as manipulated.  So…

                “You seem confused still, Hadriana,” he commented.

                She sighed, and shrugged.  “It just… seems like a lot of work for one slave,” she admitted.

                He nodded.  “Perhaps.  But Fenris is special. And, frankly, too powerful for me to use more common methods.”  _Special_.  And that had sealed the deal:  She hated him.  “And anyone works harder and more loyally when they feel a need to beyond simple obedience.”

                Lesson learned, he summoned another servant to show her to her rooms, saying that he was certain that she was weary from the journey.  It was true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought about it a lot, and could not think of a single good reason that Hadriana would go after Fenris herself. The game states clearly that she is a magister herself at that point, so it couldn't be because she was following Danarius' orders. I decided it made infinitely more sense if she felt she owed something to Danarius. I'd say, following the plotline of my story, I would be eternally grateful and very loyal to anyone who picked me off of the streets like that, gave me a life, and training into a career that would be my dream job. No, loyal would not even begin to cover how I would feel about that person. 
> 
> And, yes, I think I would be very jealous of and thus dislike Fenris in her situation, knowing that my master's former apprentice had been sacrificed so that he could live. Knowing that, despite my loyalty and gratefulness to my master, that he would kill me in a moment without hesitation in the same situation. From that perspective, I understand completely why Hadriana dislikes Fenris and would strive to childishly make him miserable. It's also important to point out that Hadriana is a young, impressionable teenager at this point in the story.
> 
> \--This one was much later than usual! I was working a lot the past week.


	50. Tattoo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Each character evaluates different aspects of life, finding hope in darkness and beauty in ugliness.

                The trees were in flower; it was spring.  The rains came—light showers.  The way the wind was blowing with the rain created a steady drumming against the windowpane.  And so much work to be done.

                Fenris had made some very impressive improvement, and was nearly back to, physically, the way he had been before—but there was still work to be done there as well.

                Danarius had decided to catalogue some of the differences he noticed between Leto and Fenris though.  Mostly, he had done it because he was constantly comparing and contrasting mentally, so if it were down on paper, he felt he could stop dwelling on it.

                Rather, it had the opposite effect; he looked for more small differences.

                The dislike of fish was one.  Though that one made sense; it was almost all Leto would eat right up until the Ritual, so, somewhere in his mind was the association, and thus the dislike.  _That_ bothered Danarius, more than it had a right to.  It was like a red flag, warning him that all of those memories were very much still _there,_ and affecting Fenris, just more subconsciously and subtly.

                Fenris had yet to do a single thing to displease him, which was something.  He worked so hard to please him that he didn’t think he would ever really need any of the punishments he had in mind.  Still, time would tell the difference.

                The speaking patterns were different, even some of the gestures, and posture.  As should be expected, facial expressions were the same, and when he fought, to Danarius, he looked the most like Leto had.

                And, the more he noticed the differences, the more he decided that Leto and Fenris could be _related_ in theory, but were definitely not the same person, even remotely.  They were, in the end, two completely different people.

                It was fascinating, in a light.

                But distracting from what he really needed to be doing.  His brother and his family should be arriving within the next few days, and there was so much to do.

 

                Kylie was proud to be able to ride her pony alongside her older siblings on their horses.  She had begged, and pleaded, and ultimately allowed to bring Felicity so she could ride her instead of sit in the stuffy carriage—that was _boring_.  She didn’t know how her mother could stand it; it seemed so dull.

                But the woman had a couple of books, and seemed more than content with the matter.  Her older sister frequently sat with her, practicing embroidery, talking, or reading.

                That was not for Kylie, though, and the girl knew it.  She didn’t want to practice embroidery, and she wasn’t interested in music or any of the “feminine arts.”  She wished she could be a mage, _then_ she could _choose_ what she did with her life!

                It could still happen, she decided.  After all, she was only a child of five.  Plenty of mages were older when they discovered they had magic.

                But sometimes she worried.  She knew that magic ran in her bloodline, but it had skipped by all of her older siblings _and_ her father.  In the living family, only her uncle was actually a mage—most worrisome.  Though she didn’t know, the subject was actually the cause of gossip among the other magisters—saying that the bloodline was bleeding out, that they weren’t “breeding true” any longer, as it were.

                Kylie trotted Felicity up to Agasius.  “Father says you’re going to hunt deer in the forest,” she commented.

                He nodded eagerly.  “I’ve been waiting for a season,” he agreed with feeling.

                “I want to come,” Kylie said with all the innocence of a child.  The spring rains dripped off of her oiled rain cloak, some of the droplets catching in what was exposed of her golden hair.

                He scoffed.  “You’re a girl.”

                She felt deeply offended.  “So?  Why can’t I go?”

                “Mother would never let you,” he said, looking down at her.  He swiped at his brown curls, dripping rainwater onto his face.

                She pouted.  It was true, after all.  She had said that she could have a hunting hawk one day, but that was all.  It wasn’t the same—not nearly the same!

                But if she were a mage…  She could do whatever she wanted and no one would ever be able to tell her otherwise!

 

                There was so much more to learn than just fighting to be a bodyguard.  The drills weren’t just reacting to a threat, they were interpreting them.  They were about not losing his master in a crowd, or identifying possible threats.  In a word, a fair amount of paranoia and knowing when to apply it.  He had to learn when people were watching, and interpret—accurately—the difference between watching and simply looking.

                Taggart had taught Fenris everything he knew about fighting, but he was seeing increasingly less of him in favor of a dwarven woman who was teaching Fenris about this new portion.  Mogren, he was beginning to believe, might be completely insane.  Taggart had drilled him and taught him things he may never use and thought might be impossible.  He had learned maneuvers and basic sword fighting skills, the care and keeping of his weaponry and armor, and other drills.  With Mogren, however, she would drag him out into an empty field, ankle-deep in mud, and train there.  She would take him onto the roof of the manor when it was raining, and tell him he had best keep his balance while she came at him with a wooden stave.  He had fought her in water, in mud, in the pouring rain.  She taught him how to fight blindfolded, saying that one day, he might be somewhere so dark he could not see.  When he learned how to rely on his hearing, she used wax to deafen him and sent him into the woods, where she would “ambush” him repeatedly until he learned how to use his eyes.  She would bring him into town on market days and tell him to keep his eyes on her at all times, and then she would try to distract him and slip away.  She had him walk along a beam while she trotted by him on a horse, occasionally swinging a long pole at him.  He had a wooden stave, and could block, but obviously could not attack if he were to stay on the beam.

                The hardest lesson, so far, was when Mogren had brought from somewhere a giant disc of metal, which she had pristinely polished, laid out on the grass and then had oil poured over it.  When Fenris managed to, carefully, get to the center of it, she lobbed rocks at him, and it was his mission to not only keep from falling, but to dodge the rocks.  It was even harder blindfolded.  He had a healthy respect for her ability to throw stones.

                There was so much to learn and memorize—sometimes he doubted he ever would.  But he was getting better at it.  He had to; there wasn’t anything else but to please his master, and his master’s will.

                Hadriana though…  She was something else entirely.  She gave him some nasty looks on occasion, but so far interacted with him as little as possible, far too busy in her studies for anything else really, though she occasionally came with Danarius when he checked up on him.  A part of him was dimly concerned that when she was more certain of her position that she might use her power to make him miserable and something about the way she glared at him told him that she wanted to.  Maybe he was over-exaggerating.  Time would tell.

                The female eunuch was gone—simply wasn’t around.  Perhaps she had ran away, or Danarius sold her—he would never really know.

                Nothing in his life ever seemed to _stay_.  Not his memories, not the people around him.  His master sold off so many of his slaves, he had seen, and he bought new ones frequently too—another inconsistency in his life.  Everything constantly changed.  There was no real routine.  Fenris expected to do drills, to listen to lectures, and other such every day, but the times this happened changed frequently.  Lately, he was even woken at odd hours of the night for it.

                Sometimes, he would come back to his room at night, and everything would be moved around, or the colors were changed, or the furniture was swapped with another room and he had to double-check himself.

                It was confusing, and made him uncertain.

                The only thing that never really changed was Danarius, and he didn’t even see him frequently enough to call it “consistent.”  So even then, that left him with… that little gray cat, he supposed, that still came to visit him from time to time—and the horse, when he thought about it.

                There was a glass of port sitting on the little table.  He didn’t even think about it; he was exhausted and knew he couldn’t sleep without the aid of the alcohol.  He had never been able to sleep well before anyway, and there was no reason it would change now, and it helped a bit with the pain he felt too.

                Before he drank it, he found a small vial next to the glass.  He picked up that one first, and eagerly.  His master rotated the medications, but this one was the best one so far.

                And the concoction he had drank this morning had worn off an hour ago.  Being alive was a misery without it.  His entire body felt like it was on fire—burning without the heat--and there was nothing he could do about it, except this.  He broke the wax seal, and swallowed the liquid quickly.  He wouldn’t feel its affects for a few more minutes, though.  He set the empty vial down, and picked up the glass, and put it to his lips.

                The door creaked open, and he glanced at it.  It was just the cat.  He had taken to leaving the door to the hall ajar so she could push it open.

                He felt her rub against his legs, wanting to be picked up.  “Not now, Cat,” he said.  She sat on his foot, impatient.  Given time, she’d crawl up his leg if he let her, and her claws were sharp.  He swallowed the contents of the glass, and set it down, taking a deep breath.  He climbed onto the bed, and Cat jumped on after him.

                He had felt like the cat _should_ have a name, considering that she insisted upon being his companion of sorts, but had thus far done nothing outstanding that brought any names to mind—hence, “Cat”.

                He felt the alcohol before he felt the medication—which was fine.  He was pleasantly buzzed, and it took his mind off the pain he felt, and allowed him to relax enough to find some modicum of comfort.  But Fenris only really fell asleep when the medication dulled the pain.

 

                “Don’t run!” Varania cried, catching on to her son’s arm as he ran past her.  She tickled him, and tried to act like she was playing along with him, but to be honest, she really didn’t want him to run.  He was blind; what if he hurt himself?  He couldn’t see to know to move out of the way, or slow down.  It would be so easy for him to crash into the doorframe, or trip, or something--anything.

                It was hard to believe that he had been an infant a year ago, and talking now.  Not well, of course, but Mieta said he was talking more than either Varania or Leto had.  Varania assumed that this was because he relied so much on his hearing.

                “Ou’siiiide!” he cried, and struggled out of her grasp.  She had no idea how he knew where the door was, even though she had just turned him completely around, but he ran to it, out of breath, and tried to reach the handle.

                She crossed her arms, smirking.  “Nope,” she said.  Mieta and Lura took him outside.  Varania was afraid to.  There was so much outside…  How could he not get hurt there?  She imagined being blindfolded, and just didn’t know how her son could ever manage it.

                She sighed, and sat down, watching him continue to struggle for the door.

                He looked like Danarius, she reflected with no small amount of sorrow.  His father’s eyes were a pale winter-sky shade of blue, and his were only paler, but almost the same colour.  His hair even fell in soft curls.  Of course, when he was a teenager, she’d be able to see what he would really turn out to look like, but so far…  Well, the colours might be from his human side, but the shape of his eyes, his cheekbones, and nose—all of that was purely elven, his lips more like his father’s, his jawline, maybe other things as he got older.  The size of his irises, though, were more elven, which only seemed to make it more blatantly obvious that he was blind.  His ears were pretty human though.  They had some point to them, and her mother said, jokingly, that they sort of resembled Qunari ears, but smaller.  Varania had decided to let his coal-black hair grow out, and cover them a bit. 

                Another reason she didn’t want Shai going outside so much was because she worried about what the other children would say to him.

                Lura told her, privately, that hiding him from the world was the worst thing she could do, and that she needed to simply treat him like any other child, but Varania just couldn’t.  He was handicapped, and a half-breed, and she didn’t want him to grow up feeling like he was less of a person because of it.

                So she wanted to keep him inside, away from the people who would stare, and mock.   She remembered all the children who had thrown rocks and dirt at her just for the crime of her birth and something she could not control—and they couldn’t even tell by looking at her!  What would such children do to someone with such visible differences?

                Teaching him the words for things was difficult for her sometimes.  She had to put it in his hands, and let him touch it, or show him with his hands.  Oftentimes, she felt lost when dealing with Shaislyn, who was blissfully unaware of his handicap, to the point where it sometimes frustrated her.

                She would be so miserable.  She wouldn’t know what to do, or how to behave.  She would never want to leave her house, for fear of getting lost or hurt.  The child, she reasoned, just didn’t know enough to be afraid.

                She watched him for a moment as he struggled with the door, trying to reach the chain, but he would never manage.

                “Shaislyn,” she called, and he turned, partway, his ear toward her more than his face.  “Come here, sweetie.”

                He pouted.  “No!”  And she sighed when he took off down the hallway, and ran directly into Lura, though from the way he grabbed on to her, it seemed to be more on purpose than an accident.

                “Lu’a,” he said, and tried to climb her like a tree.  The young woman scooped him up off the floor, and laughed.  Varania had no idea how the child could possibly know which woman was which with so much consistency, and hardly any hesitation.

                “Aw, can’t we go outside?” Lura said, her cute bow lips curling into a pout.  “Please?”

                Shai caught on immediately.  “P’ease?”

                Varania sighed.  “Oh, all right, but just a walk around the alienage, all right?  We can bring Grandma lunch.”

                “Yay!” Lura cried, and tossed Shai up into the air without further ado.  Varania’s stomach tightened, but Lura never dropped Shaislyn, and the boy loved it.  Mieta had told Varania that her father had done that with Leto too, with similar results:  Mieta terrified and Leto giggling with glee.

                Varania worked on wrapping up the meal.  She had intended to go by herself and leave Shai with Lura, or vice versa, but—Oh, well.  It was a nice day, anyway. 

                The sewers were so lovely in the springtime.

 

                Mieta was happy to see her little family come to visit her.  Varania mostly spent time at home minding the house, sometimes doing healings or other such.  She occasionally had to report to the Circle, but that was nothing that they could not work around.  Shaislyn had to come with her once, which Varania said had been frowned upon, but there was nothing else for it sometimes.

                She supposed it was better than hiding an apostate, and at least…  At least this was the Imperium, and she wouldn’t be plucked from her family.  Varania was actually doing social networking when she went.  She was shy, but showed promise, and was gaining confidence in her craft.

                She seemed happier then, when she came home.  It would last for a day or so, but then her usual brooding came back, and the despair at her surroundings.  In Tevinter, mages were valued enough that they would look past her elven heritage, though—so in that, the young girl had some hope for her future.

                And her daughter was the one reason she would not change the way things had turned out.  What would she have done, realistically speaking, if the Imperials had not conquered Schavalis?  What would happen when she discovered that her daughter was a mage?  The Qunari called them Saarebas, and the least of what they did was collar them.  They would take her, strip her of her very name, and treat her like a criminal—one they would only turn loose against their enemies.  She could have harbored her as an apostate, but untrained mages were dangerous, even (or maybe especially) to themselves and to those around them.

                Which left… running _to_ Tevinter, where they would all very likely have been enslaved anyway.

                Sometimes, she wondered if, in a strange way, things hadn’t turned out for the best.  But when this was the best, she shuddered at the worst.

                There wasn’t a day that went by that Mieta didn’t think about her son, and worry for him, pray for him.

                She didn’t think that she would ever see him again.  When she died, he would never know-- would never even know where she was buried.

                And… if something happened to him, she would never know.  That thought scared her, more than anything.  That was the thought that kept her awake at night with worry.  She couldn’t bear it.  But he was her own blood.  He was her firstborn.  Surely, she would know, deep down in her soul, if something horrible were to happen to him?

                But all the same, Mieta smiled and exchanged pleasantries, and thanked them for the meal, before the girls and her grandson left.

                Her family, though, would always be missing something without Leto there too.

 

                Kylie had spent the entire two days sulking around the manor.  She had begged, and pleaded, and still everyone said _no_.  She wasn’t allowed to go with the men hunting.

                So, she had glared angrily as she watched them depart, and skulked about the manor.  Her sister, Caleigh, was happy to take tea in the garden with her mother, and she was, of course, expected to attend.  She had, and made no secret of her displeasure.

                “I wanted to go with them.  Mother, why can’t I go too?” she demanded.

                Her mother had raised an eyebrow.  “It’s unbecoming for a girl to partake in such activities,” she had said.

                Kylie had pouted.  “Then I’d rather be a _boy_!” With that, she hopped from her chair and raced out of the garden, her mother shouting at her.  She had since avoided them, except at mealtimes, but it wasn’t always possible.  There were lessons, of course, and things she could not slip away from.

                But, while her governess had her back turned, Kylie had slipped from the room, and hadn’t returned.  And no one was likely to find her either; she had hidden herself in the hay loft in the horse stable.  She preferred the company of the horses to that of the people in her life.  She felt trapped, like she could never be or do anything she wanted, but only what was expected.  And that had been fine for her older siblings, but it just wasn’t for her.

                So she had pouted, and even cried a little, but mostly been angry.  She had fallen asleep in the hay some time ago, but woke when the door opened.

                She heard footsteps, and someone walking inside, with horses.  A few horses, actually—the person kept coming in and out.  Was the hunting party back?

                She poked her head down from the trap door, trying to get a look.

                The horses were being led inside, and turned into the stalls.  They would be brushed and curried after all were attended to.  The horses looked weary.  Felicity was somewhere in the stables too, she remembered.

                She wished she could run away with Felicity, like in stories.  But Felicity would just ignore her when she got tired, and walk back home, despite anything that Kylie could do about it.  The pony made a good babysitter, and it was frustrating; she liked Felicity, but the pony wasn’t very adventurous.

                She saw the person leading the horses back in, and pulled her head up, hoping they hadn’t seen her.  She waited a moment, and peered back down again, upside-down.

                Her eyes opened wide.  It was that elf—that one that glowed—attending his master’s horses, it looked like.  Alone, from what she could see.

                He had gone with them on the hunting trip, along with a few other slaves to take care of the animals.

                But he was the weird-looking one she had yet to get a good look at.  As he walked back out, she was so intent on getting a good look at the markings that she didn’t notice when he looked up at her.  She gasped, her mouth forming a big “O” of surprise, and pulled her head back up quickly.

                She heard him continue his chores again, and waited for a moment, before she—so slowly—peered back down.  He was unsaddling the horses and putting away the tack—which was heavy work.  She’d never be able to lift something as heavy as a saddle.

                And, he was busy enough to where he didn’t _seem_ to notice her watching him, so she actually got a pretty good look at him, and the weird markings that she could see, sort of like tattoos.

                “Did those hurt?” she asked him, unthinkingly, before she realized that she was supposed to be hiding.

                “Is someone there?” he said, and looked mildly amused.  She squeaked, and pulled back, cursing herself for doing something so stupid.

                Maybe he hadn’t heard her though.  Maybe…

                But she was curious, so she stepped down the ladder, watching him work, utterly fascinated by the markings.  She had never seen anything like that before!  Only a child stared so openly and so intently.  She missed a step on the ladder, and cried out, slipping.  She gripped the rail, skinning her palm.  A hand was at her back, holding her steady.  She looked back around, and it was the elf.  She stared at him—for the moment, down at him.  “You look funny,” she said, again without thinking.

                He didn’t deign to respond, but lifted her easily off of the railing, and set her down on the floor of the barn.  He raised the ladder—likely so she couldn’t get back on it—and went about attending to the horses.  She trailed after him like a shadow.  “I want to help,” she declared.

                “My lady, you should get back to the manor,” he said instead.

                She made a face.  “They want me to learn _embroidery_ and practice _table manners_ ,” she protested in horror.

                He rolled his eyes, though she didn’t see him do it.  “I’m sure someone is missing you right now,” he said gently.

                She ignored this.  “Did it _hurt_ , though?” she asked him again.

                “Falling off a ladder when I should have been practicing table manners?” he inquired.

                Kylie scowled.  “The things on your skin,” she said, pointing at him.

                He picked up a brush, and went over to one of the horses that had just gotten back.  A towel was nearby already, and he toweled the animal off first—it was covered in sweat.  She was shocked when she discovered that this slave was ignoring her.

                “I’m your master’s niece,” she complained, irritated that he was ignoring her like this.

                “But not my master,” he answered, and her jaw dropped.

                “But… but…” she stuttered.

 

                Annalkylie—that was the girl’s name.  His master had told him all of their names, once, but he had only seen his master’s brother, Iden, and Agasius, his nephew.  Agasius had a twin and an older sister who was wed earlier this year, but this must be the youngest.

                Fenris had been told, in no uncertain terms, that just because someone was his superior, it did not make them his master.  Danarius had told him that he had but one master, and he was to serve that one master, and anyone he was told, explicitly, to obey.  Short of that, he answered to one person alone, and was simply courteous and respectful to any others.  A bodyguard wasn’t particularly useful if they bowed and scraped to everyone, now were they?

                It granted him certain… privileges that the other slaves would never have.  And certain disadvantages—he would have to deal with the inevitability of some other magister not liking that he wasn’t bowing and scraping to them too someday.

                Danarius had told him to take care of the horses.  Just a reminder that he was a slave before he was his bodyguard, first and foremost.  It wouldn’t do, after all, to give him too much special treatment.  But he didn’t mind the horses so much.  They were simpler than people, easy to be around, and with.  The horses were greedily tucking into their freshly filled troughs, or drinking from the buckets.  So much work to be done…

                The girl, though, was kind of amusing, in her own way.

                “But… but…” she stammered, clearly confused.

                “My lady, if you don’t go back to the manor yourself, I’m afraid I will have to escort you.”

                She made a face.  “You can’t do anything to me,” she snapped.

                Spoiled little thing.  Curious and adventurous, and with no interest in feminine arts, but spoiled.  She had grown up with slaves in the household, though.  She thought nothing of slavery, nothing of others bowing to her every whim.  It was to be expected that she should react the way that she was.

                He chose not to respond, and that seemed to frustrate her more.  She sighed, and sat down in a flustered heap on a short stepping stool.  She pouted for a while, then walked back to him by the time he had moved on to the next horse.  “What’s your name?” she asked him.  “I’m Kylie.”

                “Fenris,” he answered.

                “’Fenris,’” she echoed.  “I’ve never heard that name before.”  She blinked up at him, and spent the remainder of the time in the barn seemingly being as underfoot as possible, but she did follow him outside, and by then it was dark.  She looked around outside, staring up at the stars, stopping in her tracks to look around, as if seeing the yard for the first time.  “It looks so different after dark.”

                “I’ll walk you back to the manor,” he offered, thinking suddenly that it might be frightening for such a young child by herself.  A young, possibly very sheltered child.

                She made a face.  “I’m not a baby—I don’t need someone to—“  In the distance, a wolf howled, and she jumped, clinging suddenly to his leg with a cry.  “Agasius—Agasius says wolves eat little kids!”

                Her little hands clutched his wrist, looking up at him desperately, her blue eyes wide with dread.  “’Fenris’ means ‘little wolf,’” he told her, his voice gentle, despite that he was teasing her.  She was touching the markings, though, and—what was more—didn’t even seem to notice it, let alone care.

                She stared up at him.  “You’re not going to eat me, are you,” she said, dubious.  Whatever he was going to say was lost when another wolf howled—or maybe it was the same one—and she shrieked in terror, and made a failed attempt to climb up his torso, as if being off the ground would help her.

                He dislodged the frightened child.  “They won’t come past the fence—don’t worry,” he found himself assuring her.

                She made a whining noise, and sniffed, but nodded bravely.  “All right.  But… can we run to the manor?”

                Fenris was not in the mood to indulge her—and never really would be for that matter, but, he thought of an alternative just as quickly.  “But they’ll see you better if you run.  So walk slowly,” he told her.

                So she did, alongside him, still occasionally clinging to him when a wolf howled, but getting better the closer to the manor they got.  “You’re not little,” she complained.

                “Sorry?”

                Annalkylie looked up at him.  “Elves are supposed to be shorter than you are.  How are you a ‘ _little_ wolf’?” she demanded.

                _Good question_.  “What does your name mean?”

                She blinked.  “I…  I don’t know,” she admitted, and lost track of the conversation in the way of a five-year old.  When they were within sight of the door, she abruptly abandoned him, running to the manor like he had told her not to, and disappeared inside, hungry no doubt.  She would likely be scolded and sent to bed rather than fed though.

                And she would deserve it, doubtless.

 

                As the weeks went by, Danarius did agree that the children lent a certain… quality to the house.  It was nice; it felt more lived-in.

                There was a difference in a household between a single man and a family, even if the house was the same size.

                The children seemed to fill it, with their laughter, with their fighting, and teasing, and play.  Agasius was serious, mannered, and more than knew that his role in life was the family heir, and took that task to heart.  Caleigh was a perfect lady in every way, just like her older sister, Cristabelle, who she adored.  They were making plans for Caleigh to wed in a few years, and Caleigh was accepting training for marriage with gusto—there was much to learn about being the lady of a house, even if she did marry well, which she would.  Little Annalkylie, though, was another story entirely.

                Much to the dismay of her parents, she had no interest in the womanly arts her sisters excelled at.  She did not see her place in the world as clearly as her brother did.  Rather, she was more interested in the forbidden.  Not to say that she was interested in something evil, simply _forbidden_.

                But she kept tearing her dresses climbing the apple trees, and when Iden put a stop to it, she pestered and begged the guardsmen for archery lessons until she found someone willing.  When that, too, was put a stop to, she only moved on to the next forbidden fruit.

                “You should just stop forbidding her things; she’d lose interest in it,” Danarius advised his younger brother.

                Iden made a face.  “My lady wife disagrees.”  He sighed deeply.  “I don’t understand it.  Her sisters were never this… unruly.”

                Annalkylie _was_ unruly--and headstrong and determined.  She would make an excellent mage, if that is what she turned out to be.  It was still possible, after all, and not unlikely.  “Perhaps it’s a phase and she will grow out of it,” the magister said reasonably.

                “Grow out of being herself?  She’s always been like this,” Iden complained, and moved over to the window.  The two brothers were as alike as they were different.  Iden had always been a “second son,” as it were, in every way—knowing he would inherit nothing his brother did not grant him, and more disappointing still to have not been a mage.  Yet still, the pair looked very much alike, with the same pale blue eyes and looking very much like their father.  Iden, however, had the blonde hair that was most prominent in his family, whereas the older brother’s was brown.  “I see she’s skipping her lessons again.”

                “Shall I send a servant to collect her?” he inquired.

                Iden shook his head.  “No; she’ll throw a fit.  But I’ll have a talk with her afterward.”  A pause ensued, and Danarius glanced out the window.  Annalkylie was standing on the fence, watching Fenris and Taggart try to hit each other with blunted swords.  “She likes to watch that slave of yours—she likes to watch for when he glows.”

                “Fenris,” the magister supplied.

                Iden frowned.  “That can’t be his real name.”

                “It is now.”

                His brother cocked his head, looking at him sidelong.  “Was his real name so terrible that you had to change it?”

                _Almost_.  “It was simply more… convenient this way.  And I feel it suits him.”

                Iden frowned.  “I’ve heard a lot of… rumours about ‘Fenris’.  Are they true?”

                “Which ones?” Danarius asked wearily.  He had heard a score of rumours as well, and a lot of them were nothing but fiction.  Oh, how servants gossiped though…

                He blinked.  “Well—can he walk through walls?”

                Danarius almost laughed, then thought about it.  “He can put his hand through a man’s chest, and bypass armor.”  Things they had learned, with pig corpses primarily.  He’d like to see it on a real person one day, and had every intention of making this so.  Fenris was learning how to pick and choose _what_ he could phase through, and for the most part it was going well.  “I suppose it wouldn’t be _impossible_ for him to walk through a wall; he’s fallen through the floor a few times—by accident.”  He frowned.  “But, right now, he would probably destroy it in the process, so I don’t recommend it.”  _At least for the moment, but he’s still learning._   Danarius could coach Fenris a little with the ability; casting it had granted him certain insights, even though a lot of it was a mystery to him.  Still, he did understand the basic mechanics of it, and he understood, generally speaking, what it did.  Fenris’ ability was remarkably similar what it was like in the Fade, and in that regard, he could help his slave.  Only a few months ago, Fenris had figured out how to keep his clothes on when he did it—that had been amusing enough at first.  Presently, he was working on plucking out items from a desk drawer without destroying the desk—an interesting ability.  He seemed to, for the most part, have mastery over his hands but when it went up past his elbow, sometimes something was ruined.  He lamented that Fenris had such trouble in the beginning with it; falling through the floor had scared him enough to be extremely reluctant to practice, but in the end, Fenris would rather break his leg again than risk displeasing or even merely disappointing his master.

                “What about the rumours about him bleeding lyrium?”

                He snorted.  “Hardly.  You could, I suppose, compare it to a tattoo, if you must.  Slicing open the lyrium won’t make it drain out any more than an ink from a tattoo would spill out.”  Pretty piece of work, that one.  Lyrium, no matter how it was refined or what it was mixed with, would never be ink.  And making sure it couldn’t be marred by cuts was just another delicate intricacy he had written into the Ritual.  After all, if a mark became flawed…  Well, the markings weren’t random, and even though it was a design, it wasn’t purely art.  Each stroke had a meaning, and if one stroke were removed or marred, it would disrupt the meaning.  It was like a language—in one dialect, one could say, “Where is the privy?”  In another dialect, the same words might translate to, “Go stick your head in a privy”.  In a word, if it could be marred, everything about the lyrium would change—maybe for better, maybe for worse.  But change right now was not something Danarius would welcome.  Or Fenris either for that matter.

                He frowned.  “Then it’s all lies?” Iden wondered, sounding distinctly disappointed.

                Danarius shifted in the chair, knitting his fingers together.  “Not at all.  Fenris is a skilled warrior, and the lyrium did grant him a few abilities.  Nothing horribly far-fetched though.”

                Iden seemed unconvinced.  “He can put his fist through a man’s chest, and that’s not ‘far-fetched’?” he demanded. _Well, he’s not a mage…_   “I’ve heard of a fighting style called a ‘spirit warrior.’  Is it anything like that?”

                “Ultimately,” Danarius agreed.  “But not exactly.”

                Iden fell silent, looking more at his daughter than at his brother’s slave.  “A ‘spirit warrior’ is the equivalent of a blood mage, but without magic.”

                It was an innocent enough observation, and one Danarius took great note of.  His brother suspected, but he would suspect.  He was not so naïve to the goings-on as most; his father had been a magister and his brother was a magister.  He had insight most others did not have.  Danarius chose his next words with care.  “So some say.  Though others would argue that reavers are worse, and that has nothing to do with the Fade.”

                “Some would say that Tevinter has more abominations than other countries.  But perhaps those some are untraveled,” he observed.

                That was practically an accusation.  The magister’s eyes narrowed.  “Iden.  Be grateful you’re my brother.  Some have died for less.”

                Iden’s eyes shifted to him.  “I am only observing that what some say is not always true,” he said innocently, and looked back outside.  “You are very defensive.”

                “Is that so.”

                Iden either did not notice his brusque tone of voice, or chose to ignore it—more likely the latter.  “One… notices… that all your slaves in your estate in Minrathous… disappeared,” he said, his tone quiet and gentle, meant to soothe.  Iden had always been diplomatic.

                He’d have to kill him.  If he was going to cause trouble, he would have to go; it was as simple as that.  Not now of course.  No, it would have to be some other time, some other place.  Somewhere where he was not associated.  Or perhaps… nothing so drastic.  There were other ways, after all, of silencing someone.  “Next year at this time, I will leave for Minrathous.  If Annalkylie has not outgrown this phase of hers, perhaps tutorage, away from home in a different setting, will calm and inspire her.”

                Iden stiffened for a moment, and his eyes got a little wider.  He swallowed, and relaxed, but it was a forced effort.  “Perhaps she will calm on her own,” he said curtly, and turned to leave the room.  As he walked past, he paused, and decided to speak.  “You know what you’re doing, Cillian.  But sometimes I wonder if you know all the consequences.  I only say it because I worry about you—nothing more.”  And he turned and walked away, ending the discussion.

 

                Hadriana was happy.

                She had everything she had ever wanted in life.  She had a home again—bed, food, clothes, baths…  Simple things she now appreciated like only weeks of homelessness can make a person appreciate it.  More than any of that, though, her master had a genuine interest in her, praised her, and had higher expectations and hopes for her than simply to marry a fat merchant.  That was the best part of the whole thing; she would never be forced to such things again. 

                She was a mage.  One day, she would be a magister.  She felt that future with a sense of certainty and enthusiasm she had never felt before.  She carried herself with a sense of dignity, command, and self-confidence she had never felt before she had met Danarius.  It was heart-lifting and sometimes she was filled with glee over it.

                But she had things she had never had too:  Servants, slaves, a certain level of power she had never wielded before in a household.

                And Danarius was insistent that she learn to use it and wield it.

                She had been shy and docile at first, but months had passed, and she grew bolder.  She was no longer shy about ordering the servants, though she rarely saw the slaves… except Fenris.

                She hated Fenris.  Everything about him, actually.  Every time she saw him, she began to feel brimmed with rage over his very existence.  He angered her.  Someone who wasn’t a mage should not command that much power.  It was indecent.  He was leashed lightning, and she didn’t understand why her master didn’t seem to see it, and she was growing bolder, but not bold enough to point it out to him.

                But he was her master’s _pet_ , and she decided it was best to simply be elsewhere when he was near, for the time being.  He was so rarely near, after all, and Danarius didn’t seem to think too much of it that she devoted herself utterly to her many studies.

                Her hair was growing out long and pretty again.  She longed for when it was back to its original length, before she had to cut it all off.  There had been nothing else for it and it was worth it at the time, but sometimes it was embarrassing now, to have hair as short as a boy… when Fenris had hair as long as a woman’s.

                It was past his shoulders now, straight and white as fresh snow.  When he fought, it was braided.  A part of her wanted to burn it all off.  But Danarius seemed to like his hair, and she would do anything for the man that saved her.

                She realized now that she would have died, ultimately, in the streets.  Disease, starvation, dehydration even, exposure—a blade between the ribs even—there were so many ways to die in the streets.  It scared her, just a little, when she really thought about it.

                But then she looked at where she was, and smiled to herself.  It was all worth it, in the end.  She had worked so hard for this, and gone through so much sorrow and heartache.  It was well-worth it.

                “Master?” she said as she stepped into the room.  “You summoned me?”

                Danarius was in his solar that overlooked the garden—it had a splendid view.  “Yes, come and sit, Hadriana.”

                She did, and the two discussed her studies briefly.

                “I was going over your bookkeeping,” he began.  Hadriana straightened.  She was new at it, but learning fast.  She had thought she was doing everything appropriately…  He stood up and went to his desk, and brought back a small file.  He sat, and lifted a piece of paper.  “In the future, this page needs to be behind this one.”  He lifted the second page.

                She frowned, looking at them both.  “Why?  This one—“  She pointed to the first one.  “—is the one that you use.”

                He set both pages down, in the correct order.  “Because when I double check your bookkeeping and look at the files, I will see this page first, and I will think that you transmuted a number or something.  The most recent page needs to go first, even if it is not the one we actually need.  Thus, I might not look at it at all, or think the account is not current.”

                _Receipts_ , she thought with some loathing.  _Money lending._   If he were to glance at it, it would look like the account was not current, but the first page was the tally page for that account.  His filing method made no sense to her.  She frowned, watching him put everything back in the file and set it aside.  She had done all of that yesterday, and she knew he had found it in less than two hours this morning.  She internally debated on the pros and cons of pointing this out to him, as he had obviously not looked over it, and it had obviously not gone unnoticed.  “Certainly,” she said instead.

                “Have you any family to speak of, Hadriana?” he asked her, his voice mild.

                The question caught her off-guard.  Her blue eyes shifted away.  “I… I do.”

                He took a sip of honeyed tea, and set the cup down on its saucer before speaking again.  “Do they know your whereabouts?”

                She paused, and shook her head.  “I told you they turned me out,” she said, uncomfortable to be bringing this up again.

                He either didn’t notice her discomfort, or chose not to bring attention to it by fording on ahead.  Or didn’t care.  “Family is important, Hadriana.  One day, you may find that it is all you have,” he said, voice even and smooth, and sounded perfectly reasonable.

                She wanted to protest.  She wanted to shout, and shake with rage, and tell him how awful they had been to her, how they had turned her away and spurned her.  Rather, she took a long sip of her tea to calm herself, and to buy herself time to collect her thoughts before she answered.  When she did, her voice was cool and detached.  “It was made quite clear to me that they were no family of mine.”

                “Words spoken in anger,” Danarius assured her.  “Write to them.  Tell them that you are well off, and they need not worry for their wayward daughter.  You do not need to do it now.  But… do this.”

                Her lips pursed, and a protest danced in the back of her mind.  She could think of all the things she could say, and wanted to say.  She could say all the petty things she thought about her family, how her spite for them had grown, how angry she was.  But rather, she nodded.  “I will… consider it, master.”

                He looked at her, with such a look that said that he did not entirely believe her.  “Do that, and consider that if they had not turned you out, you would not be here now.”

                She considered his words with care, and grudgingly saw the truth in them, though she did not want to.  Hadriana did not want to thank her family for anything.  “I… see,” she said neutrally, and finished her tea.  “If that is everything, I will return to my studies.”

                “See that you do.”

                She set the cup down, and rose.  She bowed her head, thanked him for his time, and excused herself.  Before she had gotten to the door, he called, “Hadriana.”

                She paused, and looked back.  “Yes?”

                “Send me Fenris.”

                The fingers of one of her hands clenched, then unclenched with effort.  “Of course.”

                She gave the order to the nearest servant she saw, who rushed off immediately.  She felt some resentment that _she_ had been ordered to summon _him_.

                _The spoiled brat_.

                She had to work for everything that she had.  She had been homeless, flea-bitten, lousy with lice, starved, filthy—all of that and more to get where she was now.  And he had one of the best rooms in the manor.  He had good food, a teacher—everything he needed was just given to him.  If Danarius had always treated him like this, he had no idea what hardship was.  He was just a spoiled elven brat, and a slave, and that made it more unfair than anything else.

 

                “You summoned me, Master?” Fenris inquired at the long moment of silence as he stood by the door.  He had never been into the solar, actually.  He wasn’t intimidated by the room, but he definitely was uncertain of what he had been summoned for.  If his master had questions for him, those were usually something that waited until nightfall or the morning—before or after he had gone to his training.  But then, his schedule was so inconsistent…

                “Yes—Fenris, come closer.”  He did, and stopped a few feet away, and stared downwards.  “How confident are you with a sword now?”

                The elf paused, and considered.  Taggart had taken to getting several of the guard to attack him at once, and Fenris got hit sometimes then, but he could hold his ground.  “I am in need of more training, Master,” he said carefully.

                Danarius snorted, but seemed to generally approve of the answer.  “Isn’t everyone,” he muttered.  “Very well—you have another year, after all.”  The magister looked at him, his eyes unreadable even if Fenris had looked up to see them, which he did not.  “Come closer.”  Wondering what his master could desire, Fenris did as bidden, stopping just within arm’s reach.  “One more step.  Good.”  And Danarius pulled a small knife from a sheath at his belt.  Not particularly pretty, but good steel.  “Extend your left arm toward me.”

                Having a pretty good idea of what was going to happen, Fenris obediently did it anyway.  He watched the blade move.  Danarius made no point of hiding what he had intended, nor did he make any show of it.  He simply reached out with the his knife-hand, pressed the tip against Fenris’ forearm, and slashed shallowly across it, slicing through the lyrium markings.  Fenris flinched, but didn’t back away or jump, even though a part of him screamed that he needed to.  Obeying his master was a stronger compulsion than following his instincts.

                Danarius’ free hand hovered over the shallow cut.  The blood steamed and evaporated, coalescing around the mage’s hand.  His fingers flexed, and a small smile spread across his face, and even touched his eyes as the odd red steam-like substance seemed to vanish.  “You really are my favourite pet, Fenris,” he said, sounding pleased but Fenris couldn’t think of why.  “Bind that, and go back to your training.”  With that, he dismissed him.

                Blood trickled down Fenris’ arm, and he tried to keep it from dripping to the floor as he walked to the infirmary—a place he had cause to visit on many occasion in the past.  The woman there bound his arm, and he went back out to the field, and resumed, exactly as bidden.

 

                The amount of power from just that shallow cut had been enormous.  There were a couple of reasons that Fenris supplied more power than an ordinary person would to Danarius though.  For one, there was the lyrium to consider.  For two, Danarius could already use Fenris like a power source just by being in the same vicinity as him.

                Not only would Fenris be useful as a bodyguard, he would be useful to have nearby for duels.  He would be useful to have for simply killing other mages if need be.  And visually striking, of course, and he had seen the way people looked at him; they were afraid of him.  Frightened men were easy to control.  Fenris had so many different, practical uses.

                It had been worth the cost, even the cost of retraining him.  He couldn’t bring him with him to some places if he wasn’t useful, after all.  A bodyguard went with the one they were guarding everywhere—including most restricted areas:  Practical.

                His life’s work, and so much more practical, more real, more awe-inspiring than any scholar’s research.


	51. Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Annalkylie seeks adventure and runs away from home, somehow it falls to Hadriana to find her.

                Annalkylie dropped to the other side of the low wall, and snuck through the stand of trees.  Only once she could no longer see the yard for the trees did she start running.  The sense of adventure thrilled through her.  The unknown, the dangerous, the things forbidden.

                If she were a boy, she would be able to do those things.  If only she had been born a boy…

                But she saw no reason that that should ever stop her.  She continued on anyway, praying for a miracle.  She prayed that someone would find her, take her on some fantastic journey and she could do all the things she had only read about.

                Her parents scolded her for skipping her lessons, but she didn’t want to learn to be a “proper lady”.  She wanted adventure and discovery, and more than she could put into words.

                She had argued and tried to convince them to let her do the things that Agasius did, and they would not listen.  Her uncle seemed more lenient than they, and had been sympathetic to her plight when she had complained to him, and asked him to intervene on her behalf, but her parents had the final ruling, and their word was law to Kylie.

                So she was running away, and she would find her adventure—she was certain of it.

 

                The door to the study burst open suddenly, one of the doors rebounding against the wall.  The magister looked up.  Iden marched through the doorway, distress marking his features.  “Kylie is missing,” he announced without preamble.

                Danarius frowned.  “Missing?” he inquired.

                Iden raked his fingers through his disheveled blonde hair.  “Gone.  The servants have looked everywhere.”

                “Did you check the barn?”  That was where she had been last time—and come back smelling strongly of horse with hay stuck in her flaxen hair.

                He nodded, and began to pace restlessly.  “She’s just… disappeared.”

                The mage’s frown deepened.  “She couldn’t just disappear.”

                “It’s been hours,” Iden insisted.  “She’s _gone_.”

                The magister straightened.  Sunset was only two hours away, but the estate was a very big place, and the child could simply be either moving, or very well hidden—both were completely possible, and the two brothers would know; they had grown up here.  “Very well.  Have the guards search the estate—it’s a big place.  If she hasn’t turned up by nightfall, I’ll send the guard out to look for her.”

 

                But little Annalkylie was not back by nightfall, or even by the next morning with the entire estate scourged, and the guards returned from the wood fruitless, though they were no woodsmen.

                Iden and his wife had been wracked with grief.  Danarius was not so ruffled, but not because he was unconcerned; he had a way of finding her, even if the means was inconvenient enough that he had not resorted to it the night before.

                After the last incident, he had made something for her—a jade bracelet with a jet stone in it.  It was pretty—and he made a gift of it to her.  More importantly, it was new, and she had liked it, so she would be wearing it, he hoped.

                Hadriana had bespelled it to his instructions before he had made a present of the bracelet to Kylie—a spell to find the item again.  It was similar to a phylactery, but it tracked the item instead of the person.  The apprentice had to spend half the night waiting on the spell.  Magic did not always work instantly, and they had to fine tune the compass to the bracelet, and give it a few tests to make absolutely certain that it was working as it should.  They had not expected to need it so soon!

                Unfortunately for Hadriana, it meant that she was the one who had to track it down.  Danarius had smiled, as if bemused, while he told her that she had to go trekking through the woods after the lost child.

                “And bring Fenris,” he had added, almost as an afterthought.  “He can help protect you, and Annalkylie likes him anyway.”

                So here she was.  Tromping through the forest, again.  They brought horses at least.  She would have liked to bring a few more guards, but it was generally agreed to that that was unnecessary.  There were but two more, and an extra palfry.

                They followed Hadriana, who followed the pull of magic, her blue eyes fixed to the spelled compass in her hands, its needle pointing in a direction that was distinctly not northward.

 

                Kylie was lost.  What had seemed a grand adventure the day before, in the warm daylight, had turned to a nightmare when the sun went down and she couldn’t see.  The wolves howled, and terrified her.  Fenris had told her not to be scared of them, and she tried not to be, but they were _scary_.

                The family crest is a howling wolf, she reminded herself.  That hardly mattered to her, but sometimes it made her feel better, sort of.

                But the night had been long.  She had listened to the night, cold and frightened under the boughs of a tree as she listened to the wolves, and the screeching owls.  The other nighttime creatures worried her too, and the creepy-crawly bugs skittered over her, and made her shiver and wish she hadn’t come.  If this was adventure, she was quickly losing her taste for it.

                It was not until an hour or more after dawn and it grew warmer that she even noticed that she had lost the pretty bracelet her uncle had given to her.  She had tried to search for it, but it was just as useless as trying to find home.  She mourned losing such a gift.

                By morning, she was hungry and miserable, and just wanted to go home.  She had tried, but sometime in the night, she had gotten so turned around that she didn’t know what way _was_ the estate.  She had decided to start by looking for water, and when she drank, that seemed to sharpen her hunger.  She had gone in search of food.  It was spring, and there were berries in season, but she didn’t find too many unfortunately, but she ate what she found.  They looked like the sorts she had found in the kitchens or in food, so they should be edible.  She hoped they were, or she’d be in even bigger trouble soon.

                Oh, why had she done this?

                Mother had made her angry.  She had wanted to practice with swords and bows, like Agasius, and Mother had said no.  Kylie had been so angry…  She just wanted to go back home.

 

                Hadriana pushed back the fern leaves, expecting to be confronted with a dirty, hungry little girl.  Rather, she saw nothing.  Well, at first she saw nothing, then she bent and picked up the jade bracelet with a sigh.  All that work, and nothing. 

                She turned to face the guards looking at her.  Fenris was studying the path.

                Danarius was testing her, she knew.  What was the right thing to do right now?  None of them were trackers.  They would need someone skilled at tracking to find tracks from here, or they never would.  It should have been a simple matter once she had found the bracelet; they should not have needed a woodsman.

                “You,” she pointed at one of the guards.  “You come back with me—we’re going to get help and report what we found.”  She looked at the other two—the guard and the slave.  “You.”  She looked at the guard.  “Stay here with the slave.”

                The guard nodded, and glanced at Fenris, then paused.  “What are you looking at?”

                Hadriana had already disregarded the two as she remounted her horse.  Fenris pointed.  “I think those are a child’s footprints in the mud,” he commented.

                The mage stopped, and turned her head in the direction the elf was pointing.  She frowned, and swung off of the horse again.  The mare stayed steady as she walked away from her.  She studied the prints, noticing that they seemed to go off in one direction.  But that didn’t mean the prints would continue, or that the signs would be consistent, and this had to have been hours ago at least.  Fact of the matter, they still needed a good tracker, and she knew that she would be useless for this.  And she would be happy to give the report and send someone else in her stead.

                She frowned to herself as she tried to make another decision.  “Fine then.  Slave, you follow the tracks, and come back here when they stop—see if you can find any sign of her.  And don’t get lost.”

                Fenris turned the horse around, and slogged off along the path.  Hadriana swung back into the saddle, and she and the guard hurried back toward the manor, the three leaving the second guard alone with the palfry.

 

                The prints actually didn’t last very long—he followed them for half an hour at most, guessing parts of the trail because she had seemed to have been on a deer trail for a fair distance.  The girl had scrambled over some rocks, and animals had marred the path.  Fenris was no tracker; he wasn’t particularly good at reading trail signs, but the girl had carved a path a blind man could follow for a while at least.  It stopped at a large pine tree, and he saw a single print leading away from it, but she had been stepping on the stones or something, and he hadn’t seen any other tracks.  Hadriana had been explicit; follow the tracks, see what there was to see, and come back.

                Well…

                He looked at that single print, and thought about it.

                Kylie was just a child, and every moment that she was alone out here was another moment she could be sick, or eat something poisonous, or be “eaten by wolves”.

                It wasn’t exactly disobeying, when he thought about it.

                The branches, though, were too low for the horse.  He hobbled the mare, and went further on foot.  He disliked tromping about in the forest like this completely.  He had to carefully walk over deer pellets, could smell fox piss at one point, and imagined that he was walking through feces and urine with every step.  Not to mention the insects—they were the worst bit of the entire ordeal.  Shoes, he reflected, weren’t such a bad idea.

                He came across a shallow brook, just a little too wide to step across.  He looked up and down its bank for tracks as well as a better way across it.  There—in the mud on the opposite bank, a partial child’s footprint; he was certain of it.

                “Annalkylie!” he called.  The forest gave no answer.

 

                Kylie paused, and looked around herself.  Had she heard something…?  No, she was certain that it was nothing.  Sometimes the wind played tricks, and sounded like a voice when it wasn’t.

                She and the twins had played with echoes once—in the great dining hall when it was empty.  They had shouted, and tried to see what the walls would echo back to them.  She had learned that echoes were strange things, and even though they seemed to fill a void, they only defined it.

                Kylie slogged onward in the direction she sincerely hoped was the manor.  She really wanted to go _home_ though.  She was _tired_ of her uncle’s manor, and she just wanted her room again.

                She was tired of adventure.

                As she headed up a particularly steep hill, she missed a step and fell forward, and tried to keep herself from falling, and in so doing, fell backward instead.  She cried out in alarm as she lost her balance and fell back.  She felt the earth on her back, and she tumbled backward, screaming, rolling.  A blackberry bush caught her, her hair becoming trapped in it, her clothes becoming netted.  The thorns scratched her, and the more she struggled against the vines, the more they seemed to stick.  She wanted to thrash and scream, but something told her to keep calm or she would only make it worse.

                “Annalkylie!”

                She paused, listening.  Had that been a voice?  Someone was looking for her?  Her heart soared.  “Here!  I’m here!” she answered as loudly as she could manage, and struggling in vain against the vines, but she was well and thoroughly stuck.

                “Miss Annalkylie?” a voice inquired, and sounded closer this time.

                She frowned.  That sounded like…  “Here!” she insisted.

                Someone knelt before the bush, and the elf quirked an eyebrow.  “It’s not the season for blackberries,” Fenris pointed out helpfully.

                If he were just a bit closer, and if her legs were free, she would have kicked him in the face for that remark.  Sometimes, he had terrible manners for a slave.  “Help me!” she said piteously instead.

                “I don’t have a knife to cut you free,” he pointed out, and observed the tangled mess she was in.  Was it hopeless?  Would she be trapped in here until he could go get more help?  Her hopes sank.  And she had thought she was rescued…

                “Are you alone?” she asked suddenly, and started pulling at the vines again, but that just seemed to make it worse.

                “They’re stuck—here,” he reached his hands in—delicately—and gently pried the vines from her sleeves.  She held on to his forearms, and he gently helped ease her out of the brambles.  She cried out in pain often when the thorns scratched her bare flesh, or caught.  She was past the point of caring about her clothes, but it hurt when it pulled her hair, and she was bleeding and scratched in several places when he finally pulled her free.  She stared up at him, and her eyes started to well with tears.

                “I’m lost,” she whined, and fell to her knees, exhausted, hungry, and so relieved to have been found that she didn’t know what else to do.  She sobbed, and wiped at her eyes furiously, frustrated that she was crying.  She was a big girl—they don’t cry!  But she was so relieved that all she could do was cry.  She was found, not lost, and soon she would be warm, dry, clean, and fed.

                “Are you hurt?” Fenris asked her, kneeling beside her.

                She wanted to say that she was, but she got the idea that that he didn’t mean cuts and bruises.  Kylie looked at her scratched hands.  “I’m scratched up.  And bleeding.  And I hurt everywhere.”  She looked at him with wide, mournful eyes.

                “Can you walk?”

                “Yeah,” she said glumly, and he led the way back, the way she had come.  She trailed behind him, and he had to stop frequently for her to catch up.  She hinted that he should carry her, but the slave seemed oblivious of her hints, and she felt weird just demanding he do so.  Besides, she could walk.  That was what her feet were _for._

He stopped at the stream, and helped her wash the cuts.  “I look like a ragamuffin, don’t I?” she said, distressed at the thought of Agasius seeing her.  He would tease her endlessly for this.

                “You look like you spent the night lost in the woods alone,” he said diplomatically.

                She pouted.  “A vagabond,” she said dramatically.

                He lifted her to keep her feet out of the water, and set her down gently at the opposite bank.  She watched him for a while, quiet this time, too tired to keep talking.  Kylie watched him step on a centipede, and couldn’t help but giggle at the way he sort of hopped away from it, and seemed to cringe.

                “If you don’t like dirt, why don’t you just wear shoes?” she asked him, her eyes still shining with laughter and lips curved into an amused grin.

                “Why don’t you bring a compass with you next time you run off into the woods?” he suggested, voice amiable.

                She briefly debated on kicking him in the back of the leg… but that was a most unladylike behaviour.  Her mother would have a fit for her even thinking about it, even if he was a slave.  “I’ve heard that when dirt gets under your toenails, it can get infected,” said Kylie cheerfully.

                When she looked up, she saw him make a face, and she smiled, satisfied to herself.  But rather, he countered, “With a compass, one could tell which direction they needed to go to avoid getting lost.”

                She paused, unable to think of a good comeback.  “For a slave, you do a lot of talking back,” she informed him.  He made no reply, as if solely to spite her.  She scowled at him.

                Troubles temporarily forgotten, she darted ahead of him, but stayed well within sight.  She hopped up onto a fallen log, and walked along beside him, arms out for balance.  It was moss-covered, and big enough to be easy to tread upon.

                She came to the end of it, and looked at the small drop to the forest floor, and at the small gap to the next log—this one cutting over the path.  She watched Fenris step over it.  She backed up a bit, and ran, and jumped…

                She landed, and gave a cry of alarm when one of her feet sank through the rotted log.  She scrambled out of it, and dropped to the ground.  Fenris was watching her, bemused.  Her face reddened.  “What are you looking at?” she demanded.

                He shook his head, and continued forward.  She doggedly trailed after him, until she heard the angry buzzing.

                Something stung her, and she looked about herself, and shrieked in mortal terror.  “Eeeek!” she cried, and ran, screaming, through the woods, the angry hornets chasing after her, stinging and buzzing madly.

                “Stop screaming!” Fenris cried out, but she couldn’t seem to help it; she kept screaming, and yelling, crying when they stung her.  She crashed into a stream, and splashed water furiously all around her, stopping sometimes to listen, only to start up again.  Finally, the hornets receded.  She turned and went to climb out of the stream, but slipped and fell in the water, landing on her rear end.  She was completely soaked now, and shivering, in pain.

                She heard the elf sigh, and picked her up again.  He set her down on the stream bank.  “Did you get stung?” he asked her.

                Her lower lip quivered, eyes watering.  She nodded.  “Uh-huh,” she said, and showed him her arms.

                He knelt, and seemed to consider.

 

                _Mud,_ he thought, _would help with the swelling and the itching._   He wasn’t sure why he knew that.  Was it… was it something from his past, so clouded in mystery to him?  There was no way to know.  Perhaps it was just knowledge—the same way he had woken up knowing how to speak but not knowing his name.

                Fenris let the matter go, and knelt, getting the soil by the stream wet enough to make mud.  She watched him curiously.  He took her arms, and dabbed mud onto them.

                “Hey—that…  That feels better,” she said suddenly.  He said nothing in reply, and looked at her face, checking for any more stings.  Most of it seemed to be on her arms though.  “Why didn’t they sting you?” she asked as he dabbed a bit more mud on her arm.

                “They did,” he answered, inspecting her for any more stings.  Finding none, he started on himself.  Two stings—both on his arms.  She had over half a dozen, and they were swelling and red.  She was shaky enough to stumble as she walked beside him, and on the steeper slopes, he picked her up and carried her.

                By the time he reached the horse, she had her arms wrapped in a half-strangle hold around his neck, and was crying.  From pain, relief, or terror over all of her ordeals, he couldn’t say; she was just a child after all.

                He pried her off of him, and set her on the horse.

                “He’s too big for me!” she complained, sitting side-saddle.

                Fenris took the bit.  “A young lady like you?  Nonsense.”  And that made her fall silent as she felt determined to ride in the saddle.  He did not quite make it back to the place he had parted with the others when the dogs found him.  They barked excitedly, slobbering.  Their handlers came next, on foot, followed by a few guardsmen and even Serrah Iden.

                The man pushed his way to the forefront when he spied his youngest daughter.  “Kylie!” he said, the relief evident on his face.

                “Papa!” she cried, and reached her arms out, but the drop was too far for her to get out of the saddle.  No matter; the man went to her and lifted her out of the saddle.  She held her father, and cried, and he breathed in relief that she was well.

                He looked at Fenris around his daughter’s head.  “Thank you,” he said, and seemed to mean it, which briefly surprised the elf—both that he meant his thanks and that he had bothered to thank him at all.  Fenris bowed his head, and waited for the party to move on.  He heard the girl and her father talking.  “Why are you covered in mud, little one?”

                “I stepped in a hornet’s nest,” she said.  “I screamed, and ran, and they chased me!  Then I fell in the stream.  Fenris put mud on me.”

                Iden laughed.  “The mud helps when you don’t have anything else.”

                “Will Uncle help with the stings?” she asked, a little hesitant.

                Iden looked at her sternly.  “I’ve half a mind to leave you with them until they heal naturally—you scared all of us, little girl.”

                “I’m not a ‘little girl’!  I’m five!”

                “Of course,” Iden said, as if just remembering.  “A lady grown.”

                Fenris found himself beginning to wonder…  Had he had a family once?  Someone who had cared about him, the same way that Iden and Annalkylie cared for one another?

                Just as quickly, he dismissed the idea.  It was ludicrous.  Even if he _did_ have a family, what did it matter?  He was here now.  All that mattered now was pleasing his master, no matter his shadowed past.

                Danarius praised him—if briefly—for the task completed and well.  It made him… not happy exactly, but was it pride he felt?  He was finally able to _do something_.  Something _useful_.  It was a good feeling.  He wanted to be sure not to lose it.

 

                Iden and his family left with the summer, but on somewhat lukewarm terms.  Annalkylie wanted to come back the next year, but her mother told her that her uncle would be moving back to the city by then.  She was disappointed for all of ten minutes before she said, “I wouldn’t mind visiting _there_ —I want to see the _ocean_ ,” she insisted.

                “Perhaps,” Iden had said idly.

                The brothers discussed it, but left the matter open-ended.  Things were still precarious between them after Iden’s accusations of blood magic.

                That summer was much hotter than others—and the magister was glad he wasn’t in Minrathous for it, though that didn’t help his paperwork any.  Rather, it just seemed to stack. 

                One of his slaves in a brothel had gone “missing.”  It had been two days by the time they had bothered to report to him.  Either they had found the girl by now, or she was gone for good.  It was a wound to his pride—but a small one.  She could have just as easily been abducted by some admirer, and they would find her chopped up corpse somewhere, eventually.

                Another report was just about repairs after some stupid slave boy tripped, knocked over a lantern, and set an expensive silk rug on fire.

                It seemed like a day couldn’t pass that nothing _interesting_ happened.  He ordained the boy be beaten for the price of the rug, and moved to the yard where he was less likely to burn down expensive things.

                This would go much more smoothly once he was back in Minrathous.  His steward there would attend the more intimate matters, for the time being, but the final say was always the magister’s.

                _Anyone could do this.  It doesn’t have to be me,_ he thought, scanning another report.  This one was not from his personal reports—the businesses he owned and the like—but a city report, over the district he ruled.  There were judges and guardsmen, and they oversaw much of the goings-on, but some things he had to have a hand in.  It just never ended.

                A knock on the door prompted him to leave the reports alone for the time being.  “Come in,” he called, and looked up expectantly.  It was Hadriana.  She would be pretty when she was older, he imagined.  She looked so different than she had when he had met her—flea bitten, lousy, filthy.  Now, she looked properly a magister’s apprentice.

                She bowed her head respectfully.  “Serrah,” she said, and raised her head to meet his eyes—something no one else in the household had the privilege to do since Iden left with his family.  “You summoned me?”

                “Yes…” he drawled, and set the report down in its stack, neatly.  His fingers laced together, placed on top of his desk.  “Fenris fainted yesterday.”

                She barely blinked.  “I see,” she said noncommittally.  “Sunstroke is not uncommon, serrah.”

                Danarius’ lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line.  “Seems he hadn’t eaten in two days before then—then spent all day in the sun.”

                She remained resolute.  “I see.”

                Danarius leaned back in the chair.  “I don’t care if you want to teach him a lesson now and again and keep the lad in his place.”  He watched her for a moment.  “Or any of the slaves or servants for that matter—you are above them, and it is your right.”  He cocked his head to the side.  “What I don’t approve of is starving him and sending him out in this heat.”  He frowned.  “He fell off of a horse.  He could have broken his neck, and my little wolf was expensive.”  _That was how my father died, more or less._

                She looked down.  “I…  I apologize, Master.”

                “Let him resume his meals.”  He considered for a moment.  “Rather, from now on, Hadriana—I want to put you in charge of all of my slaves.  Make their schedule.  Plan what you will have them do each day, including Fenris.  Remember that I want him to spend most of his time training, and that his schedule needs to change day to day.”

                She seemed thoughtful, and nodded.  “I will work on this at once, Master.  Is there anything more?”  
                He shook his head.  “No—dismissed, Hadriana.”

                She bowed, and excused herself.

 

                Hadriana was pleased by this, actually.  She relished being in charge, now that she was becoming more confident.  She liked planning out schedules, and giving orders.  She enjoyed it.

                She worked on the slaves’ schedules immediately.  There were certain things that needed to be done, certain works overseen.  Other things that were sometimes neglected she intended to get done immediately.  When that was finished, she moved on to Fenris.

                Why was he so special anyway?  She had half a mind to send him to the vineyard along with the rest of the slaves—it was where he belonged.

                Her master treated the elf in such high regard.  Why?  He was an _elf_.  True, there were the markings to consider.  It was Danarius’ life’s work.  That wasn’t the point though.  Danarius treated him like a prized possession.  What if that made Fenris cocky and arrogant?  She had every intention of seeing any hint of that put down.

                She made a rigorous training schedule for him, designed to see him exhausted by the day’s end and up at dawn again the next day—each day rotating what was done.  She posted a question to her master, and her plan was approved.  A week later, she sent Fenris to the vineyard.

 

                Fenris fell into the bed, and a part of him died for the simple act.

                He curled into a loose ball, eyes open and uncaring.  He had been working in the vineyard for a few hours every day for the past week, after sword practice.  It wasn’t that he hated the work—he did, but that wasn’t the point.

                He felt dead inside because of the misery he saw every day.  Because of how little they had to eat, because of the sunken looks in their eyes.  Because his clothes were clean every day, he had a bath at the end of the day, because he was fed a real meal, and they ate from the same trough as the dogs.  He was laying on a bed stuffed with goose down and linen sheets.  They slept on a narrow wooden pallet on the beaten earth in a shack.

                Fenris knew it was just his master’s fancy to have him inside the manor, in such conditions, and that he had no real say in it.  But he hated that it was him, when there were so many other people who could use the warmth, the bath, the food, the clothes more.

                He knew this was just how it was.  He knew there was nothing else, could never be anything else.  He _knew_ that.  But…  A part of him still broke for it.  His heart still ached for all of it.

                But… no.

                This was their existence.  Everything was exactly how it had always been.  There was nothing wrong with it.

                Was there?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually really like Kylie, which is rare for me. She brings out a good side of Fenris too, and I feel like it gives his character a little more depth when we "see" him interacting with Danarius' niece. I like showing all the different aspects of a single character through multiple other character's viewpoints. It's interesting, to me, how a person will act with different people and alone. More interesting still, is how different people will describe the same person in different ways, and see different aspects of their personality that another might never see.
> 
> If you don't like Kylie, don't worry, because Fenris won't like her much either by the time her part in the story comes to an end.


	52. Ashes to Ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the anniversary of his wife's death, Danarius is once again drowning his sorrows with alcohol, which of course ends badly for Fenris. Hadriana learns of a tragedy.

                Summer went on toward fall and the season ebbed toward winter.  _Winter chases summer, with fall and spring between them to keep them apart_.

                Something about it sounded familiar.  Maybe Fenris had heard a servant telling a story or something.  It sounded like a story, or like it should be a story, but he didn’t remember it.  Just something about the seasons.  It seemed like a nursery tale to remember the seasons, that was all—a simple tale for children.  That thought made him wonder.

                The hole in his memory wasn’t gone as if it never was.  It would be far kinder if that were so.  His mind was not a house whose wall had been brought down and made as if it had never been; it was a house missing a floor that was never patched together.  He was aware that it was gone, in the same sense one could see that a floor had rotted away.  But it was just as substantial, and the feeling was even more useless.

                There was little use in dwelling on it though, so he frequently did not.  Sometimes, a thought here, a comment there, would threaten to sound familiar, but that was all.  He had learned to disregard it; it never came to anything, so why bother?

                Danarius was happy with him.  That was all that really mattered.  He had offhandedly commented that Fenris had become everything he desired of him, and ahead of schedule.

                He had come a long way from the half-starved young man who could barely stand up on his own to the man he was now.  It was relieving.

                Fenris watched his master the same way he observed everything else in the room—with a lack of personal interest, but watchful and diligent all the same.  He had only recently been deemed suitable for the task that was to be his ultimate design and function, and glad of it.

                He still spent a couple hours a day practicing swords and other such, but he was no longer sent to the field at least.  Sometimes, he would accompany his master down to the winery, though, or other places.

                He had noticed that, today, Danarius kept staring out at the yard.  The ink had gone dry on the quill in his hand.  Fenris wondered if he noticed; he seemed distracted by something or other.

                Danarius finally seemed to notice the quill in his hand, and looked at it as if it had suddenly appeared there.  He looked at it for a longer moment, then set it down, wiping his hands of the small ink stain on a cloth.  It was mostly dry, though, but the man didn’t even seem to notice it.  He wasn’t noticing much today, it appeared.  And those were the days Fenris needed to notice more than usual and be especially alert.

                The magister sighed, and leaned back in the chair, sliding a ring off of his finger, and stared at it as if it were the only thing in the world.  All this Fenris watched, attentively, from the corner of his eye.

                “Fenris.”  The elf blinked, turning his head toward his master automatically, but not looking directly at him; that was rude.  “Leave me.”

                He bowed, and took his leave without a word, and waited outside the door.  He hadn’t dismissed him, after all, or given him some other duty.

                It was a long time before the door opened, and the magister breezed past his slave without even seeming to see him.  But that was fine.  Slaves should pass their existence as such.

                Fenris didn’t even hesitate; he followed him.  A poor bodyguard he would be if he didn’t, and his master said nothing of it.  He followed the magister down the hall, down the steps, another hall, and out the back door to the garden.  He didn’t linger here, though; he walked through it.  The gate was closed, and Danarius stopped to open it.  Fenris would have stepped in front of him to do so, but the path was narrow here, and he couldn’t politely get around.  He saw movement out of the corner of his eye, and turned to look.  A lop-eared rabbit nibbled delicately on a clover.  The creature had best get out of the garden though—they were pests here, after all, but they did taste good.

                Danarius was passing through the gate, and Fenris was quick to follow after him.  Down another path, and the magister produced a key to this gate.  The wall was low enough that the gate was, in truth, reduced to a nicety, but it had a key all the same.  He pushed that open too, and seemed so distracted by whatever was on his mind that he left the key in the gate, and only the wind blew it shut.  Fenris hesitated.  This was his master’s family graveyard.  He waited at the gate, to give him some semblance of privacy.

                He looked away, but saw out of the corner of his eye when he stopped in front of a particular grave, and looked down at the plate affixed to the headstone.  Fenris turned his head to look at it.  It was a statue, like many of the others.  Some were bells, weeping saints, holy symbols, and other such.  Toward the back, there was even a large and very old sepulcher.  But the one he had stopped at seemed different somehow.  It was stonework, like all the rest, and at first the elf assumed that the statue must be a saint of some sort, but the way Danarius was staring at it implied otherwise.  He was pretty sure this was the same statue he had stopped before at about this same time last year.

                Weather had worn down most of the finer details, but he could see that the stone woman was not beautiful.  Comely, yes, but not beautiful.  If it were simply artwork, it would have strained for perfection; this was more than artwork.  That statue had been someone once, most likely, and not just a fanciful design.  The stone woman held a bundle in her arms that was clearly meant to be a child.

                Maybe it was the person in the grave.

                Danarius stood, and looked at it for a long, long time.  Fenris shifted from one foot to the other, and looked about the yard.  He watched a cloud drift by, thought he may have seen a deer in the forest.  A young colt in the field was running.  He shifted, but the other way lay the vineyard, and he could never look at the vineyard for long these days if he could help it.  The work they endured, the rations, the conditions…  No, he couldn’t bear to watch it.

                The gate opened again, and Danarius locked it, and took the key.  He heard his master sigh, and trudge back to the manor.  Fenris followed.

                But he didn’t go back to the study, or his quarters.  Rather, he went into the east wing, and climbed the stair, up to a place Fenris had heard about but never been, all the while muttering to himself about how he was too old for this, and should just send someone else to do it.  But he did it anyway, and climbed every single step.  The door’s hinges were so rusted that the door was difficult to open for him.

                “Fenris,” he said, taking a few steps back on the landing, and gestured to the door.  The elf heaved against it.  It grated, and its hinges voiced their complaints, but he shoved the door open when he threw all of his weight into it—with more than a little straining.  He held it open as his master went inside.  Everything was covered in a fine layer of dust.

                Danarius walked to a window, and shoved back the curtains to let in the light, doing the same with the others, then turned back to the room.  Sunlight filtered through the faded drapes and the dirty glass.  The room was littered with old furniture, antiques, and numerous wooden boxes.  Most everything was covered in a draping, which in turn was covered in a thick mantle of dust.  The magister stopped at a large four-poster bed, running a finger along the carvings, the digit coming away grey with dust.  He stopped for a moment, and looked at the carved figures, pained.  The carvings he traced were of horses—galloping horses, rearing horses.  A young girl’s bed, Fenris assumed, by the faded pink paint.  There was a long, heavy chain affixed to the floor near the bed, and he shivered.

                _Why,_ he wondered, _was there a chain by the bed?_ He watched his master as he turned from it, stepping over the chain as he passed.  _No,_ the elf realized.  _Who was the chain for?_

                The magister disappeared behind a curve of the wall, and Fenris was quick to follow him should he be needed.  Danarius stood frowning at a large, heavy trunk.  “Fenris,” he said again, and nodded to the trunk.  The elf bent, and pulled it out of the way enough for his master to get by it.  He stood several feet away, and watched his master peel a drapery off of a large, heavy painting.  It raised a lot of dust, and the magister coughed and choked.  Fenris felt his eyes water for a moment, then sneezed as the dust plumed.

                Danarius cursed, dropping the drapery, which of course just made it worse for both of them until the dust settled.  Fenris held his breath until he couldn’t any more, and the worst of it had seemed to pass.

                The magister lifted the large painting in its gilded frame, and set it on top of a nearby surface that may have been a table or a desk—it was covered in a drapery too.  In the dim light, Fenris couldn’t help but look at the painting, watched his master’s hand reach out, and touch it gently, almost reverently.  No… lovingly.

                The painter had managed to capture the life in the woman’s eyes, the smile she almost managed to conceal.  She wasn’t beautiful, but something about the life and laughter in her face made her lovely.

                If he had been able to see his master’s face he would have seen something else—pain.

                But the man turned away from it, and the look was gone.  “Pick it up—carry it down the stairs.  If you damage it, elf…”  His eyes narrowed dangerously.  “Don’t damage it.”  He breezed past him, leaving Fenris to manage the big painting by himself.  He heard him begin the descent down the stairs, and sighed, staring at the big painting.  He lifted it, experimentally, trying to figure out the best way to carry it.  It wasn’t that it was incredibly heavy; it was awkward; all the weight was along the outside, after all, on the frame.

                But he managed to lug the awkward painting all the way down the stairs, and was relieved to find a pair of servants waiting at the bottom, who took the painting from him wordlessly, and hurried off.

                Fenris found his master again in the study, all trace of whim gone from him—strictly back to business again.

                Or so it would seem.

                As the day wore on, and Danarius struggled to catch up on his paperwork with the time he had wasted away, the hour grew late.  The magister ultimately gave up on the matter, and called for a light supper, and sent Fenris away to eat.

                The elf came back later; he still hadn’t been dismissed.

                He was right where he had left him—one stack of papers had simply grown larger than the other in the time he had been gone.

                Danarius stopped what he was doing, and turned, and looked at Fenris, studying him the way he sometimes did, half admiration, half… something else?  And the magister took a long drink of his wine, and emptied the glass.  He glanced at the empty contents, then to the bottle.  “Fenris,” he called him.

                The elf approached him, and saw his master’s eyes flick to the bottle.  The elf lifted it, gently in both hands, and refilled the glass, and set it back down, and moved back to where he had been standing before.

                The contents of the glass was gone very quickly.  _He’s drunk_ , Fenris thought reflectively.  Or close to it.  The magister was staring at him again, and seemed to be thinking about something.

                “Fenris,” he said again.  The elf went to the bottle, and poured the last of it.  He hoped he hadn’t drank the entire thing.  That was a good way to get sick, and then Fenris would have to listen to the vomiting that would doubtless ensue.  The magister didn’t eat that much normally…  “Fenris.”  The elf paused, wondering what more he could want from him.  To fetch another bottle, perhaps?  The magister sat in the chair, the glass in one hand.  “Kneel.”

                It wasn’t such a strange command, and he knelt in front of him.  Danarius drank, and set the glass down, empty.  His hand touched the side of Fenris’ face.  It was warm with drink.  Instinctively, he wanted to shy away from it; for the past year and a half all anyone had tried to do with him is shy away from his touch.  In the end, he had only learned to shun others the same way, for their sake.

                But it was his master’s hand, and he did not do it.  His master lifted his head with two fingers under his chin, between the markings there.  “It’s been entirely too long,” he murmured.  Fenris had no idea what he was talking about… and it made him uneasy.  The magister’s fingertips touched his lips, and the elf’s stomach tightened involuntarily.  His fingers pushed against his lips, and Fenris understood a little of what was wanted.  His lips parted  “Keep your teeth away.”  His finger pushed into his mouth, against his teeth, and they opened, just a little.  “But use your tongue, and as much saliva as you can manage.”  Fenris still felt horribly confused.  “The farther back into your mouth, the better, my pet.”  He pushed his fingers back into his mouth until Fenris gagged unexpectedly, and the magister smiled, just a little bit, his fingers running against his tongue.  They tasted like ink.  “Use your hands.”  His finger rubbed along his tongue.  Fenris swallowed hard, but carefully with his finger in his mouth.  Something about this…  It made him wish he had stayed in his quarters, even if it were wrong to do so.  “Whatever you can’t fit in your mouth, put in your hands.”  The elf had no idea what he could possibly be talking about.  But it sounded like…  No…  No, it couldn’t…

                But it was, and the magister lifted the robes, his finger leaving his pet’s mouth, his hand gripping him by his long white hair, and pulled him forward.  Fenris didn’t even cry out in alarm, not even when he pushed him down in his lap.  He took a deep breath, and understood the instructions his master had given him.

                His eyes slid closed, but his mouth opened, his hands raising to help him.  His master’s fingers tightened in his hair as he moved, breathing from his nose.  He gagged more than once and it was more in his mind than in his body—he almost never choked on anything--and his eyes watered.  But as he forced him to move faster, he knew he had to be approaching an end.

                He hated it.  He had never been more sure of anything in what life he remembered, but he hated it.

                And at the same time… didn’t hate it.

                Some part of him hated it more than anything, with a cold certainty.  And another part… another part just saw it was his duty; something else he had to do.  It was no different than standing at attention, than carrying the portrait earlier.  It was just something he had to do.  Eventually, that part buried the hatred he felt.  If he hated, it would fester, so he suppressed the feeling, buried it.  It was no use to him here, and never would be of use to him.

                Hatred and anger were things he had no use for.  He was a slave.  If Danarius wanted him for this, he had no choice but to obey.  If he wanted him for this, or to work his vineyard again, that was his entire existence:  To serve.

                And he remembered that when he forced himself hard against the back of his throat, and he gagged, and choked, and his master hissed at him to swallow before he vomited, and he did, barely capable of the act.  His throat continued to convulse, and he fought down the panic, his nose against the cluster of hair at the base.  He tasted bile in the back of his throat, among other things.  He made himself calm, and with the calm, his throat relaxed.  The compunction to gag left him as his heart stilled.

                It wasn’t so much an act of swallowing as letting it run down his throat, and he wilted in his mouth.  Danarius pushed him back, sending Fenris toppling backwards, unbalanced.  He automatically swiped at his lips, and swallowed several times.  He thought he tasted bile, and salt.  Danarius took a long, deep breath, and straightened his robes, and smirked, before he went back to his paperwork, as if nothing had ever happened.

                As the days passed, Fenris began to wonder if it ever did happen.

 

                When she had been summoned to her master’s solar, Hadriana hadn’t known what to expect… but not this.

                Strangely, she felt numb.  She didn’t shake, or cry.  She just… felt numb.

                The house had caught fire.  Not the manor, no.  The little house she had shared with her family.  There had been an accident.  Her mouth felt dry as ash.

                There had been no survivors.

                Her master had bade her to sit before he gave her the slip of paper.  He had found her family, against her will, despite that she had done everything she could to hide them.  They were embarrassing, and poor, and her mother was mad with her blind devotion to the Maker.  She was convinced, utterly, that should she have a connection to them, it would ruin her reputation before it even began.  And when he found them, they were dead.

                How many times had she wished for this to happen?  How many times had she wanted her uncaring family dead?  And now they were, and she realized that it had never been at all what she had wanted.

                “I’m sorry,” he told her, voice gentle as ever.

                She scarcely heard him.  “I…”  She set the slip of paper down.  She may have put it in her tea; she wasn’t really looking.  She rose to her feet.  “Forgive me, I must go.”  She bowed, stiff and unseeing, and turned to go.

                “Do you want to go to the village?  It’s not far from here,” he offered.

                “That’s… very kind of you.  But there’s nothing for me there.”  And she left.  In her rooms, she lay on her bed, and cried for all the things she had lost.

 

                As the days passed, Hadriana felt less numb, and more bitter.  Maybe if she had been there, maybe if they hadn’t have kicked her out, unwanted, they wouldn’t all be dead.  Alternately, she also felt like… if she had only gone back and apologized, they would all be alive.

                She had no family any more.  There was just nothing left.  Maybe it didn’t matter, or maybe that was all to the good; what use was a family that scorned her so?

 

                Along with the usual stack of reports consisting of complaints and sniveling, Danarius also received a letter from his brother.  He wrote about his eldest daughter, briefly—how it was recently learned that she was pregnant with her first child.  _Good for her_ , he thought.  And the twins of their schooling and development.  His lady wife.  _Good for all of them._

                But then he got to little Annalkylie, and that was when Danarius straightened in the chair.

                Well, how about that.  Kylie was a mage after all.  At least the bloodline wasn’t running out completely.  It was really for the best that his half-blood child was in Seheron; it would be the gossip of the country that the only mage-born child he could sire was a blind half-elven brat.  Better no children at all.

                He would just have to leave everything to… Kylie, really.  He mulled that thought over for a moment, and went back to the letter.  His brother beseeched him for help finding her a mage to apprentice under.

                The mage considered this.  That was a delicate process.  He thought of the magisters he knew.  Which had apprentices?  Which were willing to take more than one at a time?  Which would be the best tutor?  But most importantly, which could he use?  Kylie could just as quickly become a hostage in some situations as opposed to a sign of favor and political alliance.  Sometimes, the magisters, after all, would go to war against one another.  Usually, it was more common in the country.  In Minrathous, those battles were fought with words and ink.  Sometimes, they were no less bloody though.

                He already had an apprentice.  Besides, the child would do better learning from someone with fewer ties to her family anyway.  She may grow nervous knowing that her teacher was also her uncle, and conversing with her father.  And her family may visit more frequently than would really be necessary…

                It would require some thought.  In the meantime, she had a tutor they had wrestled up from somewhere, but it would only be suitable for her to apprentice to a magister long-term.

                Shame Raith was dead; Danarius would insist upon it.

                He went through half a dozen without coming to any real conclusions.  Well, it would all come in time.

 

                Hadriana was excited.  In spring, they were going to make the journey back to Minrathous—to _live_ there.  Her master had a mansion in the city.  She could scarcely wait.  She had been training so hard—at all her lessons.  Social etiquette, politics, magic—all of it and more.

                The last time she had gone to the city had been as a beggar in rags.  Now… _Now_ , she would be going to it as a magister’s apprentice in fine silks.  She liked to daydream of what her life would be like there, of the things she would do and see, now that she was an apprentice.  She dreamed of the parties, the balls, the feasts, the magical duels, even the coliseum.  Danarius had a penchant for the coliseum.  She could see where it would be interesting to watch people fight for their lives.  Most of the battles weren’t to the death any more, but the captives who could not be tamed were brought there, and they fought to the death.

                Sometimes, they had captured Qunari (this was rare), or escaped recaptured slaves—all facing punishment.  She had studied all about that too, in an effort to impress her master.  He had promised to take her already, as well as the balls and the feasts too.

                Right now, her master was out… hunting.  Frankly, she didn’t know why a mage would be interested in such a sport, but he was off with the dogs and horses right now, a couple servants and slaves too.  She wished him the best of luck murdering some helpless animal.  Hadriana herself was a vegetarian.

                He said that a mage should have a strong body to go with their spells.  She knew that the staffs got heavy sometimes.  Some spells required more movement than others, and the staff had to be raised, lowered, spun, and everything else.  They got _heavy_ , especially with most of the weight just being at one end.  Danarius told her to find a physical activity she enjoyed and work at it.  His was hunting, and archery.  He said it was a bit like casting magic, and wasn’t as strenuous as swordplay.  Hadriana didn’t know what kind of “physical activity” she should do.  She didn’t really like such things.

                When he asked her about it, and she only shrugged, he had gently reminded her of why, and sent her off to practice with her staffs.  She always ended the hour-long sessions coated with sweat and exhausted, complaining that the staff was too heavy to do what needed to be done.  But Danarius flatly refused to cut her a lighter staff, particularly if she didn’t want to do anything physical.

                It seemed backwards to her, and eternally frustrating.  Why was it so wrong that she would rather study?

                She could lose herself for hours in a good book, the way each page seems to send her into a different time and world and before she knew it, an entire day had come and gone, and she would wonder what had happened.

                It was a nice day, so she went out onto the big balcony off of the ballroom—it overlooked the forest, and was filled with potted plants and a few sun shades with the furniture.  She carried a stack of books and set them on a table, and curled up into a chair to read.  She wrote notes on her vellum when applicable, and any time she tired of one subject, switched to the next.  There was so much to learn, and she wanted to know enough to not make a fool of herself or something.  When Danarius got back, he was going to host a party, for a few reasons.  For one, it would keep the magisters from coming to him individually, both to get a gauge on his new apprentice, as well as to see Fenris.  A _good_ social event like that was a show of power—political, financial, and possibly even magical.  It also gave him the chance to use his freshly remodeled ballroom.  Best get it all out of the way at once.

                She only fretted over what she was going to wear, and say—she had better study, so she had a better idea of conversational subjects at least.  It was months off, and still she was nervous.  She couldn’t believe that she had been here for over a year.

                It was… amazing.  She found herself looking northward, the direction of what was her home town.  But the fire took that.  Her family was dead now.

                She bit her lip.  Maybe she should go see their graves.  But… no.  It was nothing.

                She looked back to her book.  This was more important.  The past was gone.  It was her future that needed tending to.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That last sentence in Hadriana's narrative goes for Fenris, too... and really, everyone.


	53. Heart's Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hadriana kindles her hatred for Fenris while she is mocked and ridiculed by others in the Circle. Fenris is party to Danarius' wicked deeds and hates himself for it.

“Wasn’t that expensive?” Varania asked while her mother set down the small package of strawberries.

                “Yes,” she said, making a little bit of a face.  Lura peered at the brightly coloured berries hungrily.  Mieta stared at her, daring her to cross the threshold into the kitchen to try to steal one.  “But it was worth it.”

                Her daughter frowned.  “It’s just food.”

                “Can I have one?” Shaislyn asked, already reaching for them.

                Mieta batted his little hand away.  “Not until after supper.”  He pouted.  Mieta looked at Varania, who had never had a strawberry.  “You won’t say that after you have one.”

                The young mage rolled her eyes.  “Whatever.”

                “Strawberries are delicious, sweetie,” Lura told her, and glanced longingly at the basket.  “But I’ll wait.”

                Mieta smiled, satisfied, but put the basket in a cupboard out of sight while she cooked anyway.  Tonight was special only in that it was the anniversary of the day they had all boarded the ship for Seheron.  Last year, the day had been treated like any other, maybe a comment here and there, but Mieta felt like something more was in order.  Besides, they had a little bit of extra money lately and they never spent it on anything more than what they needed.  It was nice to just enjoy something now and again, and this they could all enjoy equally.  And Varania had never had a strawberry besides!

                So Mieta spent the evening with Varania cooking, and Lura played with Shaislyn.  They sat down to a pleasant meal, and talked.  It was nice, but Mieta had always felt like there was something—someone—forever missing.  The meal was finished, the table cleaned up, and dishes done, and only then did Mieta allow everyone to sit down to dessert.  She had made small cakes and a bit of cream to go with the strawberries.  They were all divided up fairly, and consumed with all seriousness.

                Mieta had a bite of her first strawberry, her toes curling in a girlish glee.  The sweet scent of the fruit, its succulent skin.  The rich, supple texture and juicy interior.  The burst of flavour on her tongue, each time she chewed seeming to only increase the intensity of the flavour.  The juices ran over her mouth, flowing over her tongue.  All of that, complimented by the sweet flavour and smooth texture of the cream.  Such a simple pleasure, but one she had thought, years ago, that she would never have again, and that made it all the sweeter.

                “I had forgotten how _good_ strawberries are,” Lura moaned in delight.

                “Eat it slower, Shaislyn,” Mieta said.  “You should enjoy it.  You never know when we can have some again.”

                The two-year old slowed, with no small amount of effort.  Mieta noticed one person who wasn’t enjoying it as much as the others.  “Varania?  Is something wrong?”

                The girl nudged at her plate a little bit.  “Just… thinking… about Leto.”  Everyone else fell silent, even Shaislyn who only knew him by name.  “And how it’s been two years since we’ve seen him.  And…  I wonder if he’s okay?”

                No one had the answer for that, nor even words of comfort, for the man they knew as their friend, brother, son, uncle—was out of their reach forever, and trapped with a madman for a master.  When they had left, Varania was not the only one who felt like she was abandoning Leto either.

 

                This was going to be Hadriana’s life, at the height of her career.  To see it filled her with a sense of wonder and excitement.  It was a glory to behold.

                They had arrived in Minrathous a fortnight ago, passing between the golems—the Juggernauts--that watched over the city gate, and it had been everything she had dreamed of and more, with her elevated station.

                She was dressed in a gown of flowing silks, and looked very much a proper lady as she went about the party, learning to mingle, sampling delicacies she had never heard of, and different drinks.  She met other apprentices as well as magisters and other high-ranking mages—she had never known there were so many.  Her master was talking with the Archon, and had been insistent that she be introduced.  She had been impossibly nervous, and his two bodyguards were so huge she felt like they could crush her in one hit.

                Hadriana was infinitely less nervous when she was with her fellow apprentices, and they did seem to keep more to themselves.  She noticed that the Altus apprentices had a tendency to talk down to the Laetans.  She understood, very quickly, that this was something she would have to deal with the rest of her life, being Laetan herself—and from a poor family to boot! 

                They played a less intense version of the game they would be expected to play when they were magisters and other high-ranking magi—forming alliances, learning about one another, plotting future betrayals.  Anything for their own gain.  And of course, getting an idea of each individual’s abilities.  Hadriana was careful to mention only very little about herself, as her master had warned her that anything at all she might say could, and likely would be, used against her in the future.  This was not the career for making friends.  It was difficult, because the others would of course ask her, in the politest ways they could manage, one of the Altus boys smiling and flirting with her as he tried to guess her heritage.  But she was used to the cruel ways of other teenagers, and ignored his charming airs for what they were; a cruel way to learn of where she had come from.  Her only answers to him had been “somewhere” and “you haven’t heard of it”.  He had eventually given up.

                She had also discovered that Danarius’ greatest political scandal was a rumor that his Altus bloodline was failing.  It was no great secret amidst the Minrathous mages that he had no children and thus no biological heir.  She realized, quickly, that she needed to fill that position, and she found herself to be heartened and emboldened by this.  There had been so many people he could have chosen, but Danarius had picked her.  The talk of his failing bloodlines was only quieted when he came back to Minrathous with an apprentice, and soon after, his niece was found to be a mage, to the relief of his entire family, and none more so than the magister himself.

                The girl Hadriana was talking to broke off to become distracted by a tray of suckling rabbits, which she confided were a “weakness” of hers.  Though it repulsed Hadriana, she smiled politely and said nothing.  She had never been comfortable eating something that had been alive once.  It wasn’t the killing of it that bothered her; it was just the eating of it.  When had that ever sounded like a good idea throughout history?

                _Oh, look—a fluffy little bunny.  Let’s bash its head in and eat the muscle—that’s gotta be tasty!_

                The idea almost made her ill.  She liked fur—she just wished Tevinter could be cool enough to justify wearing it more often—and leather was useful.  Those things were all very well and good, but why would anyone ever want to eat it?

                One of the other Laetan boys took note of her lack of ever eating meat.  “Don’t you eat meat?” he inquired.

                She stiffened.  “Absolutely not,” she replied.

                “Does the idea of killing some poor, defenseless creature bother you?” a younger Enchanter inquired, a wisp of a smile on her face.

                “No—“ Hadriana tried to say.

                “She must be squeamish,” the boy went on.

                “That’s not—“

                The Enchanter shook her head.  “You won’t get very far in the Imperial Circles, my dear, if you’re squeamish.”  She laughed.  “Apprenticing to a magister, and you can’t even stand the idea of an _animal_ dying!”  The others nearby, who had heard, laughed.  Logically speaking, she knew, in the back of her mind, that the Enchanter had to simply be jealous that Hadriana had the position and not herself.

                Hadriana’s fists clenched, her temper rising.  They hadn’t even let her explain herself!  “Look, I’ve butchered animals before—that doesn’t bother me—“

                The Altus boy perked at this.  “You’re a butcher’s girl?” he said, and laughed.  The others gathered, sons and daughters of merchants and magisters alike, laughing.

                Hadriana’s mouth opened to protest, but all she saw around her were the laughing mages, mocking her, and she didn’t know what she could say to make them stop.  What was something witty she could say?

                “So when you found out you were a mage, you were trying to barbecue pork and couldn’t get the fire going or something?”

                “Please tell me you burned the shop down—I bet it smelled delicious.”

                Hadriana looked desperately from one person to the next, finding no one who wasn’t laughing or mocking her.  She could barely believe it.  “I’m not a butcher’s girl!” she insisted.

                “Denial.  You gonna try to say your parents are Soporati?  I bet they were Liberati—that’s why you won’t talk about it,” the Enchanter said scathingly.

                Hadriana wanted to cry.  “They were not!  They were never slaves!” she cried desperately.

                “Then where are they?”

                “They’re _dead_ ,” she said quietly, the hurt of their death resurfacing, mingling with her anger.

                “They get stuck in the butcher shop when you set it on fire?” the Altus boy went on, adding to their fabricated story.  Hadriana was shocked and appalled that this could be happening.  How callous!  Worse, they _had_ died in a fire.  They could not have known how close they were to the burned truth.

                This was not how she pictured this night going.  “They weren’t butchers or Liberati!  Don’t you have anything better to do?”

                The Altus boy gave her a superior smirk.  “Of course I do.  You’ll never be a magister, butcher girl, but maybe I’ll hire you as servant when I am.”  She glared, seething, as he turned and walked away, downing the rest of her drink.  She shook with rage, and stomped angrily away from them, out on to the lonely balcony.  The night air helped her calm down, and she worked to hold back her tears, her body shaking with barely controlled rage.  She would become a magister one day.  And when she did, she would only smirk at that boy, and know she had done better.

                As the night wore on, more people left, and the crowd grew thinner.  She saw a group of magisters and Senior Enchanters, some of them having traveled from other Circles, around her master—and Fenris, discussing him, from the snatches she had heard.

                “… What was your power source to fuel the spells, I wonder,” one of them said, a knowing smile about her lips.  Hadriana recognized her as the First Enchanter of the Minrathous Circle.

                Hadriana glanced around the room, noting that all the non-mages—the entourage, the wealthy people who had been invited as courtesy—they were sparse and had seemed to have gone, as if by some signal.  Or was this the after party, and meant for the mages alone?

                “I had enough lyrium, and two other mages,” Danarius said, but his eyes glittered as if it were a joke between the magisters, and everyone laughed.

                “Yes, now what happened to those two mages again?” another magister goaded him.  More laughter.  Hadriana realized they were drunk.  Where was the Archon?  Had he gone when she had been out on the balcony?  She sighed; he must have.  She had retreated more than once away from the others, and quickly realized, with a sinking disappointment, that her new nickname in the Minrathous Circle was “butcher girl”.  “And all your slaves—I heard you had to replace _so many_ of them?”

                “Shall I show you?” Danarius said, then he said something to Fenris.

                Hadriana watched the elf stalk away, with an expression like he would rather be anywhere else.  She wondered what was going on.  The elf disappeared into the servant’s passage, and seemed to take his time coming back.  Hadriana sipped at her cider and listened to the talk around her.  The magisters were joking and laughing—all of the jokes obviously inside jokes.  The apprentices had split off into groups, and it was plain which of the magisters houses were allies, and which were not, by the apprentices more than the magisters, most of which did not play the game as well as their masters.  She had noticed that it was all about false smiles and pretending to be friends and friendly with everyone, keeping the others on their toes, and working a knife to hand and a blade to their back—metaphorically speaking.  She was determined to best them all.  She could be better than all of them; she was determined to be.  More than that, now she felt, she _had_ to be.

                Fenris came back.  She looked at the elf.  He was in the most revealing outfit she had ever seen on a man—made to expose most of the markings.  It made sense; that was one of the reasons for the party after all; everyone wanted to see the damned elf.  It was all sheer silk and embroidery, and the only bit about it that covered anything halfway decently was in the front, and it didn’t hide much.  She noticed that the magisters all stayed a healthy distance away from Fenris at all times, like she had originally.  Hadriana still flatly refused to get too close to the elf; something about those markings frightened her.  Lyrium could make anyone but a Tranquil mage go insane, or even kill them.  That couldn’t be good to have imbued in living flesh.

                She noticed something else.  A small elven child—a slave--was close behind at Fenris’ heels.  What was going on?

                It all became quite clear to her when Danarius beckoned the child closer.  The magisters spread out a little, and Fenris looked positively ill.  The knife flashed once, a sharp stab in the back.  Mercifully, the child died very quickly.  Danarius raised his hands, the magic pulsating in the air around him.  He held it as the boy collapsed, dead.  The body’s fall seemed to echo in the room for a moment.  The blood magic—that was what it was—was then fed back into the body, animating the corpse.  It rose, slowly.  Danarius casually removed the knife, cleaning the blade on the corpse and sheathing it again.  Danarius gave it a silent order, and the corpse moved, stiffly.  All the apprentices had fallen silent, and were watching now, as the corpse gently lifted a bottle of wine, and walked back, and refilled Danarius’ glass.

                The other magi laughed, and applauded.

                Hadriana knew nothing about blood magic as yet, but an older apprentice near her commented, “It takes a lot of control to get a corpse to do movements like that.”

                Hadriana turned toward him.  “How so?”

                He shrugged.  “It’s easy to get a corpse to _fight—_ any demon that possesses a corpse will do that for you.  They might not do it well, but they can do it.  But the corpse isn’t _possessed_ ; just animated, and that makes doing movements like that… actually pretty impressive.”  Hadriana noticed that the older boy spoke with his hands, gesturing frequently.  “Think like trying to operate a marionette, without actually touching it.”  Hadriana began to comment that she had never tried to play with a marionette, but he began to speak again.  “It’s kind of inspiring.  Hey, that’s your master, isn’t it?”

                And their talk turned to another subject, and he, fortunately, was not one of the ones who had been mocking her earlier.  When the magic had dissipated, the corpse collapsed again, thankfully after it had put the bottle back on the tray—but she heard bones crunch when it collapsed again, making her impulsively flinch.  Danarius called for his slaves to clean up the body, and the blood, and the magi moved elsewhere while they did it.

 

                Fenris felt numb.  What’s more, he was fairly convinced that his master was mad.  Why would someone…?

                It was just a child…

                He could barely finish his thoughts, and how he had kept himself even mostly composed throughout the remainder of the night, he had no idea.  At least… it was over.

                It shouldn’t have been over for that child.  It had been so senseless…  To impress his party guests?  How…?  Why…?  And that child’s mother, who must surely be weeping now…

                He had been bidden to go collect a child from the kitchens.  Under ten summers, he had been told.  There had been three children in the kitchen of that description.  How could he have chosen one to die over the others?  How?  But he had.  He had been a party to the magister’s depravity, unwilling or no.  And he had selected the most sickly of the three.  It hadn’t been random; he had calculated it.  That was one of the worst parts.  _He_ had condemned _a child_ to death—to amuse a handful of people!

                Fenris felt like he should be sick, but he curiously wasn’t.  At the time, he had felt bile rise in his throat.  He felt like he should cry for the child, but he didn’t do that either.  He just felt numb.  A child had died, and all those people had laughed…?

                It wasn’t even that it was an elven child, and they were human:  Some of the Circle _were_ elves—not all of them, certainly, but there were a couple, and a small number in their apprentices too.  Yet even then, _they laughed_ and _applauded_.

                _Just go to sleep_.  _Sleep, and forget about it_.  He didn’t think he would ever forget about it.  He was more likely to forget the way Danarius’ cock felt down his throat.

                His fingers touched his lips, and his hand clamped over his mouth as he swallowed.  It _had_ happened, and he was sure of it.  And lately he worried that his master would make him do it again.  Or worse.

                It was that thin, scanty outfit that he made him wear that got him thinking about that, coupled with some of the looks Danarius gave him.  _Like he wants to eat me._

                Fenris hoped, fervently, that he never had to again.  But he would sooner do it every day, for the rest of his life, than witness another child murdered to amuse and impress a crowd of onlookers.

 

                _I hate being alive_ …  The sun was blinding.  The headache pounded on the inside of his skull like a war drum; it even pulsated with a tempo.  _I hate everything in the world…_

                Danarius had his appointments for the day canceled, and had Hadriana get to work on running the household.  He made sure that a servant informed Fenris of what Danarius wanted him to do—train with his sword or whatever weapon he pleased primarily—and immediately crawled back into bed, the heavy drapes pulled to block out the sunlight.  But still the damned light prevailed, leaking around the edges… mocking his futile efforts.

                His late uncle had once told him that the best cure for a hangover was hair of the dog.  Well, that was idiotic at its best.

                A tray laden with food sat untouched at a small table, but he drank some of the mulled cider.  He hadn’t had a hangover in years.  Too much wine perhaps.

                He never would have killed that slave boy if he hadn’t been drinking. Hell, what had been the purpose of _that_?  That was an expensive party trick.  Wasteful, and stupid to boot.

                His morning was just full of regrets, wasn’t it?

                _I do stupid, regrettable things when I drink_ , he thought in the back of his mind.  _I do a lot of stupid things when I’m drinking._ His teenage years could attest to the truth of that.

_Sitting in a prison cell, angry that someone had dared imprison a son of a magister, but there it was.  His father walking down the hall, stopping at his cell, arms crossed, glaring menacingly down at him.  Cillian Danarius had looked up at him, and smiled weakly.  “Good morning,” he had said to his father, who was staring at him with such a look of intense disapproval that half of him wanted to crawl under the nearest rock and stay there.  The two had stared at each other for a long time, and the young Cillian straightened, as if he were sitting in a plush, elegantly carved chair instead of a stone bench.  “If this is about my bail, I don’t need you, Father.”_

_“You and your friends were stealing people’s lawn ornaments,” he repeated, likely right from the report._

_“Mostly small statuary, but I think we defaced a couple of gardens too,” he added.  The look on his father’s face made him flinch.  “We were… playing… guards and robbers,” he said lamely._

_“Literally.  Were you drunk?”_

_“Not… drunk, no, I don’t think.”_

_Cillian had gotten caught when he had stopped to help a cute girl over the fence, and ended up caught himself trying to scale it before the guards came; he hadn’t made it.  He should have just left her.  After his father drug him out of the cell and all the way home, hit him twice, and forbade him to leave the manor grounds for the rest of the year, he made him go find his stash of collected ornaments and give them back to their owners, in person, and apologize._

                Just thinking about it made him cringe inwardly.

                At least Hadriana was well, and this was a good time for her to start practicing her future status anyway.  Some good could come of his horrid hangover.

                The hangover stayed with him all day like an obnoxious little sister you don’t really want around but cannot convince to leave.

                It was a shame that magic didn’t fix hangovers.  It wasn’t an _illness_ , after all.  There were some potions he could drink for it, to help with it, but he was determined to suffer the consequences of his own actions like a man.  Roschelle would have poured it down his throat and called him a stubborn jackass.

                _Maybe I should remarry.  Maybe…_

                He dismissed the notion as soon as he had it.  _Maybe I should take a fucking nap._   That seemed more likely.

 

                Shaislyn came into his magic early—far earlier than was normal.  But Varania hardly batted an eye.  She had been half-expecting it, after all, with both his parents being mages.

                She brought him to the Circle, and held him still while they bled him for his phylactery.  He cried, and whined, but they healed him afterwards, and the mage there gave him a cookie, and he fell silent.  The old mage had smiled, nearly toothless in her old age.  “I’ve had three children, and they all have children,” she explained.

                _Only in the Imperium_ , Varania thought, with satisfaction.  Everywhere else in the world, if a mage had a child, it was plucked from its mother’s arms at infancy, and given to the Chantry.  Only in Tevinter did that not happen.  Only in Tevinter did the Circle rule the country and have influence over the Chantry.

                For that…  For that, Varania was happy to have been a slave in the Imperium, rather than free elsewhere.  Besides, freedom for mages outside the Imperium was laughable; they were imprisoned or killed.

                So for that, she was grateful, and her son would be too one day.

                One thing that she disliked, though, was that the Circle in other countries meant food, clothes, a bed, and an education of sorts.  Here, it was not _guaranteed_.  True, mages were revered and much more respected than she had heard they were in other places, but she supposed that only went so far—especially for an elf with no support or contacts, who was Liberati on top of that!  She supposed, you gain some, you lose some.

                Shaislyn was really just like any other two-year old, though, for his blindness and magic.  Lura had acquired a set of building blocks, the paint faded almost completely away.  Not that colours meant anything to Shai.  He was playing with them now, and Varania thought it nothing short of a wonder.

                He felt each of them carefully, and seemed to have to think about it before he placed one somewhere, gingerly touching where each of them were.  She wondered how that could even be fun for a child who couldn’t see what they were making.

                Varania looked back to the book in her lap.  Two years ago, she thought she would never learn how to read.  And yet, here she was; reading.  Leto would be proud of her.  He had told her to learn to read, and she had.

                She missed him so much that it hurt.  She had quietly confessed as much to Lura, who had looked away, and said not a word, but hugged her for her hurt.

                The mage looked to her son, and watched him construct his tower.  That was what it seemed to be, anyway—a tower.

                When she was finished with it, he seemed to appraise it with the tips of his fingers.  “It’s as big as you are,” Varania praised him.  She wondered how it would be for Shaislyn growing up.  He was blind, noticeably half-elven, and a mage, but his family were Liberati, and he only wasn’t by a very thin margin.  Was he even considered a full citizen, given his bloodline?  She didn’t think so.  But his bloodlines—ha!  Half Altus, the highest, purest class in the Imperium, and half Liberati, the lowest social class in the Imperium.  Maybe…  Maybe one day he could make something of himself.

                He looked toward her, which was unsettling, considering that he couldn’t see.  “Is not!”  To prove it, he stood up.  It came up to his shoulder.  She frowned at him, wondering how he could possibly know that when he had been sitting just before.  He placed a fingertip on top of his tower, to demonstrate.

                She chuckled, because he couldn’t see her smile.  “All right—I was wrong, Shai.”

                He seemed pleased with himself.  A knock at the door made him fall silent.  His head turned toward the sound.

                Who could that be?  Varania rose from her chair, and went to the door.  She peered out, and smiled, opening it wider.  “Come in,” she said to Vellus.

                He returned the smile, and stepped in, wiping his feet on the matt.  “My mum sent me,” he said, blushing.  He was handsome—even Lura said so.  A year ago, he had been gangly and awkward, but he was sixteen now, and something had changed over the year.

                And Varania was beginning to get more confident as she developed into her womanly figure.  Lura teased her sometimes, playfully.  “Oh?” she asked him.

                “Oh!” he said, as if he had forgotten that he was holding it.  It almost made her giggle when he brought the bundle forward.  “She worries that you have no time to cook.”  He flushed, presenting her with a neatly wrapped meat pie.

                Varania was delighted.  “Oh, that’s so nice of your mum,” she said, relieving him of his package, and walking into the small kitchen.  She set the pie down.  Vellus followed her in.  “I’m certainly no good at cooking.”

                He smiled shyly.  “My mum also says that if you want cooking lessons, she’d be happy to give them.”

                “Did she now?” Varania asked him.  He had the cutest dimple she had ever seen when he smiled.  And his eyes were the deep sea-blue of the surf.  “Oh, but what would I do with Shai?”

                Shai stood at the corner of the kitchen, and jumped when he had been noticed.  Varania giggled, but he ran toward her, his fingers latching onto her skirt.  She lifted him into her arms, balancing him on her hip.  “I can stay by myself,” he insisted.

                “My sister is a few years older than he is—I don’t think she’d mind looking after him,” Vellus suggested.

                “I’ll have to do that then,” Varania decided.  Vellus seemed pleased.  “Why don’t you stay for dinner?”

                He blinked those pretty blue eyes of his.  “I…  Well…”

                “I’m sure your mum won’t mind,” the mage went on.

                He flushed, glancing away.  “Well, that is…”

                Shai reached toward him.  “Please?  I’m stuck with _girls_ all the time!” he cried.

                “Oh, the horror,” Varania agreed with him.

                Vellus laughed, and took Shai from her.  “Is that so, mage?” he asked the child, who only laughed in turn as he tossed him into the air.  Varania held her breath, all the while worried that he would drop him.  He never did.  All the harm that looked to befall Shai had happened in the womb, when she had asked Leto to hit her.  It was her fault Shai was blind, she felt.  Though, to be fair, Leto was not the only one to have struck her while Shaislyn was growing in her belly.  Maybe she should just be grateful that he was only blind, and not further handicapped.

                Vellus agreed to stay, and when Mieta got home, she teased him and tousled his unruly mop of blonde hair as if he were family.

                Vellus was just another elf in the alienage.  The others had eventually warmed up to the family.  Varania was still treated with some suspicion throughout the alienage, being a mage, but she healed people for naught but coppers, often as not, so they accepted her, and when she got older and more shapely, she noticed that the boys started to look at her.  But so far, Vellus was her favourite, even with his shyness and his blushing.  Especially with his shyness and his blushing.

                Lura would not be home until late tonight, so they left a slice of pie out for her, and Mieta sent Varania to walk with Vellus home.

                “Normally, it’s the opposite, you know,” he commented as they walked to his house.

                Varania smiled.  “Normally, the girl isn’t a mage,” she countered.  His lips curved into a small smile.  They arrived at his doorstep.  He started to go to the door, and turned back to her.  He moved forward, his lips brushing hers in the most chaste of kisses, leaving her stunned and, when she had the sense, blushing red as a rose.  He was blushing too, and nervous.  He smiled, easing some of the tension, and stole into his house.  She walked back home as if in a dream.  Vellus had kissed her.

                He knew she was a mage, and used to be slave, and a mother, and still he had kissed her.  He must be the makings of a saint.  And he was so handsome…  She was still blushing when she came home, and her mother only smiled knowingly.

 

                Hadriana walked through the slave market, inspecting the wares, keeping a close eye on the people around her.  _Trust no one_.

                Anyone could be a cutpurse.  And her purse was plenty heavy enough.  She kept one hand on it at all times.  It had sufficient sums for Hadriana to buy a couple of slaves--among a few other things she had been sent to market for.  It wasn’t that her master was treating her like a servant.  Rather, he wanted to see how she handled herself, and, more importantly, learn how to haggle, and about pricing.  There was only so much she could learn from books and a ledger, after all.

                She had a guard with her, and a servant for errands, but was otherwise alone.  The city was a busy place, and Danarius had sent her during the busiest time of the day.  The slave merchants called out to her and anyone else who looked to be buying.  The last time she had been here, it had been as a beggar, lost.  She still had the silver coin she had found, for luck.  It had been lucky to her anyway.

                She saw a couple of Circle mages, and cringed inwardly, her stomach tightening.  She pretended not to notice them, but she heard them when they said “butcher girl” to one another and laughed.  Her cheeks burned in fury, but what could she do?  She could do what she came for, that’s what.

                Her master had need to replace the boy he had killed, and his mother who had thrown herself from a tower in her grief.

                So Hadriana looked for one likely, inspecting the assortment of wares.  Her master had been explicit:  He wanted elves.  She had questioned the wisdom of this, initially, but when he explained it to her, it made sense.

                He kept elves in his household because they were easier to manipulate.  Centuries of slavery had beaten most of them down, and if one ran away, they were easier to find than a human:  All a human had to do was keep their mouth shut and their head down; there were more humans in the world than elves.  To prove his point, he told her that one of his slaves in a brothel had run away, and, while they had been found, it had not been for over a month later; that slave had been human.

                He had an assortment of human slaves, too—just not at the manor.  He didn’t want them mixing.  Something about keeping each of them in their proper place.  His gladiators were an assortment of elves and humans—but the humans he kept off the manor grounds.

                He liked the games.  She wanted to find him something exotic.  Something…

                Hadriana stopped at a cage, and smiled.

 

                Hadriana had insisted that Danarius come to the next gladiatorial match.  When he said that he may be too busy to attend, she had hurried to help him in all his duties, and simply had none of it; he was going.

                Bemused, he consented to this.  It had been a long time anyway, and he’d like to watch the slaves bleed a little.

                Hadriana went too.  She was more interested in the games than her predecessor was, even if she were female and of humbler birth.  She sat with a straight back at rapt attention, watching the fighting eagerly below.

                Fenris stood at attendance, a blank look on his face.  Since that night Danarius had killed that child, his pet had been practicing keeping his expressions blank.  So far, he wasn’t particularly good at it, but Danarius approved of the effort.

                One game ended, and another began.  Hadriana grinned, practically bouncing in her seat with her delight.  He wondered what she could be…

                “From the far-away jungles of Par Vallen…” the announcer drawled in a booming voice, his words echoed around the stadium.

                “There!” she cried, pointing.

                “… Across the Boeric Ocean…”

                The gladiator walked onto the sands of the pit, to the raucous cries of the crowd.  Some of the Imperials threw garbage at him.  Hadriana laughed with glee.  “I bought him for you, Master.”  Her eyes sparkled.  “So you may watch him die.”

                “Captured in brutal combat against our own brave soldiers in the fields of Seheron…”

                Danarius looked on with interest as the Qunari walked to the middle of the sands.  The Proving Grounds were big enough that few now had the arm to hit him there with their missiles.  They threw them anyway, but their accuracy was failing.  “He must have been costly.”

                “Caged and shackled—they could barely contain this giant!”

                She laughed.  “What else am I to do with all the gold you give me?” she inquired, her eyebrows arching.  “You attend to my every desire.”

                “The giant sailed the Ventosus Straights, across the waves of Nocen Sea, and arrived in our fair city after killing not one _but three_ of his captors!”  The crowd booed and hissed.

                He nodded.  “As I well should.”  _A master should always care for what was his._   “And you deserve it, fair one.”

                “He has come all the way from Par Vallen, from the land of torture and death!”  More loud noises of complaint from the crowd.  “And now he will die here, for your amusement, crushed by the might of the Imperium!”  The crowd roared their approval.

                She laughed.  “Ah, look.”  Danarius glanced back at Fenris, who was watching the sands now, but his green eyes still flicked about the platform every few seconds.  He had become a good guard.  He had been a little uneasy about bringing Fenris here, worried about the buried memories, but he had been all around the manor, and nothing had triggered them.  By all rights, Fenris should be firmly… “Fenris” by now, and “Leto” and those memories should be sufficiently buried.  “It’s starting!”

                The Qunari stood alone.  He was a big specimen, obviously the fighting sort, from his stance, and the way he hefted the long iron sword.  No doubt, he had been captured at war.  Ordinarily, his sort were tortured and killed, but apparently the slavers had gotten to him first, which did happen from time to time.  Mayhap a deserter, then, or a scout—Tal-Vashoth?  It made no difference; the end result was the same.

                Other slaves entered then, the opposing team, owned by the arena and not any one magister.  It would be insulting if that were so.  They rode out on fine horses, and wore the gleaming armor of the Imperium.  One of them even had a banner.

                “Very good,” he told Hadriana.  “Was this your idea?”

                She beamed.  “Yes,” she admitted.

                It was a good idea.  Not only was he enjoying the show so far, it was a good play for the commons too.  They would do well to remember their gallant soldiers fighting and dying for them.  It would hearten them to see the display.  A speaker announced that this display was funded by Danarius—another good ploy.  Keep the commons happy, keep them complacent—and above all, entertained.  Give them something to talk about and enjoy.  Even from a personal political standpoint, it was a good idea.  He believed that his lowborn apprentice would soar to great heights in her career.

                The soldier-slaves turned the horses about and galloped around the arena to the cheers of the onlookers.  They threw favors and flowers.  Wanton women screamed out obscenities to them—more appropriately, what they would do to them, and for them.  Men cheered them on.  The Qunari, though, had not moved.  He stared straight forward, transfixed.  Qunari were giants, but even giants could not climb the walls to the crowd.  The walls were simply too high, and there were spikes on the walls of all sizes besides.  And if not that, then the crowd themselves, so crazy for blood that they would do all in their power to see the slave beaten back down into the pit to die.  No slave or captive bothered trying to escape the pit into the crowd in ages; it couldn’t be done.

                The slave-soldiers’ galloping circle moved in ever-closer to the Qunari, who stood like a stone sentinel.  He did not seem to see the flashing hooves or the steel that came ever closer to him.  The slave-soldiers broke off, and one tossed the heraldry to the crowd with a mighty throw.  The crowd seized upon the flag, and hoisted it up high, chanting:  “ _Tevinter! Tevinter!”_

One of the slave-soldiers lowered a lance, and moved his white charger forward.  The horse tossed its head, and seemed to know what was going to happen.  The animal was chomping at the bit for it.  The lance lowered.  Still the Qunari did not move.  He had not even turned to face his opponents.  So the lancer trotted his horse to face him.  He kicked the animal into a run.  It was an armored horse—heavy with enough force to destroy a man.  The Qunari was almost naked and savage, armed with only the longsword.  And still when the animal charged, the Qunari did not move.  Danarius felt disappointed.  The ox-man would be simply run down—all that pretty fanfare for a quick end.  It wouldn’t do.

                At the last possible moment, the Qunari stepped aside, nimbly out of the way of the lance.  The mounted slave wheeled the horse about, and got the Qunari back in his sights.  He charged again, and the Qunari did the same trick.  A third charge, and Danarius expected another dodge.  But—finally—the Qunari struck.

                The sword swung round, striking hard into the horse’s unarmored leg.  The big charger stumbled and fell, bearing its rider down with it.  The crowd seemed to lean forward, and watch anxiously.  Even from Danarius’ high seat, he heard the bones crunching, heard the slave cry out in agony.  His leg was crushed.  The horse screamed, drowning out the man’s voice.  There is no sound worse than a horse in pain.  Both rider and mount had broken legs, Danarius did not doubt.

                The Qunari only glanced at them, and stepped away.  Either he was giving the slave-soldiers’ brothers in arms leave to take him away, or else he did not care to end it.  The crowd screamed for blood.  They may have cheered on their country, but now one was hurt.  There was no saving that leg, and the horse’s cries were harrowing.  And besides, had not the slave-soldier shamed his country?

                Death was a suiting end for those.

                But the Qunari only walked by, and did not end it.

                The crowd booed their displeasure and still the Qunari only returned to his place in the center of the arena, as if deaf to their cries and to that of the slave and the horse’s.  The other four slaves were whispering to each other, Danarius noticed, trying to decide what to do without their master there to tell them.  Stupid creatures.

                The slaves decided to continue the fight, and ignore their fallen comrade.  It was no less than he would have done for them, Danarius had no doubt.  Another came now—another lance.  Two dodges this time, and the Qunari practically plucked the slave from the saddle, throwing him into the sands.  The slave tumbled, losing his lance.  The armored man reached for his sword, but the giant was upon him.  The Qunari’s sword found a chink in the armor.  The slave bled to death in the sand in seconds, missing two arms at the elbow.  The Qunari kicked an arm aside, and stood again at the middle.  The horse seemed suddenly lost.  One of the mounted slaves caught the creature, and led it to a gate.  The gate slid up enough for another slave to dart quickly out, take the horse, and hurry back through it.  The Qunari did not even turn to look.

                The remaining three were nervous now, and spoke amongst themselves.  The crowd screamed ideas to them.  He could not hear them individually, but he imagined they ranged from brash to ludicrous.

                One of the remaining slaves tossed his lance to the side, and drew his sword, spurring his mount toward the Qunari.  But the Qunari were giants, and the horse, which would have given the slave the upper hand to a normal opponent, did not mean as much to the brute.  Perhaps if at least two of them had come at him at once…

                They clashed, and dueled, and the Qunari killed that horse too, but this man was faster than the other, and was out of the saddle in time.  He rolled to his feet, and fended the attack, dodging, weaving.  The clash of swords was loud, and the cheering of the crowd louder still.  Another mounted slave joined the melee, and together they attacked.  The last one looked on.  Everything looked to be well in hand now.  A good show—enough tension and drama to satisfy, and make the ending all the sweeter.

                But when everything looked well in hand, the unhorsed slave tripped over the severed limb of one of the dead.  The Qunari killed him—simple butchery, and turned on the other.  It was as much about the skill of the horse as the horseman, and the horse was no stranger to battle.  Its teeth gnashed, its hooves danced, and kicked, and lashed out at the giant, and still the giant gave no ground.

                The other rider charged, in that moment, with lance down.  The giant did not turn to meet it, did not even seem to notice it.  Now the ending would be only more dramatic.  The crowd held its collective breath as the slave-soldier charged.

                The Qunari spun with all the smooth grace of a dancer, his momentum bringing the greatsword to meet the horse.  The animal managed to get away with only a knick to the neck, but startled, it reared, and the slave, unbalanced, fell from the saddle.  The other slave was quick to protect his temporarily vulnerable brethren, and charged his own horse toward the giant.  The Qunari dodged, and feinted to one side, but struck from the other.  The blow glanced off the slave’s armor, but it dented it.  It would leave bruises, to be sure.

                The other slave, by now, was on his feet, and had his horse’s bit.  He was moving back into the saddle.  The swords clashed again, the rider driving the Qunari back—back toward the spiked walls.  The giant was getting tired.  A trapdoor sprang open suddenly, making the crowd gasp in surprise.  The creature lunged from the opening--at first glance a wolf, but then Danarius saw its mutilated, maddened form and knew it for a Blightwolf.  It was half-starved and completely mad in its hunger and bloodlust.  Its dripping fangs lunged for the Qunari, but its quick movement frightened the horse more than the giant.  The horse screamed, rearing back in fright.  Its rider stayed in the seat, but the horse got the bit in its teeth and dashed away from the animal.  The Qunari danced away from it nimbly, and the beast’s hidden handlers yanked on its chain, bringing it back into its pit.  The door closed again.

                There were other such surprises littered about the arena.

                While the rider struggled with his frightened horse, the other slave rode down upon the Qunari, swinging his sword down.  The giant met it with a clash of steel.  Unnoticed to all but a few unseen, the Blightwolf snarled and lunged against the trap door, mad for meat and blood.  Its handlers struggled against the creature.

                The slave and captive clashed, their steel striking against the other.  The slave seemed to have the upper hand, and the other slave was riding close now, his horse again under his control.  Then the trap door all but broke open and the wolf leaped forward against its chain.  Its jaw sank into the horse’s flanks.  The animal cried out in pain, all else forgotten in its mad rush to dislodge the wolf.  Its handlers yanked on the chain, and it grew taught.  Between the handlers and the slave, the wolf was pulled from the horse.  In the confusion, the Qunari struck, knocking the slave from the saddle.  The wolf lunged toward the fallen slave, its jaws clamping around his struggling arm.  The crowd was screaming for more, even when the handlers yanked the wolf back… and it drug the struggling slave down after it.  The trap door banged shut ominously.  The crowd screamed, a mixture of shock and approval.

                There was but one slave left, and no longer looked quite so confidant with the sound of the other slave’s screams echoing above.

                The Qunari only moved back to the center, and waited.

                The crowd urged the gladiator on, and the slave had no choice but to make the attack.  He rode forward, the horse tired.  An armored horse was a fine weapon—they were big animals, strong, and could do substantial damage on the battlefield.  However, the animal was tired after the fight; all that armor was heavy even for a destrier.  The horse charged forward anyway, ears back.  The animal fought as much as the slave riding it as they bore down on the giant.  It bit, and kicked, stomping its steel-shod hooves.  Plumes of dust rose around it.  The Qunari moved back, away from the flashing hooves and the steel sword.  The horse lifted its front hooves, as if in warning before it sprang forward, over 2000 pounds of animal, man, and armor came charging toward the giant.

                The ox dove to the side.  The horse spun, kicking up its hooves.  It had done this before, and knew what it meant when the opponent was down; it was the time spring, to stomp and crush.  It moved toward it.  The captive scrambled to his feet, bringing the sword between himself and the animal.  At the flash of the steel, the horse reared, lifting its neck away from what would have otherwise been a fatal blow to the animal.  Its hooves struck forward, one of them hitting the captive hard in the wrist.  The Qunari dropped the sword, stumbling back.  The animal’s hooves hit the ground solidly, and it moved forward again.  The Qunari moved away, dodged another onslaught, and dove back to his sword.  The horse came toward him, its rider ready.  The swords clashed, and the horse rounded around the Qunari, kicking up sand, teeth snapping as they ran around the creature.  The animal kicked and sprang, the rider matching his own movements to the horse.

                The Qunari wove to the side, and slashed.  The blow had not been meant to kill or disable; he slashed the reigns in two.  The horse shook its head.  The dropped the tattered reign, wheeling the animal to the side with the remaining half.  It was something new, something the crowd had never seen a captive try to do, and they all leaned forward, cheering and eager.  The horse and rider wheeled back to face the Qunari, charging again.  The ox dodged, and rolled to the side.  The armored horse wheeled back toward him, breathing hard.  The captive reached forward, bent low to the ground.  As the horse came at him again, he threw a handful of sand into the animal’s eyes.  It stopped, snorting, tossing its head.  It wheeled.  The rider, unable to get the animal under control with the loss of half the reigns, kicked it into a gallop, away from the Qunari.  The animal stopped quickly, tossing its head.  The Qunari ran forward.  The rider blocked his sword expertly, and the horse kicked violently.  The Qunari was struck by a hoof, and tumbled back.

                The slave got the horse back under control, and wheeled toward the Qunari.  The captive hesitated only once, and threw the severed limb of the slave’s comrade toward the man.  The horse, startled, whinnied and shied away.  The crowd booed the foul play and distaste.  The horse and rider charged again.  The Qunari wove away from the flashing hooves and biting teeth, blocked a harsh blow from the sword, and with one strong arm ripped the slave from the saddle, throwing him down into the sands.  The slave was up in moments, sword in hand.  They fought, giving ground, gaining ground.  The Qunari kicked the slave’s legs out from under him, and the slave fell into the sand.

                It was over in moments, and the slave was impaled on the Qunari’s sword.  The Qunari resumed his stance, and waited.

                The crowd booed their displeasure at the Qunari’s persistence.  Five armored horse had not been enough.  Perhaps they had been too bold.

                “Do the magisters here today have a team they wish to test against the captive?” roared the master of the arena—with the voice of his slave.

                The crowd cheered to encourage their magisters.  But the magisters were silent.  They did not look at each other, on their raised, shaded pavilion.  If their own teams should fall to this giant, it would be shameful.

                Danarius felt he had nothing to prove either; Hadriana had bought the Qunari for a spectacle, and he was proving to be just that.

                “No champions?” the slave bellowed.

                Hadriana’s eyes flicked to Fenris, once.  Danarius frowned in thought.  “Fenris.”  The elf looked to him.  “Can you kill the Qunari?”

 

                Fenris didn’t even think about it.  “Yes, Master, if that is your wish.”

                Danarius nodded.  “It is.”  He rose.  “I have a champion!”

                And Hadriana laughed, and applauded the idea.  Fenris was taken by two slaves, down to the bowels of the arena.  He was not dressed for combat, so they found suitable leathers and armor, and a sword that he approved of, and they sent the elf into the sands.

                He waited for the gate to raise, and felt a sense of nostalgia that he couldn’t place.  The crowd cheered him, the sun beat high overhead.  It had been cool under the silk shade by his master, but the sand made it even hotter.  It was hot under his bare feet, reminding him to be quick and not linger.

                The Qunari was waiting, and stood facing him.  All the world narrowed down to this.  The roar of the crowd was deafening, but it was meaningless, just white noise in the background of his world.  Nothing but his own breathing.  He judged the angle of the sun, and stepped, and circled until it was at his back.  He paid the trap doors no heed, just like the blood.  Slaves had caught the horses.  The carcasses would have to wait for later, though, just like the wounded slave and horse that still lay bleeding in the sand.  The sooner this was over, the sooner they could both be given peace.

                It was his master’s wish that he destroy this Qunari, so he would.  There was no option except to succeed.  Failure would be to disappoint his master, more than it meant that he would die.

                The Qunari watched him, weary, spattered with blood, but, he noticed, not without his own wounds.  It would make him slow, and he was tired, and the sun beat down on both of them—a warm day in winter.  A breeze whispered over the sands, carrying the scent of the sea that cradled Minrathous.  It was the first day of the Wintersend Tourneys.

                Fenris walked toward him, then began to lope.  He let his momentum carry the sword forward.  The Qunari blocked it, almost effortlessly.  How had he ever been captured?

                The pair exchanged a flurry of blows—the Qunari, largest of the races, and an elf, known for being lithest.  It would have been comical, and he had no doubt that some were laughing at his master’s presumptuousness and foolhardiness.

                But it wasn’t size that won a battle; it was skill.  _He has a better reach than me,_ Fenris thought.  _And maybe eighty pounds heavier—maybe more._   Their swords rang and echoed, and they danced across the sand.  Fenris stepped in blood and gore half a dozen times and paid it no heed.  Nothing mattered but the dance of swords.

                Down at his core, he felt like this was what he had been born to do.  And he never felt happier than when he had a sword in hand.  The feeling was beautiful but fleeting, like a flower, for he would always have to put the sword down eventually.  But for the moment, he felt complete.  He was invincible, and he was doing what he was born to do.

                What his master wanted him to do.

                And the lyrium was glowing blue and bright, and the crowd watched in fascination.  The Qunari’s blade broke against his, and Fenris struck.  The broken blade half-defended it, and it was not a mortal blow, but still the Qunari staggered.  The blade had been stuck on the bone in his shoulder for an instant, but had done no further damage.  Fenris swung again.  The giant dodged, and started looking for the fallen slaves—for their weapons.  The elf knew to keep him away from them.

                They stepped, and Fenris attacked, and the Qunari dodged, and the two worked around the other, always trying to herd the other one in one direction or another.  Fenris heard a chain creak, and broke his attack to roll suddenly to the side, narrowly avoiding the lion as it lunged toward him—all teeth and claws.  It came toward the Qunari, but the giant eased away.  The beast between them, the Qunari finally had the opening to make a break for the fallen slave’s weapon.  Fenris struggled back to his feet, and gave chase.

                He heard a creaking noise, and froze, teetering in place, scarcely breathing.  The pit opened suddenly.  His eyes wide, heart pounding, he stood on the edge of it, the sand between his toes falling into the pit.  He could smell the corpse of the last slave who had fallen into the pit.  Just deep enough to break a leg, but just shallow enough to live and wish for death.  One more step and he would have fallen down below.  It snapped shut again, and the Qunari had reached the weapon.  The Qunari spun back toward Fenris, and waited, catching his breath.  Fenris stood panting, but knew—by some instinct—that if they waited too long…  Well, there were other surprises in the arena.  He charged forward.

                The Qunari blocked, and their swords rang and echoed, the sound all but drowned by the roars of the crowd.  Fenris dove to the side again, back away from the Qunari.  That time, the giant was not quick enough, and the door opened, the Blighted Bear charging forward, held by chains as thick as Fenris’ wrists.  It snarled as it charged, its powerful claws swiping the Qunari’s thick legs.  The giant fell, and gave a cry of alarm as he turned to face the maw of the creature.  Fenris breathed hard, and watched as the Qunari fended it off for a few precious seconds, always keeping his blade between the corrupted bear and his person.  Then the heavy chains grew taught, and the creature gasped, and choked, and struggled against its chain as it was pulled back.  It seemed to stop struggling for an instant.  The chain went slack, then it lunged forward.  The Qunari barely brought the blade up in time.  Its teeth locked around the blade.  The sharpened steel bit into its mouth.  Blood dribbled around it.  Powerful teeth bit into the metal, and it only dropped it when it was yanked back inside.  The blade was ruined, though—but better than nothing.

                Fenris dashed forward.  The Qunari rushed to his feet to meet the attack.  Fenris re-angled his attack at the last moment to counter how the Qunari had moved.

                The blade whistled through the air.  He imagined the blade cutting through bone, bits of blood and brain flying through the air.  Instead, the Qunari ducked, and the blade bit through one long horn, then the other, and the blade caught awkwardly on it.  Fenris struggled with it for a moment, and the Qunari seemed just as eager as he was to get it out.  It would have been funny, really, if it weren’t so critical.  He heard some in the crowd laughing.

                Frustrated, he let the sword alone, and came toward the Qunari with his bare hands, glowing bright with the lyrium.  He reached forward.  He had done it before.  He had practiced with pig corpses and later cadavers, and he knew where the heart was.

                His hand plunged into the Qunari’s chest as if it were pudding.  His fist clenched around a pumping muscle, and he yanked his hand backwards.  The Qunari did not have time to scream.  Fenris crushed his heart in his hand, blood rushing over his palm, between his fingers.  The giant dropped, and Fenris stepped away, dropping the bloodied thing in his hand.  The crowd was cheering, but Fenris looked up to the magisters, to his master.  Danarius was smiling, well pleased.  That was all that mattered.

                He heard the wounded slave, trapped under his horse and still whimpering, but another was already coming to give the gift of mercy.  Fenris walked away from the carnage and hot sands to the tune of over a thousand cheers.

 

                Hadriana wanted to be happy and pleased with herself, but somehow she was just annoyed.  This had gone from a lovely death match to her master gloating over his favorite pet—again.

                A high-ranking mage commented to Danarius that he “should have paid him the six hundred when I had the opportunity.”  Whatever that meant, it made her master laugh.  And people were even more afraid to get too close to Fenris, she noticed.  She supposed that that was… good, in a bodyguard.  He wasn’t intimidating by himself.  He was tall for an elf, and wielded those big two-handed weapons, but that by itself wasn’t that intimidating—the markings were.

                What he could do with them was definitely intimidating.  If Hadriana didn’t know that Fenris was a perfectly… domesticated and obedient _pet_ , she might even be concerned.  As it was, she was simply annoyed.

                She would not have cheered had Fenris fallen in the battle; that would be unbecoming.  …But she would not have mourned.  Even if the elf had simply lost an arm, it would serve; he would be useless.  Magic could do many things, but even magic had some limits.  He would be reduced to nothing, save perhaps as an ornament of sorts.  And for that, he might as well kill him, and skin him.  Tan the hide and hang it in the hall, if he wished, but he would be worthless to him.  She had _heard_ that it was possible to reattach or even regrow a severed limb, but she did wonder what that would do to all the markings.  If each one had meaning, and part of the “writing” on him was gone…  It would be like a book with a page missing, maybe a whole chapter.  It made her painfully curious sometimes.  What would happen if a piece of him were cut off…?

                And she hated Fenris for making her jealous of him.  It was all the worse that he did not do it on purpose, nor did he even seem to notice.  She felt like he _must_ notice, and his ignorance had to be feigned.  How could it not be?

                Danarius hosted a small party that evening—a more intimate gathering than before, with just a few high-ranking Circle mages in attendance.  They left their apprentices, and so Hadriana was instructed to make herself scarce.  But Fenris was made to pour the wine, in an elegantly brocaded silk draping she could hardly call clothing.

                Her master dressed the elf in silks, expensive leathers, and angora wool when applicable.  His hair was gleaming, his skin oiled, and he smelled like perfume.  She tried to tell herself that the elf was an object, but all she ever seemed to see was how much Danarius fawned over said object.

                Like a child who sees their parent care for a priceless vase over themselves, she longed to break him.  If only it were so simple as pushing him off a table and watching him shatter.

                _It means nothing,_ she told herself.  _One day, I will be a magister.  And that’s all that matters._


	54. Beauty Met the Beast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danarius sends Hadriana on an errand and Mieta meets an old friend's lover.

                Slaves were rioting in the north.  The Magisterium had convened, and made orders to put them down.  Any one that surrenders would not be killed, simply punished.  The leaders would be dealt with accordingly.

                Hadriana was progressing smoothly.  It would be many years yet before she was ready to pass her tests and gain the rank of magister, but she was well on her way.  Danarius was confident about her.

                She sat in the chair opposite to him, sipping honeyed tea, and perhaps wondering why she had been summoned.  “I want you to make a trip back to my country manor—Vinewood,” he informed her.  He would go himself, but he thought she could handle it, and he’d like to put her to the test anyway.  Besides, he had to head in the opposite direction to oversee the putting down of a small elven riot—they were tiring.  He would just enslave them all if he could, but there _were_ a few laws against that.

                She set the cup down on its saucer.  “As it please my master,” she answered with a sweet smile.  “May I inquire as to the occasion?”

                His fingers laced together.  “I’ve reason to suspect some of my servants of theft.  I want you to pay them a surprise visit.  Take a few men with you—the road will be dangerous.”

                She seemed pleased by this errand.  “I would love to.  When would you have me depart?”

                “On the morrow,” he answered coolly.  “Come back once you’ve gotten to the bottom of it.  I trust it won’t take you very long.”

                “Have you selected the men I will bring with me?”

                He nodded.  “Yes.”

                She finished her tea.  “Is that everything?”

                “For the moment.  I suggest you pack your things.”

                She smiled pleasantly.  “Fond advice, Master.  I shall.  I bid you good evening.”  And she left.  Such good manners.  Much better than Raith.  More pleasing to the eye too; she had developed into a fine woman.

                Speaking of young women, though, there was also the matter of his little niece.  But he would inform Hadriana of that in the morning, before she left.  For the moment, he would rather not daunt her with the thought of “babysitting” the girl on the way back.  He didn’t want to tolerate a sulking teenager for the rest of the day.  He knew she wouldn’t be fond of the idea.  Better not to mention it.

                He would send his breeding destriers too—war horses, some just a little too old to be put in the field any more, but ornery creatures that needed a long journey and some exercise to keep them from being mischievous.

 

                Hadriana scowled, but held her tongue, and smiled pleasantly.  Of course it was perfectly all right that she escort the highborn brat to Minrathous.  Of course it was.

                And _of course_ she didn’t mind Danarius insisting that Fenris come with her—mostly as a personal nurse maid to Annalkylie.  The elf seemed uncaring either way, as usual.  Of course, she had tried to argue, saying that her master needed his bodyguard with him at all times.  He assured her that the next few weeks he would more or less be living at the council house, deliberating what to do about the recent outbreak of riots, among other things, and thus Fenris would just be at the manor most of the time anyway, and not guarding him either way.  He also claimed that Annalkylie liked Fenris for some reason, so it couldn’t hurt to bring him along, to keep the girl happy if for no other reason—she would be more likely to tolerate the elf’s presence as a guard than the others.

                More like, the girl just liked looking at strange things.

                But they set out anyway, one of the men with a team of horses and a wagon of supplies.  The others rode, including Fenris, which was more comfortable anyway.  There would be a carriage on the way back, for the comfort of the child.

                It was little over a week to the manor, and the wagon was slow even with the team.  There were inns along the way, and part of it even took the Imperial Highway, so they camped but rarely.  She was glad that it was late autumn; the sun was cooler now, and more pleasant.  She had grown used to the city, though, and its smells.  The country seemed strange to her now, and, while nice to look at, she preferred the life of the city.

                And she hated camping.  That, more than anything else in the world, she hated.  She was pleased to note that Fenris relished it no more than she did.  Perhaps even less so.  He was a city creature, same as she.  That thought disturbed her, to think that they might be even a little alike.

                But as the days passed on the road, in long empty silences between herself and her entourage, she got to thinking.  It had been three years since she had been on this path—almost four since she had been this way.  So much had happened since then.  She had grown, in body, mind, and magic.  She was a woman, an accomplished mage, and well on her way to becoming a magister.

                She had not done it for years now, but she found herself thinking of her family.  Some part of her felt hollow for that, as she thought about her stern mother, her distant father, and her brothers and sisters.

                _All dead_ , she thought.

                And she drew up her horse to a halt.  The village was just down this road.  It was only an hour’s ride, maybe a little more, if she hurried, and it was only midday.  “Wait here,” she told the men, and kicked her horse into a trot.  She was annoyed when someone was following her, and more annoyed when she saw who it was.

                “Are you deaf, slave?” she snapped at him.

                He regarded her as if from a lofty distance—an expression she especially hated on him.  If not for the distance between them, she may have slapped him.  She did it often enough when she thought she could get away with it.  Fenris wasn’t the sort to _tattle_ on her, as it were, but Danarius was, well…  _Danarius_ was the only one allowed to harm Fenris in any way, and he rarely had cause to so much as scowl at the slave.  “My master decreed that I am not to allow you to wander off alone,” he told her.  He left unsaid that this was because of the outbreak of riots going on, even though that was miles away.

                She hated that.  She couldn’t even order him to go away.  She ground her teeth, and kicked her horse into a gallop.  But she should have known better; he was a better horseman than she, and she hadn’t lost him at all.  She sighed, and stood up in the stirrups, trying to relieve some of the saddle sores she felt.  When she dismounted after the day’s ride, she walked bow-legged, and her legs hurt something fierce.  She could always ride in the wagon, and had on occasion, but the horse was less stuffy and more comfortable.  On the way back, she may ride in the carriage, but she doubted that would be much better.  She hated traveling.

                She held the reins in one hand, and rubbed her thighs with the other, grumbling to herself about horses.  Fenris observed her for a moment, and seemed very much like he wanted to say something.  She glared at him.  “What is it, elf?”

                He frowned.  “You should tuck in your knees more when you ride, and lean with the horse when she runs… you’d be more comfortable.”

                It was good advice.  Helpful advice, with good intentions.  Her mother had good intentions, when she had wanted to marry her off.  Good intentions when she had tried to perform and exorcism, to drive the imagined demons from her with starvation, dehydration, and depravation.  And she was so very, very tired of people talking down to her, belittling and mocking her—how dare this knife-eared bastard say such things to her?  Hadriana wanted desperately to hit him.  Rather, she reigned in her temper, and stopped her horse, and smirked.  “Elf.  Get off the horse, and walk.  You can lead the animal, but you’ll walk.”

                It would have satiated her if he had made some expression or noise of complaint or discomfort.  Rather, he made no expression at all, nor any sound, robbing her of any satisfaction she may garner from this.  He simply swung out of the saddle with a grace she lacked, and gently led the creature by its reigns.  The horse nuzzled against his shoulder, begging for attention.  Her own horse seemed to shun her.

                She walked her horse, and seemed all the more annoyed that Fenris seemed perfectly content leading his, as ordered.  Less than half a mile of that, she drew her horse to another halt.

                She swung out of the saddle, and Fenris stopped, waiting.  “Trade horses with me,” she snapped.  Even when everyone in her village had known she was a mage, they still had never treated her with the respect she had deserved.  They had shunned her, called her selfish for not knowing enough useful spells, and whispered about her when they thought she didn’t know.  And now, she had come to Minrathous expecting such things to stop, and they had not; they had only evolved into something different.

                At that, he raised an eyebrow.  “Mistress, I must object—“

                She slapped him, and he did nothing to prevent the blow.  His face was red where she had struck him.  Everyone talked back to her, no one treated her with any kind of respect, her entire life.  She was alone and miserable, and so angry that he would be so impertinent.  “Don’t talk back to me, slave!”  _A fire took them all away._

                But the insolent brat just started again, “Siren is a destrier, not a palfrey—“

                Her family had plow horses—common creatures.  Her older brothers had once ridden the creatures bareback, armed with sticks, and played at being knights.  “A horse is a horse,” she hissed, and slapped him again.  He dropped the reigns into her hand, bowing his head.

                “Apologies, Mistress,” he said, and slunk to the side.  Satisfied, she watched him take her bay mare, but led her, scratching the mare on the neck affectionately.  She nuzzled against his chest.  All the horses liked him.  But that made sense.  He helped take care of them at night.  Years ago, it had been her older brothers’ job to care for the horses and the other herds beasts—sheep and goats mostly.  The women had taken care of the two dairy cows, and the chickens.  For everyone else, it was the mill.  She huffed, and climbed into the saddle.  She made Fenris adjust the stirrups for her, which he did, and glanced at the horse again, and seemed anxious about something.

                The horse seemed pleasant enough.  That knife-ear was just an audacious sot, that was all.  She should have done more than slap him, but she so enjoyed doing it.  And oh, how he deserved it.  All of it and more.  She found herself wanting to take out all of her hurt and anger upon him, and saw absolutely no reason not to.  Her fingers wound in the reigns, putting on tension.  In her anger, her knees dug into the horse’s sides.  There was a loud snapping sound, and the horse paused for a moment, ears flat.

                She was lost in her thoughts when the horse got the bit in its teeth, though was not experienced enough a horseman to see anything out of sorts.  She looked about for the snapping sound, but assumed it was just a twig.  There was a cry of some animal in alarm, and a bird shot out of the high grass, its wings brushing the horse’s face.  Two other birds were startled out of their nest, and their wings kicked up dust and gravel.  The horse was a war horse, and horses were simple creatures.  It did not know the difference between the kicked up gravel and the darting birds and a stone hurled from a sling to kill.  The horse bolted. 

                She held on with her legs, one hand fiercely gripping the saddlehorn, her heels digging into its side in her fright.  She tried to control it, yanking back on the reigns.  This was a signal to the destrier to move backwards, and Siren did so, trotting backwards, and to the side as Hadriana pulled one way to the other, irritating the horse.  The animal tossed its head, kicking up its hooves.  The reigns slipped out of her fingers like sand.  Hadriana fell forward in the saddle, gripping the saddle horn.  One of her feet fell out of the stirrup, putting more weight on one side.  She heard Fenris yelling something, but couldn’t make it out beyond her terror.

                The animal, accustomed to this being a signal, wheeled suddenly to one side.  All hope of gaining the reigns again was lost; she couldn’t reach them, and was falling out of the saddle.  She struggled to get her foot back into the stirrup, kicking the beast by accident while putting weight into the other stirrup.  The animal whinnied, sharply pulling to the side again, and reared.  To be fair, it simply lifted its front legs a bit and let her fall out of the saddle before it darted off.  She tumbled to the ground, falling into a field.

                Fenris whistled, and yelled something at the horse.  The animal slowed, and turned around.  It whickered, sounding very much like a laugh to Hadriana.

                The elf caught up to where she sat, inspecting her for any harm.  He looked concerned enough.  She wondered how much of it was an act.  The scheming knife-eared bastard.  “You—this is your fault!” she accused him, and climbed to her feet, stumbling a little as she did.

                He looked taken aback.  “I… No, I…”

                “You—You made the horse do that!” she continued, pointing at him, taking a half step forward.  He had whistled, and called out something, and the horse had stopped.  Surely, there was some signal to make the animal… go crazy!

                He took a step back from her, automatically, and that enraged her.  “No, Mistress, I tried to—“

                She closed the distance between them and back-handed him, as hard as she could, across his face.  He didn’t even stumble, but his pretty face might be bruised in a few hours.  “You lying little bastard,” she hissed.  “I’ll have you whipped for your lies.  If your master wasn’t so fond of you, I’d have that lying tongue cut out.”

                He looked astonished.  “I…”

                She raised an eyebrow.  “You?” she countered.  “Get the damn horse, slave.”  She yanked the palfrey’s reigns from his hands, and hit him again, just because she was angry.  He slunk away.  She glared at him as he went to the destrier, and calmed the horse.  She should hack off all that long white hair.  Danarius had it cut a year ago, and sold it to a wig maker for a very good price.  No doubt, he had intended to do that again; his hair was past his shoulders once more.

                By the time he returned though, she was calmed, and got back on her palfrey, but made the elf walk.

 

                He had tried to tell her.  He really had.  Fenris sighed inwardly.  It wasn’t his fault if the mage would not choose to listen.  He just wished that she didn’t blame him.  He hadn’t lied about anything, and being accused of doing so bothered him, maybe more than it should.  Danarius would have at least listened to him.  Oh, he might hit him, but he would at least listen to him.

                He also wouldn’t have made the stupid mistake of trying to ride a destrier.  Danarius had bought the veteran horses, and had taken an interest in breeding them in recent years.  There was such a difference between a palfrey and a destrier, especially to someone as inexperienced a rider as Hadriana.

                Well… there was nothing to be done about it.  He had done all he could do to prevent it from happening.  He disliked that she blamed him for it was all.

                He did wonder what she was doing down this forsaken country road, but she had such a determined expression that it had to have some point to it.

                In another mile, they came upon the ruins of a village.  The place had never been large, but some fire had burned down half of it, and the rest had simply been abandoned.  There were fields of wild wheat and barley all around it.  A river cut close to it, and Hadriana dismounted from her palfrey, and secured it to a half-rotted fence post.  She walked amongst the ruins of the village, running her hand along the charcoaled wall of a burnt out hut.  The fields were claiming the village, slowly.

                She walked up to the mill, and Fenris followed her.  He left his own horse nearby, and had to follow after her on foot, as this part was littered with debris from the village remains.  She picked her way gingerly through the rubble and the high grass to stand amidst the ruins of what had clearly once been a mill.  Fenris stayed a respectable distance away, and waited.

                Hadriana stood, silent as a sentinel, amidst the ruins, watching the river as if she did not really see it.  She stood there for nearly half an hour in silence, before she shifted, and knelt, as if in prayer, but she did not pray; only stared, and then as if she saw nothing around her.  Fenris kept an eye on the area, checked on the horses.

                He waited, and shifted from leg to leg, and she knelt there, sometimes shifting, but mostly only staring, until the sun began to set.  Fenris had, upon seeing that Hadriana likely would not be getting up any time soon, hobbled the horses and removed their bits so they could graze, and would remove their saddles too if he only knew how long she would be.  The hour grew dim, and only then did she rise.  Her face was dry, and she had not cried, yet still she looked hollow.  He knew it had been a penance for something—what else could it be?

                “Did… you know someone who lived here?” he asked her, gently as he put the bit and bridles back on the horses.

                She looked up at him, and he saw that her eyes were full of unshed tears.  “No.  I never did,” she whispered, blinking.  One, solitary, lonely tear spilled from her eye, trailing over her cheek.

                In that moment, she wasn’t Hadriana, his master’s apprentice and a mage.  She was a little girl—lost and alone, and wretched.  She looked so miserable that… if she were anyone else in the world, he would have tried to comfort her.

 

                Mieta was nervous when she was sent to the docks for bolts of cloth.  It wasn’t a place for elves.  How her blind grandchild ever got along so well here, she didn’t understand, but she saw that the sailors, the whores, even the pickpockets seemed to like the child.  She understood why.  He was charming, and there was something humbling about speaking to him.  It made her cherish her own sight, made her cherish what she had.

                And he led her boldly to the merchant unloading his bolts of cloth.  Mieta was timid, but Shaislyn wasn’t.  He hailed the merchant—a rotund fellow with a beard, and a thick stack of papers as he supervised his men unloading the crates.

                The man turned toward them, and gave Shaislyn a friendly sort of scowl.  “And what are you up to?” he demanded of the child.

                Shaislyn looked at him as if he could see him—something that he had to learn to do, because it was less unnerving for others.  “Escorting my grandmother to see you.  What else?” he asked.  “We’ve an order.”

                Mieta gave him the proper papers.  He reviewed them to see that everything was in order.  “Ah.  The market changed on this last bolt—the linen,” he said with a small nod.  “Cost of flax is down—so you’ve some change owed you.  Kiersten!”  He turned, and bellowed the name again, toward the ship this time.

                A middle-aged blonde woman leaned over the rail.  “What do you want?”

                He laughed.  He had bad teeth.  “For you to get married—but we all know that will never happen,” he joked, but Kiersten didn’t seem to think it was very funny.  “Bring me a bag of silver and copper—I need to make change.”

                It was rare to find a man unwilling to cheat an elf.  Or maybe it was only because he liked Shaislyn.  Mieta would have to question her grandson about just how often he went down to the docks—as well as the sort of charm he worked on people.

                The man loaded up Mieta’s cart himself, and let her inspect the fabrics before he loaded them.  Shaislyn dashed away to talk to the sailors.  One of them was telling him a story about sailing while Kiersten stepped down the gangplank.  She was carrying two small pouches.

                She was a pretty, middle-aged woman, and was probably quite beautiful in her youth.  When she smiled warmly, Mieta could only wonder why she was unmarried at her age.  “The linen, right?” she asked the elf woman.  Mieta could only nod.  She counted out the change.  “Father used to cheat everyone.”  She was smiling as she said it.  “But I set him to rights when I wouldn’t let him leave me at home anymore.”

                Mieta returned the smile.  “I’m sure your customers are grateful.”

                She laughed.  “We’ve a bit more business now, to be sure,” she said, pleased.

                As she handed her the coppers first, Mieta heard herself say, “How could such a lovely woman as yourself be unmarried?”

                Kiersten’s smile was cheerless.  “My love was a knight, and sailed to Seheron to fight.”  She sighed wistfully.  “He died long ago.”

                The elven woman looked at her sadly.  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

                “I was too…  But I won’t believe them when they said he was a traitor,” she admitted, as if defending something.

                Something about the story made Mieta frown.  Something… familiar.  “A traitor?” she echoed.

                Kiersten nodded sadly, and counted the silver back to her.  When she finished, she pulled the drawstring shut on the bag.  “Caught stealing slaves from the army.”

                A chill ran up Mieta’s spine.  “What was his name?”

                Kiersten looked at her forlornly.  “Newlyn,” she answered with a small sigh.

                Mieta almost dropped the money she held.  “Kiersten,” she breathed.  “You and I need to talk.”

                The woman looked at her, confused.  “Talk of what?”

                The elf swallowed.  Her throat felt so dry.  “I think I knew your Newlyn,” she told her.

                Kiersten blinked slowly, as if processing this.  She turned to her father.  “Father, I’ll walk with this woman to the shop.”  He hadn’t been listening, and only shouted that he had heard her.  She walked beside Mieta, and Shaislyn walked on Mieta’s other side as she pulled the cart.  “How did you know Ser Newlyn?”

                Mieta looked away.  “Shaislyn, why don’t you go run along now?” she asked him.  He pouted, resenting being excluded, but sighed and split from them.  Another story from the sailors was better than his grandmother’s anyway.  She turned back to the other woman.  “He was a noble man.”

                Kiersten was silent for a moment.  “Yes.  And brave, and good.”  She left unsaid that he had died, but it was apparent by her tone that she was thinking it.

                The elven woman felt suddenly reluctant to go on.  She hadn’t talked about it to anyone.  She had never felt the need or the will to do so.  But Kiersten deserved the story.  She told her about her first meeting of him—under the stairs in her basement.  He had let her and Leto go change their clothing and get food.  He had treated them gently and with courtesy.  She told her about the march, and how he had let her ride his horse Bluebelle while he walked, and put her son beside her on the horse.

                Kiersten asked about her son.  “How old was your son?”

                “Three summers,” she answered sadly.  “A spring child.”  She found herself missing her firstborn as much as she had ever missed him.  Her body ached for missing him.  She wanted to hold him again, like she had when he was a child, and he would be safe in her arms.  “He looked like his grandfather, actually—with his eyes like sage and hair like jet.  I’ve never known a braver child.”

                Kiersten was quiet a moment.  “I’m sorry for your loss,” she said softly.

                Mieta shook her head.  “I don’t know if he’s alive or not.  But let me tell you the rest of the story.”  She cleared her throat, and went on.  She described the rain, the uprising.  She told how Newlyn had come for them in the night with the fires all around, and they had ridden into the forest.  “He was very gallant.”

                “Gallantry didn’t keep him alive.”

                “No.  It didn’t,” Mieta agreed.

                Kiersten looked at her sidelong.  “I do not mean to imply that I would rather you and your child be slaves.  I understand.  But he was foolish too.”  She shook her head, and her eyes were wet before she blinked it away.  “He could have given you his horse, and that would have been better.  That would have kept him alive.”  Mieta said nothing.  Maybe that would have been better.  For everyone except Varania, that is.  And Shaislyn, she realized.  The child would not exist had anything else but this happened.  “But I digress,” Kiersten said, her words sorrowful.  “Go on, please.”

                Mieta went on, and told Kiersten about the run through the forest.  She told him about the knife he had given Leto, and their sleepless, hungry nights.  They arrived at the shop, but Mieta and Kiersten left the cart by the door, and sat down on the steps.  Mieta continued talking about their flight, and how the hounds had eventually found them.  She told Kiersten about the mage, and that he had sent she and her son on ahead in the hopes that they would be content with his death.  His death was old to Kiersten, and she did not cry, but she seemed no less saddened for it.

                “Did you escape, then?” Kiersten asked her.

                Mieta looked away.  “They caught us too,” she confessed.

                Kiersten frowned.  “But you are no slave, Mieta.”

                The elven woman wanted to cry for that.  “Were I, I might know where my son is.”

                The human woman considered.  “I think…  I need to know the rest of this story.”

                And for some reason, Mieta told her.  She told her everything, but left out the part about Mieta killing a man.  She told her about her son’s first beating on the road.  She told her about the slave ships, and reminded Kiersten that she had been pregnant with her daughter.  She told her about the warehouse in Minrathous and the cages.  She told her about her son and the magister, and about being given to the same man.  She mentioned Lura, of how the poor child was left alone in the cage.

                “You were fortunate,” Kiersten told her, putting a gentling hand against hers.  “Many are not so lucky.”

                Mieta looked down.  “It didn’t feel lucky at the time, but I know that.”  She told her about the slave compound, and Kiersten looked fit to weep.  Mieta knew it wasn’t the worst place, but Newlyn had once told Mieta that Kiersten hated slavery something fierce.  He had said that Kiersten did not see as others saw—that she saw a person’s soul, and not the body they had.  Mieta told the woman about her master, and the daughter she gave birth to in slavery.  She spoke of how her children had grown, of how her son was chosen to train for the arena.  Kiersten looked on with sympathy.  She spoke of how Varania was found to be a mage.  She even mentioned the Dalish girl, Ginger, for the brief time she had been there before making her daring escape.

                She told her about Leto’s first match, and how frightened she had been when he had left.  How she was terrified every time he went to the arena, for any fight could be his last.

                “He fought a dragon once,” she heard herself say.  “He came home boasting about its breath, how it singed his hair, he was so close to it.  It was a young one, though—half-grown at most.”

                “It is no small thing to stand before a dragon,” Kiersten said, but the words were not comforting for Mieta.

                “He won our master a good-sized purse,” she said acrimoniously.  She spoke of how Varania had been raped then, and came away from it pregnant.  Kiersten’s gaze flicked in the direction of the docks, and Mieta knew what—or who—she was thinking of.  “Yes.  It’s Shaislyn.”

                Kiersten shook her head.  “Your story is only sadder and sadder,” she told her.

                Mieta laughed bitterly.  “Danarius held a tourney—the winner of which would become his experiment.”

                “That seems an odd prize.”

                Mieta shook her head.  “The winner was to get a large purse if they were not a slave, an easy job, and one boon of the magister.”

                Kiersten frowned in thought.  “I remember the tourney,” she said suddenly.  “I didn’t go—I never liked the games.  But I remember it.”

                Mieta nodded once absently.  “Slaves were allowed to compete.”  She wanted to weep.  “Leto won.”  She smiled a little.  “Of course he won; he had never lost, save once, and that was to a fever more than the opponent.”

                Kiersten suddenly understood.  “He used the boon to free you and Varania.”

                “And Shaislyn and Lura—yes.”  Her eyes watered.  She swiped at them, but it did little good.  She felt she had to tell Kiersten that Leto had met Lura again, years later, and had begged for her freedom too.  “If he had but lost, we might still be together.”

                Kiersten didn’t seem very certain of that.  “This… experiment…” she said.  “One hears… dark things… about the magisters.”

                Mieta’s lips pursed into a frown.  “I had little interaction with the man, to be honest.  Varania and Leto both saw him more frequently.  But Varania is certain they are maleficarum.”  This last bit in a hushed whisper that would not go beyond Kiersten’s ears.

                Kiersten had gone very quiet.  “The slaves in the compound.  After this… experiment was over, and he shipped you off…  Did you ever see any of them?”

                The elf didn’t quite understand what Kiersten was driving at.  “No… Why?”

                She stared downwards, at her hands.  “At the docks, you hear all kinds of things,” she said, as if it had nothing to do with the conversation at hand.  “Servants on errands gossip there, and rumors are like wind.”  She swallowed.  “Mieta…  I don’t think you would be alive had Leto not won.”

                Mieta felt suddenly cold.  “Kiersten…”

                The other woman looked at her.  “A servant told one of my father’s men… about the bodies.  They had to pile them into a cart, they said, and they were burned, their ashes buried in a mass grave outside the compound.”

                The elf shook her head, refusing to believe what she had heard.  “No… there were children…”

                Kiersten’s eyes watered.  “The servant mentioned the children especially.  He said that they were all naked and bloodied.”

                Mieta licked her suddenly dry lips.  She couldn’t make sense of it.  All those people… dead?  For some silly ritual?  Nothing could be worth that.  “No…”  She thought of all their faces, their names.  She had thought—miserable and in slavery, certainly.  But… this?  It was all the worse that it had been years ago, and she had been ignorant all this time.

                Kiersten sat beside her as Mieta grieved without tears, and silently.  She would mourn later, she decided.  “Thank you for telling me,” Mieta finished.

                Kiersten nodded.  “Thank you for telling me the truth of my knight’s death.  It is good to know he died for a noble cause.”

                _And it is good to know that so many others died without even good cause._ But she would rather not live in ignorance of it any longer.  All those people deserved more than that.  They deserved names, and someone to remember them.  They deserved so much more than death and a cramped hole in the ground.

 

                 Hadriana wasted no time once they arrived at the vineyard.  She had once asked if the estate had a name and any kind of heritage.  He had only replied that it was an old family estate, and called “Vinewood,” for the forest as well as the grove.

                The servants were surprised at her arrival, but were quick to see to their accommodations.  She had half a mind to send Fenris with the other slaves, but decided servant quarters would do.  Her master didn’t want him getting to know anyone—he wanted to keep him isolated--and a private room kept him more secluded.

                She inspected the grounds thoroughly, and lightly questioned the overseers, feigning nothing more than a surprise inspection.  The guards had not been told why they were coming here, so she had nothing to fear of them letting slip the real reason for their visit.

                Hadriana was tireless in her pursuit of the crime, and was always watching, prowling.  She had two assistants who met her at the estate a day after her arrival, who were to assist her in her search.  One of them decided that the servant quarters needed a thorough “cleaning”—and gave them but a few minutes’ notice before he oversaw the work being done.  Of course, it was the slaves he used to clean them out, not the servants themselves.  No, they were sent about their usual duties.  Some evidence was turned up—a small stash of coin none of them could have possibly obtained except through ill-gotten means.  The steward stammered and stuttered when presented with the idea that one of the hired help had been thieving.  But it could simply be a savings.  The purse was taken as evidence, for the moment.  Not an hour later was further evidence found—a wax seal from one of the bottles.

                Hadriana felt that her work was nearly done, but still they searched, just in case.  Justice was delivered; the penalty for theft was the loss of a hand.  She had the man escorted to a block outside, ordinarily used for chopping wood.  He babbled the entire way there, and continued babbling when someone stoked a fire, to heat steel to seal the wound that would be made.  It pleased her to have Fenris do the deed.  A slave to cow a servant.

                “Are you right-handed?” she asked the babbling thief.

                He stammered.  “I…  Y-yes, mesere,” he burbled.

                She nodded.  “Let it be said that I am not unjust.  The left hand,” she said to Fenris with a curt nod.  He had a sharpened axe, the sort used for cutting wood, but this would do.

                The man had to be held still by two guards, and still he begged and screamed.  He squealed like a pig when the axe came down, and shrieked anew when they burned it shut.  The hand lay on the ground.  Hadriana had it nailed to a post by the brewery, so all may witness the justice.

                She promised a lesser punishment if the conspirators came forward.  She promised a small finger, no more, if they confessed and repented their deed, but for every day they did not come forward, another finger.

                The man could have given away his conspirators, but he hadn’t really believed that they would cut off his hand until the axe fell.  Men were like that, the lot of them; they thought themselves invincible.  It pleased Hadriana to show them otherwise.

                She took a glass of wine in the solar, and summoned the slave to pour her a second.  She looked at him over the rim of the glass.  “Danarius had you bring a serving outfit, I trust?” she asked him.

                The slave hated those; it showed in the way he moved in them—self-conscious and awkward.  He only really looked truly confident when a weapon was in his hands though.  He seemed reluctant to answer, but did, “Yes, mesere.”

                _Just in case_ , she thought.  “Good.  We’re having company tonight, so go clean yourself up and put it on.”  She didn’t finish the second glass.  There would be plenty enough tonight, when her master’s daughter arrived.

 

                Mieta had been working for most of the night, to catch up on an order.  It had been slow lately, and there was reason for it.  Reason she would rather not give.

                It only worried her daughter, and the owner of the shop was always kind enough to send her home if she were feeling ill, but they were running behind, and she had to catch up, so she stayed, and she worked by the light of the lantern.

                Her back ached from being hunched over with her needle, her neck felt cramped.  She straightened, and stretched for a moment, and bent back over her work.  _I’ll just finish this, then I’ll go home—get a bit of sleep._

She told herself that, but the work did not go as quickly as it had when she was younger.  Her hands were shaking, and it was so hard to get her stitches straight.  Sometimes, it looked like all the colours were blurring together.

                She blinked, then held her eyes closed for a moment, trying to focus.  She was so tired, but she was almost finished.

                There was a knock at the door—a soft rapping.  It could only be either the owner—unlikely, as she had a key—or perhaps Lura or Varania.

                She set her work aside, and walked to the door, surprised at how good it felt to stretch her legs.  She peered outside cautiously from a slit in the shuttered window, then opened the door wide, stepping aside for Lura.

                The girl smiled warmly at her.  She carried a basket.  “I brought you some soup…  You didn’t come home for dinner,” she explained, stepping inside.  She wiped her feet on the matt, and went to an empty table.  Mieta shut and locked the door behind her.

                Mieta smiled.  “You’re the daughter I never had,” she said. 

                Lura looked back at her, and echoed a sadder version of the smile.  _Daughter-in-law._   What should have been but wasn’t.  “You’ve been like a mother to me since my own passed away,” she told her instead.  “ _Passed away”—that was quite mild a term._

                They left out that Mieta had been separated from the child for over a decade, and simply resumed the role of parent when they were reunited again.  “And treat you like an adult?” Mieta teased.  “Never.”  Lura laughed good-naturedly, opening the little basket.  She had a small tin, which she set out, a flask, bread, and cheese.  Mieta sat down, surprised at how hungry she was.  Lura sat across from her.  “You would have made a good wife, Lura.”

                The girl only smiled.  _She hides behind her smiles_ — _they are a disguise she dons._   “Unlikely.  I never would give my husband’s parents any grandchildren.”  Her words were light and meant with humor, yet there was a tinge of sadness to them. 

                “That’s not all that being a wife means.”

                Lura laughed, clapping her hands together.  “Oh, yes—cooking and cleaning.  I like cooking, but you know I do a half-assed job cleaning at best; I always have to go over things again.  When it’s wet, it just looks clean to me.”  She shrugged.  “I think I do all right with Shai, but I couldn’t possibly run a household.”

                And there it was again—intentionally missing what Mieta was telling her.  She opened the tin, surprised to find it still warm.  “I would have wanted you to marry my son.”

                Lura smiled again.  “If he’d have me.”

                “I wasn’t going to give him a choice,” Mieta said amiably, lifting her spoon.  “But he’d have you anyway.”  She had seen the way they looked at each other.  She wished…  But she would never see Leto again, and that… that was heartbreaking for a mother.

                Some of her thoughts must have shown, for Lura touched her arm gently.  “I’m sorry, Mieta.”

                Mieta swallowed, and stared into the soup.  How long had it been since she had seen her firstborn?  About four years.  She missed him so much.  So did Varania, and Lura.  Shaislyn would have liked him, admired him.  The boy needed a man around the house.  Speaking of which…  She looked up, as if all her sorrows were forgotten.  “I’ve been so busy lately.  Is Varania still seeing that boy?”

                Lura chuckled.  “He’s a man grown now, you know.  And yes—I think it’s getting serious, dare I say.”  She leaned forward, eager to spill the juicy gossip.  “He comes over quite often.  Shai is fond of him too.”  She considered.  “I walked in on them kissing once.  You should have seen Varania blush.”

                Mieta’s lips curved into a small smile at the news.  She was happy for her daughter.  Varania deserved some joy in her life, after so much sorrow and heartache.  “If they were to marry, I would support it,” Mieta confided in Lura.  “If she talks about it, you may tell her I said so.”

                The young woman nodded.  “Yes, I shall.  Now--you eat, and don’t let me distract you.”

                Mieta started into the soup, and used the bread to mop the broth.  She knew it was Lura’s cooking after the first few spoonfuls.  Varania was fair at cooking, but she had a tendency to become impatient.  Sometimes, she would use magic to cook things, and it always tasted funny if she did it.  She swallowed another bite, and opened her mouth to compliment her on her choice of spices, then her vision began to dim.  She seemed to go deaf, but she was aware of Lura saying something.  She looked concerned.  Everything was going hazy—dark around the edges.  Pain lanced through her, and she was aware of sliding downwards before everything went black.

                When Mieta woke again, Lura was kneeling beside her.  Varania was there as well, looking as if she had run there from bed.  Blue healing light was spilling from her hands, her brow creased in concentration.

                Varania’s hands fell away, and the girl looked exhausted.  Mieta looked at the two.  Her lips felt dry.  “Water,” she croaked.  Lura snatched the flask from the table, and helped her to sit up and drink from it.  It was cider instead of water, but it was good all the same.  Though she protested, Varania cleaned up the shop, and put the basket together again.  Lura and her daughter took her home, and put her to bed.

 

                Annalkylie hadn’t seen Vinewood Manor since she was five years old.  It hadn’t seemed to have changed a bit in the past three years, but she certainly had.

                She was blossoming into a young woman—and the woman she was becoming was nothing but dismay to her parents.  She never outgrew her love of adventure.  She never outgrew her love of the unknown and wanting to learn.

                Unfortunately, everything she wanted to learn was severely frowned upon.  She had bullied the cooks into teaching her to cook.  She had enjoyed that, until her father found out about it, and he put a stop to it immediately.  It was improper for a highborn lady, he had said, to chop turnips like some farmer.  So, put out but undaunted, she sought out her brother and the master at arms, and wouldn’t leave them alone until they conceded to give her fencing lessons.  Her lady mother put an abrupt halt to that nonsense, though, and Kylie had cried.

                She had tried the lance, too—a light one her brother gave to her, and he started giving her jousting lessons, but her parents made her stop that too, and Agasius was chastised thoroughly for his part.  So, she had sought out a stable boy who knew how to juggle, and she convinced him to show her.  She could barely juggle two oranges, though, before they made her stop that too.

                Everything fun in the world was forbidden.

                Oh, they allowed her to go riding, and hawking sometimes—she had a fine falcon and a beautiful black gelding.  But she couldn’t care less if her stitches were crooked, or if her dress was soiled.

                Which was why she was being shipped off like so much baggage to Minrathous, she assumed.

                She was courtly and ladylike when she met Hadriana again, and the apprentice complimented her on how she was growing into a lady.  Kylie smiled and did all the pleasantries she had been forced to learn.  But she stole away from the meal as soon as she was able, leaving Agasius to tend with Hadriana.

                Kylie crept out on to the balcony, looking out over the vineyard.  She was watching two slave children chase each other about the yard by the compound.  How they found the energy for it, after the work they had to do, she didn’t know.  She disliked slavery, she had found when she was old enough to understand the concept.  She couldn’t look into a person’s eyes and send them into a field in chains.  Agasius only told her that she had a woman’s heart, and at the time, had teased her about it until she hit him, then he teased her some more.

                She looked at the children only a few years younger than herself, and wondered what it would be like to have no past and no future.  All the world, nothing but the present.  Her future loomed over her like a thing alive ready to devour her.  She had heard talk of marrying her off to some highborn man, likely twice her age, by the time she was ready for marriage.  She made a pretty prize, after all.  For a peasant like Hadriana had been, being born a mage might be elevating.  But not for Kylie, she had found.  True, she would be married off to some pompous buffoon even if she were not a mage, but being able to zap people with lightning bolts meant she was a rarer course, best served selectively.

                But not until she had flowered, she reminded herself.  She prayed it was years off—but who knew?  If her sisters were anything to go by, she had a couple of years at least.  Maybe longer, if she were very fortunate.

                Tomorrow, maybe she could ride her horse, and take her falcon out to hunt by the lake.  She remembered getting lost in those woods as a child, and smiled at the idea of how foolish she had been.  Five years old seemed so young to an eight-almost-nine old, three years a lifetime away.

                “My lady!” a servant cried.  “There you are—come inside.  You’ll catch your death of cold.”  And, just like that, what little freedom Kylie had managed to grasp on the balcony was whisked away, by a servant no less!

                She was ushered into a parlor room, where Agasius and Hadriana sat in cushioned chairs, sipping wine from tall glasses.  Kylie only sighed.  Agasius smiled encouragingly to her.  “Sister, come sit.  Have a glass.”

                She made a face.  “Strawberry cordial, if you please,” she told the servant, taking her seat.  And her brother and the apprentice made to include her in their talk, but her answers were curt and did not prompt much conversation, so the two quickly sought to fill in the voids she left behind.  Soon, she was simply an ornament in the room, forced to be there.  She could pretend that she was tired, she supposed, and send herself to bed.  Perhaps she could stay up and read for a while—that would be pleasant enough.

                Hadriana seemed to be drinking a lot, she noticed.  Her mother did that when she was stressed about something.  Perhaps Hadriana had cause to be a bit stressed.

                Kylie’s eyes roved about the room.  Fenris stood off to the side, she saw, just as ornamental as she.  She frowned.  Perhaps more so.  He was wearing nothing from the waist up, and the silken sarong swept to his ankles and was not sheer, but it was open at the sides, revealing his legs.  A thin golden chain was all that connected the two strips of fabrics at the sides.  There was nothing underneath it—that was plain enough.  His hair was braided so tightly that it gave the illusion of it being short from this angle.  He had jewelry too—more thin bits of gold; a gold collar, a gold snake curled around his arm and another at the opposite ankle.  And of course, his skin was oiled so it glistened prettily in the firelight.  She had seen her own father’s slaves in less, and more.  But none of them were so heavily tattooed.

                She remembered him from her earlier childhood, and how he had seemed so big and strong when he carried her through the forest—that memory made seeing him like this seem silly.  So gentle when he dabbed mud on her, to help with the bee stings—something that had never been required of him, but he had done it anyway—which told her that somewhere in him, there was a sort of kindness that was normally eclipsed by the deeds and will of his master.  He had gotten older, she reflected.  Everyone had, and changed with time.  Agasius would be married soon—in the summer, as a matter of fact, and his twin would follow that path in the fall.

                Kylie only wondered who her parents would choose for her own husband, but it just didn’t bear troubling herself over.  Whoever it was, she just hoped he had land, hawks, and horses.  It was the only real pleasure she was allowed in life, after all.

 

                Agasius and his sister retired.  More specifically, Annalkylie was yawning—likely more with boredom than sleepiness—and Agasius took his leave to escort her to her quarters.  Hadriana had said that a servant could do that just as easily, and he had laughed and said, “My lady, you do not know my sister.”

                So she finished off her glass, and made to stand, but the ground tilted and tottered, and she fell, catching herself on the low table, and knocking something off of it.  She scarcely noticed, and stumbled toward the door.  She may be drunk, she reflected.

                She fell again, but someone caught her.  She looked up to see Fenris lift her, and settle her back on her feet.  She pushed away from him, but fell again.  Again, he caught her—dutiful as ever.

                It annoyed her.

                But it became plain that she would not make it to her quarters unassisted.  She hated it, but swung an arm around his shoulders, and the elf walked with her to her room.

                As she walked, her drunken mind wandered, thinking of many things, but mostly Agasius.  He had avoided her, she knew.  He had rejected her.  She was drunk enough to be easily taken advantage of, should he but move first, and she would even be willing; he was quite comely with his soft brown curls and broad shoulders.  But he was betrothed, and entirely too courtly for such things, it would seem.  She had made it quite clear that she was willing, as much as was possible with his sister in the room anyway.

                It dampened her mood, and lent a sour taste to her mouth.

                She fumbled, and almost made Fenris trip.  It was her clumsiness, but she glared at him all the same.  Or, rather, tried to glare at him.  The world was spinning quite a bit.  _He has pretty eyes, even if they’re as alien as any elves’_ , she thought before she looked back at the carpet.  One foot in front of the other…

                All elves had pretty eyes.  And pretty faces.  Pretty hair, and pretty skin.  It was why her ancestors had taken such delight in enslaving them.  Jealousy inspires nothing but hatred.

                They came to her quarters.  He fumbled with the door; she was too drunk for it.  He helped her through, and she almost fell again.  He lifted her back to her feet, and brought her to her bed.  The dutiful slave set her down on the big featherbed, and saw to a number of tasks she was too drunk to fully comprehend.  Namely, tending the fire, fetching water, and closing the windows to keep out the draft.

                She caught his arm as he walked by, and looked up at him.  He stared down at her, those pretty sage eyes a mystery to her.  “I…” she began.  “Don’t…”

                He remained aloof.  “Mesere, you’ve drank too much.”

                She sat up with some effort, but kept an iron grip on his arm.  “I mean it,” she whispered, and stared up at him.  _Don’t make me beg_.  “Won’t you stay with me tonight?  It’s cold.”

                He stared at her for what felt like a long time.  “The fire will warm the room, Hadriana.”

                She wanted to become angry, but somehow couldn’t manage it.  “I could order you,” she threatened him, and felt her eyes brim with tears.  She had been rejected by Agasius, and now a slave too.  Everyone rejected her, abused her, mocked her.  “I could force you to stay.”

                He only looked at her, his eyes full of pity, and she hated him for it.  “Hadriana, you can’t force me to want you.”

                She ground her teeth.  “You’re a _man_.  Don’t you want to be with a woman?” she demanded, and her tears spilled from her eyes unbidden.  “Am I not pretty enough?  Not as pretty as an elf?  Is that it?”

                Her grip had slackened, and he gently pried her fingers off of his arm.  “Danarius has forbidden that to me,” he reminded her, and moved to snuff out the candles.  It didn’t matter to him if he wanted to have sex or not, she realized with disgust; his master had forbidden it to him, and he obeyed.

                She watched him.  “I’m his apprentice.”

                “He is my master,” he answered.

                Hadriana stared at him.  The room grew dimmer.  “No one ever needs to know.”

                “I don’t want you,” he said, as gently, as tenderly, as softly as he could manage.

                The tears spilled anew.  Rejection hurt more than she felt she could bear.  Why was he doing this to her?  A thousand things came into her mind in that moment.  She could plead with him, but she knew she could not order him.  She wanted to spurn him then, to chastise him, torment him, _hurt him_.  “Danarius is getting old.  Who do you think will be your master when he dies?” she demanded.  He lowered his eyes, and did not deign to respond.  “Stay with me—now—and I’ll give you anything you want later.  Anything.”

                He looked her in the eyes then, for the first time that she could recall.  It was bold for slave, and insolent, but she was too drunk to realize it.  “I want nothing,” he answered.

                She stared at him in open shock.  “Nothing?” she demanded.  “Gold?  Jewels?”  She paused.  “Freedom?”

                “Nothing,” he assured her, and left her alone in the room, with nothing but her thoughts for company.

                _Nothing._

 

                Even if he had wanted Hadriana—and he didn’t—he wouldn’t have.  He had been explicitly forbidden that.  When his master wanted him… bred… he would tell him, no sooner.  That had been made quite clear to him.

                It was difficult to sleep.  He tossed and turned on the itchy straw-stuffed mattress, and sighed to himself.  He wanted something to drink—liquor or wine or something.  He hadn’t slept well in days.  He still had the randomly selected pain suppressants, but they didn’t dull it _enough_.  And then Hadriana…  A surge of emotion made the lyrium flare instantly to life.  If only she had known how tempting that really had been.  How… _enjoyable_ it would be to dominate _her—_ even for a few minutes, an hour.  Even if they never spoke of it—even if she didn’t even remember it afterward—it would be… pleasing.  And even so, well, he was a young man.  He regained a sense of calm with effort, and the light faded away, leaving behind a raw ache in its wake.

                Fenris lay alone on the straw-stuffed cot and thought about Perya.

                A year ago, his master hadn’t even considered such things.  He had kept Fenris too busy to think about sex.  But, like it or no, Fenris was still a young twenty-something, and couldn’t help but be distracted by a woman’s skirt, even momentarily.

                Danarius had threatened to have him gelded.  It hadn’t even been…  Nothing had happened.  Nothing.

                Perya was a slave at the mansion in the city—had been anyway.  She was petite, even by elven standards, and the top of her head barely came up to his shoulder—on tip-toe.  She was so tiny that he imagined he could carry her one-handed without even noticing the weight.  Her hair was the color of freshly tilled soil, and her eyes a soft golden hue, flecked with green upon inspection.

                He had first met her when she had been struggling to lift a simple bucket of water.  He had carried it for her, and she had giggled and said that he was very strong.  It had made him want to blush, considering how frail and weak he had been when first he had woken, three years ago at the time.

                She served wine at table, and he saw her dressed in a serving outfit a few days later.  He had to look away from her, lest he become aroused and humiliate himself, and she seemed unaware of it completely.  He had lain awake that night and been nearly mad thinking about the way her shoulders had been bare, how the fabric swept over her hips and exposed her slender belly.

                He had finally succumbed to the urge to touch himself, and thought about the maddeningly flimsy piece of cloth that composed her outfit, her taught nipples showing under the fine fabric.  It had been chilly in the hall…  She had such a slender waist that he could have covered it with a hand.

                He had woke thinking about her, and erect.  He saw her again a week later, when his master sent him on an errand to the kitchen, and she was cutting vegetables.  He had stared at her for what must have been an uncomfortably long amount of time, before he realized it, and delivered his message to the head cook, but she slipped out the door, to the yard, and he found himself following her.  She had gone to get water from the well, and was hauling the crank.  He did it for her, and she had smiled, and finally gave him her name.

                They saw each other a rare handful of times later—exchanging nothing more than furtive glances and half smiles.

                Someone took notice.

                Danarius had backhanded Fenris hard enough to knock him backwards, his ring slicing open his cheek.  Blood had ran down his face while his master threatened to geld him to keep him in his place, if that was “what it took” he had said.  “You’ll be with a woman when I want you bred, and no sooner—if that ever happens at all,” he had hissed to him, closing the distance between them.  “I’ll choose her, and I’ll give her to you, but you are _mine_.”  And his hand had clenched around the bulge between his legs, until Fenris cried out in pain.  “Every.”  Tighter.  “Single.”  Tighter.  His eyes watered.  He couldn’t breathe past the pain.  “Part.”  Sweat beaded on his forehead.  He made a small, pained noise.  “Of you.”  He released him, and Fenris crumpled to the carpet.  His master turned from him, and let him writhe in pain, before looking back at him.  “Get up.  Go fetch your little Perya.  Bring her to me.”

                Fenris had no idea what he meant to do, but he scrambled to his feet, and rushed to obey, but would rather be writhing in a ball of agony on the floor—he stumbled and couldn’t stand fully erect at first.  He found Perya in the slave compound, already bedded down for the night, and he was loathe to make her dress and come with him.  He told her what he had been bidden to do, and expressed a bit of his puzzlement.  Perya, though, seemed to know, and she went deathly silent, and remained that way all the way there.  She wouldn’t even tell him of her enlightenment.

                Danarius was waiting.  The magister barely said a word.  He inspected Perya, and told her to take off her clothes, and only then did Fenris understand.  His mouth had run dry.  His heart slowed.  The world seemed dim.  He felt a fool for not having put it together. 

                Perya removed her clothes, and Fenris couldn’t help but look at her, and want her, and that, more than anything, felt wicked just then.  Danarius inspected her the way a butcher inspected a choice cut of meat, before he nodded in seeming approval.

                “You don’t have bad taste, pet,” he commented, a butcher complimenting the farmer on how well he breeds cows for the slaughter.  “Girl, undress me.”  Wordless and deadened, Perya obeyed, removing his garments, folding everything neatly, never looking directly at him.  Fenris watched in mute horror.  Perya stepped away when it was done, hands clasped tightly in front of her, staring downwards at her feet.  “Fenris, come here.”  The elf had flinched, but obeyed, and was not surprised when his master forced him to his knees, and gave him his instructions.  The humiliation was bad enough, knowing that Perya was watching him take the mage in his mouth.  He felt him harden in his mouth.  Danarius’ hand caressed the side of his face as he did it, touching his hair, his throat.  His thumb ran lightly over his eyelashes, and he spoke gently when he rubbed the back of his throat.

                “Enough, pet,” he said.  Fenris stopped, pulling away, and too ashamed to glance back at Perya.  He wondered to himself if it made it that much worse that he had… assisted in this.  “You.”  His master was addressing the girl.  “Get on the bed.”  She made a squeaking sound, but obeyed.  Danarius ordered Fenris to the other side of the room, back to the wall, and he closed his eyes against the sight of his master raping Perya.  The girl was brave, not to cry, or scream, or beg.

                He heard it.  All of it.  The sound of the bed creaking, skin slapping against skin, the wet sound of him pumping into her.  Her occasional yelp or gasp of pain, his master’s heavy breathing.  And then the mage started hitting her, biting her—it sounded like, and she began to sob.  Fenris’ fingers clenched into angry fists, and still he stood vigilant, and obedient.  Even through his closed eyes, he could see the evidence of his rage in the way the lyrium had begun to glow.  If he had wanted to kill his master, there had never been a more perfect or just moment.  But he had stood idly by, the thought never even occurring to him.  And it still didn’t occur to him, a year later.

                After it was done, Danarius all but tossed Perya out, and commanded Fenris to walk with her back to the compound, but he did not give her back her dress.  He had said, snidely, “If you still want her, take her.  With my blessing.”

                Fenris had peeled off his tunic, and put it around her shoulders.  She was beaten, bloody, and bruised, and his seed was running down her legs.  He took her to the well, and tried to help clean her up when she stumbled and fell, shaking to the ground.  Perya glared at him when he came near, fixing him with a cold, hateful stare until he backed away.  He stayed a short distance away from her from then on, but walked her back to the compound all the same.

                “Perya,” he said, and she turned to him, her face a blank mask.  He closed the short distance between them.  His eyes were full of sorrow, his heart heavy in his breast.  “I’m so sorry.  I…”  Her fist flew.  She may have forgiven him, in time, but for that he caught her fist in his hand, automatic and without thinking about it.  She had glared at him with such hatred that he stepped away from her, taken aback, letting go of her wrist.  She had turned and fled.  He found the tunic outside his door the next evening, neatly folded.

                Perya had disappeared within the week.  Little over a month later, he had learned that his master had simply moved her to one of his whore houses, insisting that she belonged there now.  The magister had laughed at this, and Fenris had only thought, _It’s my fault_.

                Thinking about Perya still made him feel sick somehow.  He had never even looked at another woman after that.  And, when he started to think of those things again, he only remembered the sounds of his master raping the girl, and he lost all taste for it.  The rape might as well have happened to him.  _I wish it had_ , he thought.  _I wish I had begged him to do what he did to her to me instead.  At least then…_

                He almost laughed.  Even if he _had_ stayed with Hadriana that night, he doubted he’d be able to perform.  Perya was all he could think about, when it came down to it.  It was better not to think about it at all.

 

                Hadriana decided to treat the entire incident as if it had never occurred.  She barely remembered any of it anyway, so pretending she didn’t remember was not a far cry.  It felt like some kind of horrible dream where some puppeteer had seized control of her body and made her say things she did not want or intend.

                Agasius was entirely too gracious to mention it, and Fenris entirely too subservient to mention it.  Unless she asked him, and she wasn’t about to ask either of them.

                The incident threatened to utterly consume Hadriana’s thoughts, but the threat was kept at bay by her own work; finding the rest of the conspirators.  Or had she been going about this the wrong way from the start?  She smiled to herself.  No, she knew now what Danarius had really intended for her to do.  The question, of course was, _was she ready?_   And, did she know enough?

                But she held her head high, lips pressed together in something akin to a smile as she locked the shackles around Fenris’ wrists herself.  She didn’t trust him to stay still on his own while she did this.  So he knelt on his knees, head down, naked to the waist, his wrists above his head hanging in the iron shackles.  The air was cold down here, but would be heated comfortably soon with the warmth from the brazier.  His breath fogged the air.

                She lifted one of the thin, razor-sharp knives from the table, bringing it into a comfortable grip in her hand.  Fenris did not look up.

                They were alone down here, and if he screamed, no one would hear him but Hadriana.

                She wanted to say something like “you should have stayed with me last night” or something.  She wanted to, but couldn’t quite bring herself to.  Her face burned just to think about it.  The light blade flipped upwards, her heart hammering.  This was the first time she had done this without Danarius there to guide her, but she knew, without doubt, this was the reason that he had sent Fenris, and this was the reason he had sent her instead of just having an ordinary servant handle the matter.  When Fenris was used as a blood sacrifice, his blood and the lyrium both made blood magic so much stronger that she was quite confident in her ability.  The elf was useful, she would give him that.

                The first mind she had plunged into had actually been Fenris’, and she knew the elf did not thank her for it.  It had been before she had learned to conceal her presence, and he had felt her rifling through his mind like another consciousness beside his own, seeing whatever she saw and powerless to make her stop.  Not that he had much to hide, but that wasn’t really the point.  Rather, she had seen his thoughts on the matter—and it had been worse than rape, akin to a violation of a holy place.  You always thought you were safe inside your own mind, she supposed, and discovering that you were not…  Well…  But it hadn’t been the first time Fenris’ mind had been violated by a mage, Danarius had told her with a small smirk.  Fenris had only stared blankly ahead, like a man who had lost everything.  But he had never had anything to lose, had he?

                The magisters controlled their subjects by policing their thoughts, and while the house slept, she worked.

                She sliced along his bicep, a thin, shallow cut that would bleed a lot but was otherwise superficial.  He flinched, but did not move otherwise.  Her other hand touched the blood, her eyelids fluttering.

               

                She had found them.  Every last conspirator, every last servant harboring ill will.  Some were simply fired, but one more needed proper punishment.  Fenris stood nearby, and she could smell the medicines on him, see his bandaged arms.  One cut for every mind she had sorted through; his arms were covered in cuts, and she had eventually cut his shoulders, his chest, and would have cut into his back too, except that she was finished by then.  He had been shaking, from fear, the cold or a simple loss of blood, she couldn’t tell, and didn’t care.

                “For not coming forward yourself, you will lose one hand, and one eye,” she said pleasantly to the conspirator.  “I will allow you to choose which.”

                The woman was pale.  “I…  You said we would but lose a finger…”

                Hadriana kept her smile pleasant.  “If you came forward of your own volition.  Now, please choose which one, and do so quickly.  To the block,” she ordered, and led the march to the yard.  The woman begged and pleaded the entire way there.

                Ah, the benefit of acting with her master’s authority.

                A hand was chopped—Fenris did that again—and someone nailed it to another post beside the other rotting hand.  The eye was another story, though.  The woman did not even make her selection, so Hadriana had Fenris hold her still—and she seemed more terrified of the elf coming so near to her than almost anything else.  Hadriana stepped close, fire dancing around her palm.  With her other hand, she forced the woman’s left eye open, and poured the fire into it.

                When it was done, it was only a few hours until the last conspirator came forward.  He was rewarded for coming forward, and lost but four fingers of his choosing.  When all was set to rights again, Hadriana began preparations to head back to Minrathous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter seemed really obvious to me when I was editing it; there are so many points where something goes sour and dark, something beautiful turning quickly into something ugly.
> 
> Also, Perya: If I were Fenris, I don't think I'd want to have sex either after that. Ever.
> 
> And, I listen to Muse and Nightwish a lot while I'm writing this. Does it show?


	55. Dreams Without Desire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cancerous illness infecting Mieta spreads and she takes a turn for the worse. In Minrathous, Fenris is badly injured protecting Danarius.

                Varania looked at Lura, tears welling in her eyes.  “I can’t keep doing this,” she confided in the older woman.  Lura looked toward the door.  Beyond it, Mieta lay abed.  Shaislyn was sitting with her.  Neither of them were sure if that was a good idea or not, for the boy’s sake.  Was it worse or better that he saw his grandmother dying, that he spent some time with her in her last moments? 

                Lura knew little enough about magic; she was no mage.  She didn’t understand exactly _why_ Varania could not cure this, but she wasn’t ignorant enough to accuse her of giving up on her mother, or of being selfish about her magical abilities.  She had seen how hard Varania had tried to keep her alive.  “She needs a real healer.  I’m not a good healer,” she insisted.

                Lura’s gaze shifted back to the redhead.  “I know.  You’ve done your best.”  She sat down, thinking hard.  They had spent most of their savings on medicines for Mieta.  The medicines had helped for a while, but she had relapsed, and neither the medicines nor Varania’s magical talents were working.  Varania said that Mieta needed a healer—a mage who specialized in such magic.  But they couldn’t afford one.  Even before they had bought the medicine, they could not have afforded one.  But they could go to the healer, and get something for the pain at least.  It was all they could do now.  Lura knew that, deep down, but she was reluctant to say so aloud.  She stood up.  “I’ll be back.”

                The mage woman stared at her, incredulous.  “You’re leaving?  Now?”

                The other looked back at her.  “I won’t be gone long.”

                Varania’s jaw set, angry, but said nothing as Lura took her leave.  The woman hurried through the alienage, past the gates.  She was grateful that they were open.  Sometimes, they were closed, and then what could she have done?  _Climb it,_ she thought determinedly.  She had done it before.

                She headed to the market district.  It was possible to get what she needed in the alienage, but she couldn’t guarantee its quality.  An elven woman outside the alienage was often the victim of abuse, but she wrapped her head and hair in a scarf, and prayed no one looked too closely at her face.  The trick had worked on numerous occasions before, after all.  She avoided large crowds, and kept her head down.  Someone bumped into her, and she skirted quickly around them, apologizing as if it had been her fault—something she had learned since coming here.  As a slave or Liberati, she was to treat everyone else as her superior.  But they were human—of course they were superior.

                Taller, stronger of body, more populous.  Stronger of stomach, too; elves had sensitive stomachs.  Humans bred more quickly.  Why, a couple of humans could breed a dozen children.  Elves were fortunate to have three in their lifetime—and they had to work at it.

                Lura found herself thinking of Mieta—how could she not?  The woman lay dying in her bed in that sewer called the alienage.  Lura wouldn’t want to die there.  Perhaps they should carry her somewhere—just outside the city walls perhaps, but let her die somewhere else.  Anywhere else.

                She wished that Mieta had dated again.  She wished that the woman had at least been with another man, but Lura didn’t think she had since her husband had died, and that had been almost twenty years ago.  That seemed so sad to her.  _Who am I to talk?_

                She just hadn’t met anyone else yet, she decided.  But she was young, and she didn’t care anyway.  And besides, she was in no rush to start kissing and fucking again.  She had had enough of that in her life.

                But Mieta…  She hadn’t had a man hold her in twenty years.  Had she loved her husband so much?  Lura thought that she should cry if she continued to think on it.  Or, perhaps…  She didn’t want to think on it, but the thoughts came against her will, as thoughts are wont to do:  Perhaps Mieta had been forced to undergo the “breeding process” so many of their kind were put through.  True, she had borne no more children past Varania, but that meant little.  She pushed the dark thought from her mind with an effort.  It wasn’t necessarily true, and she hated to think that kind-hearted Mieta would ever have to endure something like that.

                Varania had been trying to have a Soporati family sponsor her in her magical pursuits, but so far, nothing was to show for it, owed not as much to her being an elf as to her being Liberati.  It was also difficult for her to apprentice under another mage for very long if at all, because everything in the Tevinter Circles was about politics, and it didn’t matter how skilled she was, she had used to be a slave and that social stigma followed the girl everywhere.

                Lura made her business in the market brisk.  She got the best thing she could afford for the pain, and clutched the little package close to herself as she hurried back to the sanctity of the alienage.

                Back in the hovel they called a home—nothing compared to her half-remembered childhood in Schavalis—Varania sat beside her mother, holding her hand.  Shaislyn sat beside her, looking solemn, which was a facial expression that made him look more elven than human—his mother and Lura both agreed to themselves.

                Mieta recognized Lura this time.  Sometimes, she didn’t.  She had even called Lura by her mother’s name once.  Perhaps Lura looked like her; she could not remember her mother’s face any longer.  Sometimes the woman was delirious.  She would ask about Leto frequently, and no one could tell her anything, except to remind her of why they could not, of why she could not see her firstborn son.  And she would always go quiet for a moment, and say, “Oh.  I remember now.”  And she would pause before she apologized, only to forget again in the future.

                Varania helped Lura mix the tea, and helped Mieta to drink it.  The woman made a face at the bitter taste, but drank all of it, and drifted into a fitful sleep.  Lura excused herself from the room, and washed the dishes.  She tidied the house and when that was done, she left for work early.  She did all she could to avoid that room of death.

 

                Hadriana had expected a highborn young girl like Annalkylie to ride in the carriage.  She had expected the girl to be more feminine and dignified.  But she was wearing riding leathers, and had a high-spirited gelding that she could barely reign in to keep him from running.

                The girl trotted the gelding to the back of their little band, and moved to the side of the road, and found herself annoyed to see the girl racing by in the field next to them.  The gelding held its head high, and the girl barely urged the horse on at all.  She rode well, and took the fence at a flying leap.  To such a fine horse, it was no more than a hop, and the gelding was off again, down the road, but not out of sight.

                The horse pranced and tossed its head as she waited for them, and then apparently grew tired of waiting.  She charged back into the field, and raced along the fence toward them, and turned the gelding round again.  She had a grin on her face.

                Hadriana regarded her coolly.  “You’re like to wear your horse out like that,” she called to her.  A part of her wanted to communicate that she was probably destroying some poor farmer’s crop too, but Annalkylie was a highborn girl, and the concept would probably only baffle her.

                The Altus girl laughed and shook her head.  “Oh, not Wind.  He’d have it no other way.”  She patted the black horse’s neck affectionately.  The animal was barely sweating, and pranced as she walked him.  The horse lifted its head again, and the girl laughed, reigning the horse in before he bolted once more.

                It seemed to be true, even days later.  The horse only relished the ride, and eagerly raced back and forth along the line, almost all day.  It wore Annalkylie out before the gelding.  A few days out, the child drove her horse up beside Fenris, so close their legs almost brushed together, and the girl was whispering to him.  Hadriana thought snidely, one doesn’t have to whisper too loudly for an elf to hear; they were all ears.

                Fenris whispered something back to her, and he had a disapproving scowl on his face, but she only grinned back at him, and said something else.  Hadriana scowled, wondering what was going on.  “Fenris is coming with me—we’re going to go ahead up to the lake, and go hawking for a bit,” she said, swinging off of her gelding, and hopping into the back of the moving wagon.

                Hadriana’s fingers clenched.  The child didn’t _ask_ , she had _informed_ her what she was going to do.  “Take a couple of the guards too,” Hadriana told her.

                Annalkylie reemerged with her falcon on her arm.  She looked stricken at the thought of more guards.  “Fenris is like three guards,” she complained.  But Hadriana gave the order, and the guards went with them anyway.  The carriage and the wagon made for slow going, so the small party was quickly ahead of them.

                Hadriana actually didn’t mind getting rid of Annalkylie and her rambunctious habits for a while, and not having Fenris around was nice too come to think of it.

                They should go ahead like this more often.

 

                Kylie’s falcon had caught a duck, and one of the guards brought it back for her.  Maybe they weren’t so useless after all.

                “Roast duck would be nice tonight,” Kylie implied.  The guardsmen had no complaints, and she waited for a while before sending the bird out again.  Nothing for a while, then she found a rabbit.  She had raised Willow from a chick, and had lots of help from the household in training her.  It was one of the few real pleasures she had in life.  She wished she could fly like Willow could.  It looked so divine, so free, so _powerful_.  She stepped her horse away from the guards, as if she were simply trotting about to get a new view, but Fenris wasn’t so easily fooled.  He wouldn’t be; there was a difference between a guard and a bodyguard, after all.

                She smirked, and kicked her horse into a running start, because it would drive her guards batty.  The animal had been itching for a good run all day, and it _flew_ along the lake’s edge, leaping high over the driftwood, splashing in the water.  If Kylie closed her eyes, it would _feel_ like she was flying, Wind’s gait was so smooth.

                Her guards chased after her dutifully, and she just giggled when she let them catch up.  She brought her gloved arm out, and her falcon screamed, and dropped down, landing nimbly.  She hooded her again, setting her on her perch.  Kylie had a healthy respect for those talons and that fierce beak; the scars on her arms weren’t from kitchen knives, after all.

                The guardsmen guilted and shamed her into going back to the main party.  She did so, sullenly and with great sulking.

 

                Shaislyn was surprisingly sneaky for a blind—that was what his grandmother had always said, when she had been well.  He didn’t really know what it meant to be “blind” exactly.  His mother had tried to describe “seeing” to him, and he didn’t understand that at all.  It had taken him a long time to come to terms with the fact that other people were not like he was.  Other people “saw” things, with their eyes.  Whatever any of _that_ meant.  The most Shaislyn could tell, as far as “seeing” something went, was if it were dark or light, and neither mattered much to him.

                He had escaped the house that smelled so strongly of death to him.  His grandmother lay dying, his mother in mourning and doing all she could to ease her pain.  All his grandmother spoke of was some unknown son of hers, and Lura held her hand, and talked to her, even when she didn’t seem to hear her.

                Shaislyn couldn’t bear it, and had fled, and no one had stopped him, and the women were all so busy, they scarcely seemed to notice his absence.

                He had stolen out of the alienage, and went down to the docks.  He liked the docks, but people often mistook him for a begging boy.  Pity made some people shove coins into his hands, and when he tried to explain that he didn’t want it, they just made soft, pitying noises and moved on.  Something pitiful about a half-elven child with a cane, he supposed.

                He liked the sound of the waves, and the smells of the city, the spices in the crates, the cries of the gulls, the foreign accents.  He sidestepped a cart, and a pile of dung with the sort of accuracy that only baffled his mother and he thought nothing of at all.

                She was always asking Shaislyn how he could know to step out of the way if he didn’t “see” something coming.  He had always frowned quizzically, and wondered how others couldn’t hear it, smell it, or sense that something was near.  He wasn’t _perfect_ at it—he still occasionally put his foot somewhere he didn’t want to, or bumped into something, but people gave him a lot of leeway when they saw his eyes.

                Lura had confided in him, privately, that he needed to turn his head toward people when they spoke to him, because it made it seem like he wasn’t listening.  He had pouted and raved about it, but eventually conceded the point.  She told him more than his mother ever did.  Varania always tried to hide the world from him, but Lura was the one to introduce him to it.  She was the one who told him to never be ashamed of who he was, because being ashamed of it meant others could shame him for it.  She told him that his eyes frightened others, so he may wish to keep his head down when speaking to people he didn’t know, but still turn toward them or run the risk of offending others.  It was a delicate balance he had to keep.

                “Shaislyn!” a human girl with a cart of scallops called to him.  He raised his head, turning toward the direction of the cry.

                “Nora!” he answered, and strode up to her.  She was only a little older than he was.

                “How do you _do that_?” she wondered, and made a sound like a chuckle.  “You can’t go down this way right now.”

                He pouted.  “Why not?”

                She giggled.  “An old fishing ship docked at port.  They’re cleaning it out.  Trust me, you don’t wanna go down there—the smell is _awful_.”

                “Thanks for the warning,” he laughed.

                “Sure thing.  Hey, if you’re still here by sunset, I’ll walk you back to the alienage, all right?” she said with all the ignorance of the young—she didn’t yet understand why she should regard Shaislyn as being “different” from herself.

                He nodded agreeably.  “Sure.”  And Nora continued pulling her cart.  He turned, and went down an alley instead.  Some would say that the alleys at the docks were dangerous, but Shaislyn had never encountered anything dangerous at the docks, more than a stray dog.  Some of the whores down here knew him, and many of the sailors too, and they looked out for him a bit.  A woman who owned a brothel—one of the nicer ones--had met him when she was buying spices, and he had told her that she was being cheated on the saffron, and once she told him that if he wanted to get out of the alienage, she would take him.  “You’d sleep on silk pillows, and have more jewels than you could wear,” she told him.  “Men and women alike would pay gold to be with you when you’re older.”

                He had been gracious, and smiled, and made sure to talk to her when she came down to the docks.  She smelled like cinnamon, expensive cigars, and foreign spices, and he always knew her when he passed by her, much to her continued delight.

                The thing about saffron, he had overheard sailors saying, was that few people could distinguish its taste, because it was so precious.  So, it was quite easy to get similarly coloured herbs, and maybe even mix it with saffron—just for authenticity.  Shaislyn didn’t like the idea of cheating anyone for their hard-earned money, and saffron was a spice more precious than gold.

                The maze of alleyways twisted round.  A cat complained of his trespass, and a washerwoman worked; he could smell the soap and hear the distinctive sound of wet clothes on a washboard.  He came to the end of the alley.  He frowned; this hadn’t been there before.  He touched the wood, and found that it was new.

                “Gated that up yesterday—to keep the riffraff out,” an old man wheezed.  Shaislyn turned toward him.  “Not that it does much good.  The riffraff always finds a way in.”

                He cocked his head to the side.  The man had a rasp, probably from pipe tobacco.  He sucked on his gums as he spoke, so Shaislyn assumed he was missing more than a few teeth.  “Are you new here, serrah?”

                The man laughed again.  “New enough, lad.”  The man shifted.  “Now, pray tell what a mage is doing skulking about at the docks.”

                Shaislyn’s eyebrows rose in surprise.  “I…  How did you know?”  Shaislyn never talked about his magic, or anything of the sort.  He had enough problems with teasing being half-elven, his mother Liberati, and blind; he didn’t need to further complicate matters!

                He chuckled.  He had an easy laugh.  “A poor mage I’d be if I didn’t see the same gift in others.”

                The half-elf was even more interested now.  “You’re a mage?  What are you doing in such rubbish then?”

                “Living,” he replied, and that was good enough for Shaislyn, and then offered to teach him about his gift.

                “I’m blind,” Shaislyn reminded him.

                The old man laughed.  “As am I.  What a pair we’ll be.”

                The child replied, “I’m Shaislyn.  My mother calls me ‘Shai.’”

                “You’re a fool then,” the old man told him.

                Shaislyn grew cross.  He didn’t like being called a fool.  “Why?” he demanded.

                And the old man laughed again.  “Only a fool gives his name so freely, and allows another to take his name from him so.”

                Shaislyn’s instinct was to argue, then he considered the wisdom of this information.  “Why?”

                The old man seemed pleased.  “A name is oft all we have, child.  Why would you give it to others as if it were nothing, when it is everything you are?”

                Shaislyn did not reply immediately, but thought about the man’s words.  “We must call one another something, serrah.  It might as well be my name.”

                “Then let it be so.  I’m Jameson.”

                Jameson insisted that he begin his training tomorrow, but today, he would know more of his new “apprentice”.  Shaislyn found himself sitting beside the old man, on a board in the gutter, telling him everything—about his dying grandmother, his grieving young mother, and Lura.  He said that he had an uncle he’d never know, a sibling no one would talk about except to say that she was dead, and a father no one would tell him about, though he had asked a thousand times.  Jameson listened, and said nothing until he was finished.

                “So many mysteries in one so young,” he commented.

                Shaislyn’s face contorted in puzzlement.  “What?”

                And the blind old man laughed.  “Nothing, child.”

                The young boy was silent for a moment as he considered.  “Do you know any healing arts?”

                Jameson studied him for a moment.  “You speak of your grandmother, do you not?”

                “I do.”

                “Alas, my skills do not lie in that path,” he lamented.

                “I see,” Shaislyn said, disappointed.  They could not afford a healer.  By the grace of the Maker, his mother was a mage, and did all she could for his poor grandmother, but they worried that it was not enough.  The worst part was that Mieta could not work in her condition, and the adults all seemed worried about money.

                Shaislyn went home that night with Nora hungry, and his mother scolded him for being out most of the day, but Lura bade her to calm down.  He began his study the next day with the old mage.  It was easier than with his mother, who barely knew how to teach him without “showing” him things.  The old man seemed to know what to do though, and how best to describe to him spells.

                He learned, and grew, and even felt happy for a while, before his grandmother finally passed away.  For Shaislyn, it was almost a relief.  The dying had hung over everyone’s heads like angry dark clouds, and now the grief could finally pour from them—and rain may be cold and dismal but it was life-giving and renewing too.

                They had a small funeral, and buried her ashes.  Shaislyn slipped away during the wake to walk alone at the docks.  He hated the grieving, and the death.  He’d sooner be away from it.

                But late at night, not a week later, he woke to Lura and Varania talking.  They were worried about money.

                “Madame Aurane offered me a good price,” Lura said, voice quiet.

                Varania was silent for a moment.  “No.”  The floorboards creaked as she paced.  “You know Leto would hate that.”  She stopped pacing.  “You can’t.”

                Lura sighed.  “I will if I must,” she said, sounding resolute.  “It’s more important that we have somewhere to live, you know.  And I’m barren, and you are getting better at healing, just in case of… disease.  I think it would be all right.”

                Varania seemed sad to hear this, and Shaislyn decided he would rather not hear any more of this talk that he barely understood.

 

                An early summer storm had driven the travelers off the road and into the sheltering canopy of the oak trees, pitching tents in the pouring rain, and attending to the horses.  The wagons were placed strategically to help block out the wind, and the mages went into their heavy tents, warmed by braziers.  The guards slept in shifts, in their warm tents.  The slaves—five in all—slept together in a cramped, cold tent, but it was better than the rain—in theory anyway.  All the floors of the tents were covered first in pine boughs, to keep them out of the rain.  The slave tent was only that, but the mages both had carpets too.

                It was a rough night for everyone, the slaves especially, who rose before the others to attend to the morning chores, as ever.  Fenris was included in that, and they all silently went about their tasks.  He first went to check the horses, but someone had gotten there before him.  The elf stood stock-still, and clearly nervous, and Fenris didn’t have to wonder as to why.

                There should have been sixteen horses and eight mules.  The mules were steady enough creatures that they had not bolted, but Fenris only counted twelve horses, and saw a broken line where the four had been fenced together.  The other lines had held, and for that perhaps they should count themselves fortunate, but the missing horses still stood.

                “I’ll… find them,” Fenris whispered.  The elf glanced back at him, and said nothing.  But that was expected:  Vairin never said anything, not a single whisper or a word.  For the longest time, Fenris had only thought he was mute, but he heard him gasp once—when a guest of his master’s had finally taken offense to the silent elf, and shoved him over a railing.  It had actually been a short fall, but it had broken the elf’s wrist.  For most slaves, that might have been a point where they would be sold or disposed of, but Vairin had a… way with horses that could only be called uncanny, and Danarius had him healed and sent back to the stables instead, saying that the elf didn’t need to speak to do his job.

                Fenris picked his way after the trail the horses had made.  In their panic, they had left a path of broken foliage a blind man could follow—for a time at least.  He still didn’t know as much about tracking as he would like.  He heard someone behind him, and turned to see Vairin.

                “Vairin” probably wasn’t his real name either, come to think of it.  He had simply never supplied a name when asked, so the other slaves had named him—they had drawn lots for it, he had heard.  But it wasn’t that he was silent that made Fenris shun the elf’s company.  There was something in his eyes that spoke of crimes, sins, and hatred—something fundamental in his soul that had broken a long time ago.  He had heard Danarius once whisper to Hadriana, “That elf, one day, will snap.  Take care not to be too near to him when he does.”

                Hadriana had been quiet for a moment before she asked, “Is he mad?”

                “Does it matter?”

                “Where did you find him?”  That one with suspicion.

                “I used him in my experiments,” Danarius said, eyes flicking toward Fenris.  Fenris didn’t think too much of it; his master had mentioned other projects and experiments besides himself in the past.  Hadriana had fallen silent at that.  “Usually, I killed them, but…”  The magister shrugged.

                “But I thought you said…  The spell… the memory would…”

                “Never saw him,” he said with surety.  “He worked at the stables in Ath Velanis.  When he went mad a couple of years ago, it seemed only fitting that I take him.”

                “So he was… fine before then?”

                “I wouldn’t say ‘fine’, no.”  He frowned.  “More like, he reached a breaking point when another mage used him in an experiment.”

                They found the first horse, shivering and alone, between two pines.  The horse shied from Fenris, but when it saw Vairin, its ears pricked up, and walked right up to him, nuzzling against his chest.  It was the only time the elf didn’t look half-insane.  Fenris found himself wondering what made Vairin go mad.

                Vairin had a set of holsters, and he eased the horse into it, and led it after him.  The creature seemed all too happy to doggedly trail after its handler.  If Hadriana wanted to blame anyone of manipulating horses to throw riders, she would do well to point her accusing finger at Vairin.  Fenris had also noticed that any time Danarius rode, Vairin was nowhere to be seen.  There might be some sense in that.

                The second one came to them when the other elf whistled, the third was harder to find, and even harder to get back up the sandy slope she had skidded down, but they managed.  The fourth, they might not have found at all, except that Fenris heard the wolves quarreling.  Vairin made a gesture, and the horses stood together.  The elf ran past Fenris heedlessly.  Fenris had to grab him to keep him from doing such an obviously stupid thing.  Fenris angrily shoved him back.

                “I’ll deal with it,” he said with a sigh, and went to check.  Vairin paced anxiously with the horses.  Fenris stalked up to the grassy rise they had heard the wolves.  One of them looked down at him, carelessly.  It was appraising him, nothing more.  Its mouth opened, tongue lolling out of its blood-stained mouth.  It seemed to be laughing as he approached, then disappeared into the trees.  The other wolves were bigger, and less inclined to give up their prey.

                Fighting animals was different than fighting a person.  They didn’t act the same way, and he had to adjust his swings, but the lyrium worked just the same.  Two wolves lay dead, a third wounded but not gravely.  The other three scattered, abandoning their prey.  The wounded one gave him a murderous look, then bounded off, leaving Fenris to the carcass of the horse.  Hadriana would be furious.  It was a guardsman’s horse, but she would be furious all the same.

                Fenris put away his sword, and looked at the two wolf carcasses, and considered.

                He went back down to Vairin, who looked as solemn as he had ever seen him, quietly mourning the loss of the animal.  “Can you skin a wolf?”

                And Vairin smiled, and looked at Fenris in a way that made him feel distinctly uncomfortable and like perhaps he should not stand too close to him.  But the mute walked past him, and Fenris waited with the horses.  Vairin came back down some time after with two wolf hides, which he shoved into Fenris’ arms and took the lead ropes back.

                “Can’t we put these on the horses?” Fenris demanded, looking down at the stinking hides.  Vairin looked back at him, raising one eyebrow questioningly, lips turned into a disgusted frown.  The other fell silent.  Maybe the blood made the animals nervous.  The hides were kind of bloody, and smelled abominable, but he tolerated it until they got back, when he draped the hides over a branch until something better could be done with them.

                The rain began to wash away the blood that stained his arms and hands, draining into the soil.  He frowned, a memory of a story edging at the back of his mind.  _Bloody soil, fertile land…_   But nothing more came to him.  Back at camp, the others were rising, and eating.

                Fenris knew better than to remain silent until someone noticed the missing horse.  Rather, he went to Hadriana and admitted, “Four of the horses broke loose last night, Mesere.  We recovered three, but the fourth is dead.”

                She stared at him, rage boiling in her eyes.  “Did you see its corpse yourself, elf?”

                He blinked, and nodded once.  “Yes,” he said quietly.  “It was being devoured by wolves.”

                She struck him, and he wasn’t at all surprised.  But her wrath quickly turned on Vairin.  She approached the other elf, and hit him immediately.  “Guard!” she snapped, pointing at one of the men.  He came at her call.  “Beat him.”

                “No!” he heard a girl’s voice cry.  He looked at Annalkylie, and the guard had stopped too.  The young girl looked stricken at the thought.  “You can’t expect one man to be responsible for the actions of animals—wild ones included.  It’s not anyone’s _fault_.  It’s an accident.”

                Hadriana frowned, pursing her lips.  “Very well.”  She turned the guard down, and he resumed eating.  Annalkylie breathed in relief.  “Someone needs to watch the horses at night from now on.”  She glanced at the slaves, an angry scowl still adorning her face.  “Your master will be most displeased with all of you.”  The slaves shrank at the thought.

                Fenris said gently, “Mesere, I killed two of the wolves that killed the horse.  Vairin skinned them.”

                Hadriana frowned.  “Why would we want to carry those filthy hides all the way back to Minrathous?” she demanded.

                But Annalkylie had brightened, for she had been quick to catch on, as had a few of the guards.  “A howling wolf is my family crest,” she said, with some delight.  “We clean and salt them, and tan them when we get back.  My uncle will be most distraught over the dead horse, but perhaps sated when we give him a cloak or a rug of some sort of the beasts that slew the horse?”

                A fine suggestion.  So fine, in fact, that Hadriana ordered the slaves to clean and salt the hides at once, and so it was done.

                Come nightfall, the rain had let up to a light drizzle.  They pitched tents again, and the slaves cooked, then cleaned and cared for the horses, and when it was finally time for them to sleep, Hadriana stopped one of them.

                “Vairin.  The horses are your charge.  Stay with them—all night,” she commanded.  The elf stared downward, and nodded, turning back from the tent.  Fenris paused.  “And for your transgressions this morning, I want you to stand in place.  Do not sit.  Do not lie down.”  The elf’s head lifted, an objection written across his face.  He had walked all day, been up since the crack of dawn, and would walk all day tomorrow too.  But Hadriana seemed pleased with herself.

                Fenris stepped forward.  “Mesere, I was the one who tied the line for those four—I should be punished instead,” he said quickly.  It was a half-truth at least, but Vairin was too silent to deny it.  He wasn’t sure which slave had tied it; no one was going to admit to that.

                Hadriana raised one eyebrow.  “Fine.  You’ll stand in his punishment instead.”  Vairin glanced at the elf, then back down.  “And you, slave, will watch him, and make certain that he doesn’t sit.  I trust the two of you won’t speak.”  With that, she turned, and went to her own tent.  The two elven slaves looked at one another, neither saying a single word.  Vairin sat on a fallen, half-rotted log, and Fenris stood, watching the horses.  The first droplets of rain ran down his hair.

 

                They had been anticipated in the city, news traveling faster than they did.  Danarius welcomed his niece himself.  Dinner was a small affair, which Kylie found to be relaxing after so much traveling.  She was surprised how tired she was, and how much she missed a real bed.  There were inns along the way, but they still had to camp on occasion.  And even so, she had trouble sleeping in inns.

                As expected, her uncle was most displeased to hear about the horse, but Hadriana and Kylie both promised him a gift at the end of the month, and his curiosity sated his anger, for the time being at least.

                Danarius insisted that Hadriana show her around Minrathous tomorrow, and Hadriana commented on what a good idea that was.  Kylie would rather go by herself, to be frank, but she tolerated this idea.

                She had only come to the city, after all, for a better teacher.

                Hadriana showed her many delightful things—statues and fountains, the Chantry, and a lot of different places to shop.  But everywhere she looked, she saw many things she didn’t like:  Oppression, slavery.  She knew there was nothing a little girl, even a mage, could do about it, but still she didn’t like it.  She didn’t like someone else dictating how she should live or what she should do, and she didn’t want anyone else to suffer the same or worse.

                She had long since outgrown voicing her opinions, though—her sisters had always chided her, and Agasius teased her.  It made her fall silent on the matter.  She had had friends too—other highborn girls—and she had tried to mention her problem to them, but they either didn’t understand it, or just laughed at her.

                It was easier not to say anything at all, so she didn’t.

                Hadriana tutored her for a time, before her uncle shipped her off to another mage willing to tutor her.  They were within the same city, but in different districts, so even so she couldn’t visit as often as she would have liked.

                She wrote to her family at least once a week, and her older sister Cristabelle visited her once.  She had been with child at the time, and seemed perfectly content.  Kylie didn’t understand that.  Why would anyone want to just be someone’s wife and pop out children for them?  How could anyone be content to do something like that with their lives?

                She looked at the world and saw a place full of possibilities and adventure.  Why waste it?

                But it was not her life; it was Cristabelle’s, and she smiled and nodded and made polite sounds as appropriate when her sister spoke of her eagerness for her child, and the children surely to come.

 

                Danarius sat at his desk, feeling like he had been sitting there since the dawn of time, and if not that, certainly chained to it, in a manner of speaking.  He felt like he would never catch up on all the paperwork that came flooding in day by day.  A servant had just brought another stack in, along with his mail.  The collective pile of papers were soon neatly divided into stacks as he sorted it meticulously:  Stuff that’s urgent, stuff that can be put off for as long as possible, and stuff he has no interest whatsoever in looking at.  Two of these stacks were nice, neat piles on the desk after some time sorting them.  The latter, however, was tossed carelessly over his shoulder after glancing at the headlines.  As a result, there were papers and letters strewn haphazardly about the floor around his chair, which really did the opposite of what he had intended, as now he had to be reminded of their existence if he ever tried to leave.

                It was an oversight, and he was half-tempted to set fire to them all.  Sometimes, he wanted to set fire to his estates, his businesses, and possibly even the Circle itself, and be done with the entire thing—all while laughing madly.  Those were times when he had been drinking and was sleep deprived, but he had never acted upon these desires—aside from stating once or twice that he would enjoy doing them.

                The door opened, and the magister did not look up from his work.  He finished reading, put his seal on it, and signed it, dumping it into the tray of accepted work.  The rejected went into a different bin—where he would like to set fire to them, but they needed to be more formally rejected.  Often with letters and soothing words.

                Whoever was walking in had a particular spring to their step that he recognized immediately as his young apprentice.  Hadriana chimed, “I have more of your favourite thing.”  Danarius looked up, glowering at her.  She smiled winningly and set the new stack down neatly on his desk.  “I already organized them—the most important ones are at the top, and then it trickles down.”

                “Thanks,” he said with the tone of one who was not thankful at all.

                She did not mind this.  She glanced at the floor.  “I like your sorting method, though—very efficient.”

                “Indeed,” he scoffed.  He pointed at the bin of rejected petitions.  “Take that pile of horse shit, and write them rejection letters.”

                “You should just buy a slave that can write— _they_ could write the rejection letters all day,” she grumbled, somehow still with some cheer.  She scooped up the stack and marched out of his office, shutting the door quietly behind her.

                The magister sighed to himself, and went back to reading.  He grumbled about stupidity for a while, made a few more marks, thought about a long speech he should pose to the Archon about the particular absurdity of certain laws.  He really didn’t _care_ if someone were building a second floor to their business that was perhaps a finger’s width too high for their permit.  If it meant less paperwork, he would let them have ten feet higher than their permit, if it pleased them.

                He dropped another finished petition into the appropriate stack, and glanced at Fenris, standing almost perfectly still for hours—a learned skill.  Danarius, truth be told, frequently forgot he was even there.  “Elf,” he said testily and with some misdirected animosity.  The elf in question blinked.  “Pick up all this.”  He gestured vaguely at the papers on the floor, then the magister looked back down at what he was doing.  Fenris suppressed a sigh and bent to the task.  He picked up the most obvious first, and then had to crawl about on the floor for a little while, as some of them had somehow managed to get under the furniture.  He stood up after picking up the last one, only to watch his master dump somewhere around ten more pages on the floor.  Not on purpose—he didn’t turn and look at him and smirk as he did it—he just made an angry noise and threw it all on the floor.

                Fenris picked it up anyway, barely making a face at it.  He straightened the papers, and neatly placed them on the desk, as far from his master as space would allow.  By this time, there was a growing stack of finished papers, and Danarius sent Fenris off to deliver them to his steward.

                Danarius leaned back in the chair, stretched.  He got up, and walked around the room, looked out the window, and was back in the chair as if he had never moved by the time the elf returned from his most mundane of chores.  Fenris stood at attention, and the day wore on.  The magister finished the most urgent stack, looked at the sun’s placement in the sky, and sighed as he started in on the second.

                He sent Fenris to the steward with one finished stack, and to Hadriana with the second.  By the time the elf returned again, Danarius was glaring venomously at the third stack, as if debating on whether or not he would work on it today—or set it on fire.

                He pushed the chair out and told Fenris to go tell the cooks to prepare something light.  Fenris went about this chore as well, and the magister ate in his quarters, deciding to leave that third stack for tomorrow.

                Danarius ate slowly the next morning, took as long in the bath as could be considered useful, spent a long time going over his businesses and Hadriana’s bookkeeping.  He stared at Fenris for a moment.  “Go down to Hadriana, and tell her I want my slave record book—I can’t remember how old you are.”

Fenris blinked, stared ahead for a moment in shock, nodded, bowed low, and left quickly.  Fenris returned a short while later with the book, and was staring at it with a pained expression in his eyes.

It was amusing, vaguely, to Danarius.  _If you could read, you’d know everything you ever needed to know to find your family._   Danarius flipped to the appropriate page.  “Ah,” he said, and flipped it shut again, shoving it across the table toward the elf.  “Put this back.”

Fenris looked troubled as he lifted the large book from the table.  “Master?”

The magister’s gaze trailed to his slave.  “What?” he said, a little more testily than he had intended.  It was the paperwork, more than Fenris.

The elf kind of flinched at his tone of voice, and seemed reluctant to go on.  He hesitated, and this annoyed the magister more.  “How old…  When… was I born?”

“Twenty-two years ago, in spring,” he said bluntly and with surety.  He had even gotten the exact date from his mother, when she was questioned, but he wasn’t about to tell Fenris that.  Maybe he would one day, if his little pet were very, very well-behaved.  “You’ve been my slave since you were a child, Fenris.”

The elf looked down.  “I’m sorry to have troubled you, Master.”  His slave looked at the book, as if deeply pained, as he bowed, and left to put it back.

When he could put it off no longer, the pile of hated paperwork still remained at his desk.

                Afternoon found the magister digging his fingernails into his scalp as if to relieve the pressure on his brain he felt building there.  He stared down at a particular form in front of him as if in mortal pain.

                Fenris observed this, and said nothing, as he should.  The door opened, and Hadriana entered unannounced, as was her custom.  “There was some trouble with one of the shipments—are you all right?” she cut herself off.

                The magister did not seem to have _quite_ heard her other than that he acknowledged that _perhaps_ there was someone else there.  “I regret every decision I have ever made,” he muttered.

                His apprentice only seemed vaguely amused by this.  “What’s wrong?”

                “Lucilius never should have been made a magister.”  He made a face.  “Was I _drunk_ when I recommended him?” he said with the tone of one who might wish to bang his head against a wall.

                “I suppose it’s possible,” Hadriana said amiably.  “But as I _recall_ he and his entire family pestered you and the rest of the Circle—every Circle for that matter--quite tirelessly until he was appointed.  I seem to recall multiple letters, gifts, some invitations to a few dinner parties—and things like that.”

                “Right.”  He sighed.  “I think I might have just wanted them to leave me alone.”  He rolled his eyes.  “Anyway, we should have just made him Tranquil, because he is an _idiot_.”

                “What did he do this time?” Hadriana inquired.

                He glared at the papers for a moment longer before he replied.  “He raises taxes, and then wonders why the peasantry is displeased with him.”  He sighed.  “Another damned slave rebellion—just what we need.  All of it his fault.”

                Hadriana pursed her lips for a moment, as if in thought.  “Just lower the taxes again.  The slaves don’t care, but the peasants will stop aiding them.”

                “Obviously.  The pig-headed oaf thinks otherwise.”

                Hadriana shrugged.  “Sounds like an ass,” she said.  He almost laughed.  “Anyway, this one is my fault, and I will own up to it:  So we ordered six slaves—one for blacksmithing, one for restoring those old texts, one for the orchard since that one died—oh, and three for the kitchen staff after the fever passed…”  Danarius raised an eyebrow.  There had been a summer fever among the slaves.  Two of them had died before either mage was even aware of it, and only then did they send in the healers.  “Well, when I was copying the order, I accidentally wrote ’13.’”

                “How does one… accidentally… write ‘13’ instead of ‘3’?”

                “Well, I started to write a one, realized we had talked about it and decided on three, and…  I guess the man didn’t understand when I tried to write over it.  I even _told_ him that it’s three, we went over it twice before I gave him the order.”  A pause.  “I already cut into him about it, but he won’t budge, and he won’t take them back—also the contract demands payment, so he had that, but not before I gave him a piece of my mind.  Anyway, so it’s 13.”

                Danarius sighed.  “There isn’t _room_ for an extra ten of them…”  And never mind the cost!

                “Not particularly.”

                He sighed.  “Pick the best three of them.  The rest I want you to…”  He thought for a moment, and waved his hand dismissively. “… send half of them to the stables, and the other half to the docks.”

                Fenris’ eyes flicked to the floor.  He supposed… it was better than some of the things he could do to them.  The elf flinched at that, remembering being lashed to a post, eyes closed, the scent of blood and the way the sharp, thin blades sliced into his skin as Hadriana learned the art of dream walking.  But when Danarius had a child brought in for the same purpose, Fenris had not been able to stop himself from begging Danarius to use him instead.  He was terrified of the post, of the knives, scared of being used for the blood magic, but…  It had been a child.  Of course, his master had struck him for stepping out of line, but he had begged and pleaded, and was willingly lashed to the post in the child’s place.  But he had made the child watch all the same.

                Hadriana shrugged and smiled.  “Certainly.”

                “Well, you don’t have to be so proud of yourself.”

                She shrugged.  “The alternative is that I’m ashamed that I did my best,” she said matter-of-factly.

                Danarius almost wanted to reprimand her more thoroughly, until she said that.  There was more truth to it than she knew, and anyway, they were always a bit short-handed at the docks, and the stablemaster had been complaining of needing extra help.  No matter—Hadriana would have to do something to try to make up for it.  Maybe some more of this paperwork.

                He stood up.  “I need to get out of here,” he said.  Maybe he should go look after his ships a bit—it had been a while since he was down at the docks.

 

                _This is the best chance I’m going to get_ , Aramael thought as he shimmied up the fence, balancing precariously on the slender beam.  He jumped to reach the gutter, and held his breath, but it held.  He pulled himself onto the roof, staying low.  He moved from rooftop to rooftop, disturbing the seabirds and the pigeons.  The crows scolded him too, and he wished the damned birds would shut up, or they would ruin everything.

                He crouched low, and crawled when he was at the roof he wanted.  He peered over the edge, looking at the crowd at the docks below.

                He cradled the crossbow in his arms, winding it silently, eyes locked on his quarry.  This wasn’t personal.  It was just business, good business at that.  He hadn’t taken a contract this big yet, and usually he didn’t deal in murder.  Theft, smuggling, framing other people—sure.  But not assassination.  Though, obviously, he was not above it.  The magister was willing to pay a fair amount for _this_ magister’s death.   And it had to be somewhere public, he had said, or Aramael forfeited a bonus.

                The magister had handed him a small skin with an inky substance on it.  “Don’t touch it,” he told him.  “It’s a poison, from the Wilds.  I want him dead.”  Untraceable, and very rare, and very deadly.  Aramael was given only enough to coat one bolt’s head in it.

                He didn’t know the _why_ of the reason for the assassination, but it could be any number of things, really, even simply wanting to appoint a different magister to the Minrathous Circle in this man’s place.  The Magisterium wasn’t exactly… friendly towards one another, he had been quick to learn—and take advantage of.

                Hit the elf, though, and Aramael wouldn’t get paid anything, the magister dies or no.  Well, he didn’t really want to kill a fellow elf, particularly a slave.  Weren’t their lives hard enough already?  The Dalish’s mouth drew into a thin line, his breathing slowed.  His heart rate slowed.  He waited, and aimed, finger against the trigger.

 

                Everything seemed to have happened at once.  At one moment, Danarius was discussing prices with a man whose ship he had invested in, and the next…

                The crossbowman had been on a rooftop.  Fenris had been watching the crowd and all seemed well.  A child was crying in the corner—something about a dropped candy, a mother trying in vain to remove the obstinate child.  Slavers calling out their wares, more honest merchants haggling nearby. 

                The only reason he had looked up at all was because a crow had screamed out in protest to having his roosting spot invaded, its shrill cry piercing the cacophony of noise around him, drawing the elf’s attention for only a moment.

                Fenris had seen the glint of metal, and there hadn’t been any time.  He had shoved his master down as the shaft was released.  He felt pressure, more than pain, which was strange, and then he was laying on the ground, and couldn’t for a moment imagine why.  When had he fallen?  He couldn’t remember having fallen.  He almost laughed.  He only remembered a few years of his life.  Maybe falling was part of that other bit of his life.  Of course he didn’t remember it.  Why would he remember it?

                He stared upwards as his vision began to blur.  Something warm was spreading across his chest.  Breathing was painful, and it was easier not to try, so he didn’t.  He heard voices, but couldn’t quite distinguish what they were saying.

                Faces around him, and voices.  Colours and shapes.  Blue was a pretty colour.  The sky was the deepest shade of blue…

 

                “You must rest,” Hadriana insisted to her master, but her voice was gentle.  “You can’t save him.”

                Danarius stared down at the unconscious elf.  It had been two days, and he hadn’t woken once.  He had stirred, but his lovely sage eyes had never once opened.  Nor were they likely to.  The elf had lost so much blood that they could not see into it enough to survey the full extent of the damage before the bolt had to be removed.  The bolt had pierced one of his lungs, Danarius had been quick to discover.

                To his horror, it hadn’t gone out the other side, and he could not tell if it were barbed.  Should he risk plunging it through the rest of the way to remove it?  Should he risk pulling it out the other way?  He couldn’t know.  And there had been such little time to act…

                Blood magic was the only thing that worked, the only thing that kept the elf alive throughout it.

                If Danarius hadn’t acted so quickly, the elf would be dead.  Hadriana would not have lamented his passing, she had to say.  But she was impressed with how quickly her master had reacted to his favourite pet dying.

                And disturbed by it.

                He had used Fenris’ own blood in his blood magic, and that had helped fuel his healing spells, but not enough.  The bolt had to come out, and the wound had to knit.  He had killed one of the slaves in the cages, and all but threw coins at the merchant.

                Hadriana hadn’t been there, but she had heard stories.  Danarius was feverish in his attempt to keep his pet alive.

                “He lost too much blood,” she said again.  Fenris had a fever now.  Perhaps it was a complication from the wound, or something else, but she knew in her heart that the elf lay dying.  “He died days ago.”

                Danarius slapped her.  Her eyes widened in disbelief, her hand raising to cradle her cheek.  She couldn’t believe that he had struck her.  “Get out,” he hissed.

                She bowed, and left her apparently mad master with his dying elven slave.  If he wanted to waste days of his life trying to save what could not be saved, that was his business.  Hadriana had tried her best to make him see the light, and he had steadily refused.  The most she could do now was continuously send servants with food and drink, and trying to convince him to rest whenever she dared.

                This quest of his was mad.  He should just let the elf die.  He should have just let him die years ago.  This was madness, and he was only going to hurt himself if he continued.  She had tried to help him—she really had.  But… it was just no good if he wouldn’t _listen_!

                Was he going mad?

 

                _I worked too hard for this to lose him,_ the magister thought despairingly.  It had cost too much to replace him, too much time, too much effort.  He had been grooming him for this since he was a child, hadn’t he?  He remembered that little boy in the cage, and looked at the young man lying unconscious in the clean linen sheets.

                He had been training him since he was a child to be the way he was.  He had been so patient about it, and, somewhere in his mind he had known it would be Leto that won the competition.  He had known he would have liked that, but he knew the entire thing was subconsciously designed for that boy.

                _I had you trained.  I set everything up.  Not all of it on purpose, but that was how it turned out.  … I don’t think anyone else could have survived the Ritual._

                The worst part was that he really believed that.  He had analyzed it again and again.  He would need a blood connection with another slave—that link had been Shaislyn.  He needed sacrifices that had known him for the blood in the Ritual.  He had needed a slave conditioned for it, to have their mind prepared.  If it had been a knight, only greed would have motivated them; they would have died because it wasn’t enough to will their heart to beat when they were in agony.  Leto had been motivated by a love and devotion to his family, and he lived and even thrived when he woke as Fenris.

                Leto had been the perfect subject for it all along, and there was simply no replacing him.  He didn’t have the _time_ any more to spend years with an adolescent child, to test their devotion to their family, to train them, to create another child with one of his sisters or mother or something.  He couldn’t do that again—it had all been up to chance.  Other magisters had tried to reproduce what he had done, following only the instructions he had left in his book.  He spoke very little at all about Shaislyn, for obvious reasons, but so much had been dependent on that blood tie, and the relationships Leto had had with the other slaves.  Because it had broken the boy’s heart, piece by piece, to know that they were all going to die.

                Leto had been bitter, but still loving and caring enough to sacrifice everything for his mother and sister, even when he didn’t know that Danarius was going to kill them if he didn’t win.  Even if he managed to wait for another child to grow and it was half as good as Leto had been, he could not guarantee those emotional and familial ties.

                _I need you to live_.  _I need you to live or it was all for nothing._ If he died…  He would just be another experiment.  He wouldn’t get to observe his lifespan, his reproduction capabilities, the full extent of what he could do, his interactions…  He had so many questions and observations left to make, things to study.  He needed Fenris to live or he would never know.  He had so many questions left—he needed to know.

                …  There was one thing left to try.

 

                The lights at either end of the void were shining—one calling out to the other.  One was just out of reach, but the other was insistent.  It blazed, and screamed, and finally the other light began to brighten, to respond to its master’s call.

                Shaislyn’s eyes shot open, breathing hard, but the image wouldn’t fade.  In fact, he only “saw” it in his mind more vividly, and he felt hot.  He felt like his body was burning and freezing at the same time.  His arms hugged tight to his chest, and he shook, lips trembling.  His eyes squeezed shut, trying to make it stop, fighting it.  He wanted to lash out, to fight to keep the lights away, back at each end of the void.  But the brighter light pressed on regardless, fighting back, beating him back.  He didn’t know what it was.  He had never _seen_ anything, even light, before, and it was all the more confusing for it.

                He screamed internally, _stop!_   His teeth gritted together against it.  _Please stop…_

                But it pushed on, one light urging the other to wakefulness.  Still the other only barely responded.  _Please, if it will make it stop, just respond…_

                Shaislyn fell back into his bed, curling into a ball.  He let the cold and the heat rack over him mercilessly, berating him near-senseless.  He couldn’t fight any more, and he was terrified that it meant it was going to wash over him, that the cold was going to leave him frozen or that the heat was going to leave him burned.  But it was easier when he stopped fighting it.  The light flowed more freely when he stopped fighting, when he opened himself to his gift and embraced it, the struggle ceased, and the hot and the cold coalesced comfortably.  One light found the other, and blazed.  They circled one another, then settled, each back at the other end of the void.  The little light that had been fading seemed brighter now.  It wasn’t flickering, as it had before.  Rather, it was steady.

                He shivered again, even as the images faded away.  He swallowed hard.  _What was that?_

 

                Fenris slipped in and out of a fevered sleep.  He was dimly aware of waking from time to time, dying of thirst and drinking water someone raised to his lips, only to slip back into sleep.

                He had extremely vivid, lucid dreams.  Most of it consisted of the usual nonsense found in dreams—being lost in an unsolvable maze, falling, running from something unknown but terrible, being trapped in a giant pool of melted cheese, those sorts of things.  He dreamt of a young girl with stringy red hair and freckles.  He saw her lips moving, and heard her voice, but could not recall any of her words even though he knew he wanted to.  He saw a child laughing to turn into a somber young woman—an elf with long brown hair.  In the fever-dream, she had reached out to him with both hands, and he had been somehow unable to reach back, though he knew he desperately wanted to, but it felt like he was being weighted down, chained or something worse.  No, he was _sinking_ — _drowning—_ and she kept reaching and calling for him, but the name she called wasn’t the one he knew and…

                Fenris thought he had woken once to the sound of a woman singing.  He thought he opened his eyes, and the room was dark enough not to see anything around him, but the woman sat at his side on the bed, and she had the sweetest voice he had ever heard.  He felt like he had heard the song before, and in the dream, he had.  The woman was so familiar to him in the dream that he knew he had nothing to fear from her.  She took his hand in one of hers, and smiled, and stroked his hair so tenderly that he felt like he knew her.

                The dream opened to him with an understanding, and just as quickly as he understood, the woman began to fade.  She did not rise and leave him, rather she held on to him more tightly, but her features began to fade and blur, even from his memory.

                “Mother?” he finally had the voice to ask in something barely over a whisper.  She made no answer other than her song, and though her body seemed to fade, her voice was left behind, until there was nothing but the dark and the sound of her voice, and the feeling that she had loved him.

                But then even that was gone, and when it was gone, he wasn’t at all certain of any of it.

                He woke then, and found himself in the infirmary.  He felt sick, and too warm, and leaned back into the pillows, trying to remember why he was here.

                The crossbow!  He found himself shoving the sheet down to his hips, to look.  There wasn’t even a scar.  He leaned back again, and closed his eyes.  The jolt of waking had banished all thought and memory of his dreams, even the song.

                He dreamt that he was running through a forest made of stone, not running from something, but chasing after it, chasing after a sound, and then he heard it, carried on the wind.  A voice, and he recognized it, and when he turned toward it, gentle hands took his.  He was greeted with a warm smile, and a loving embrace, as if she had been waiting.  Even in the dream, her features left him quickly.  He could not remember her face unless he was looking at it, and she led him onward, and he looked at her stringy ginger hair and tried to remember it but could not.

                She led him into a clearing filled with light, and he got the idea that she had led him places before with the same steadfast determination and confidence.  Sometimes, when she moved, he thought he heard the clink of chains, though he could see she wore no such thing.

                The sand was bits of ground glass, tossed by the sea and sparkled in the sun underfoot.  The water in the stream looked like wine, but when he looked up the stream, it flowed from the tears and blood of slaves, and the fish glowed like lyrium.  When he chanced a glance at the sky, despite the dappled sunlight, a storm was brewing, and the ginger-haired girl seemed excited for it.

                As he turned, the girl leading him was dancing away into the clearing, and she got farther and farther away. The farther she went the more she seemed to age, and she seemed to be growing older until she was a young woman, and when she looked back at him, she had the marks of the Dalish, and she reached out to him as if to take him with her, and the scene dissolved around him.

                He woke again, and tried to recall every detail of the dream and couldn’t.  He could not even say what colour the elven girl’s hair was, or if she had truly been Dalish or only a trick of the light, so little could he truly recall.

                The healer found him awake, and had him drink some broth, and a potion to make him rest, saying that his fever had only just broken.

                He rested, spiraling back into his dreams, though he found that he did not want them.

                He was falling through space—falling and falling, but was unworried.  Strong arms caught him, and set him on his feet.  When he looked up at the one who had caught him, it was a man with auburn hair and bright green eyes, another elf, and all he knew in the world was that he wanted this man’s approval, and he knew he had his love.

                But he turned from him, and passed into another room.  Fenris went after him, but there were so many rooms, and he only seemed to glimpse him, until he was so lost that he didn’t know where to go, and the man had disappeared, leaving him alone and uncertain.

                He looked around himself and felt the beginning of despair, until a door opened.  A young woman—scarcely old enough to be called such—hailed him from the door.  The other elf had red hair, and green eyes and he wanted to trust her immediately.  She seemed excited to see him, and when he entered the room after her, a child careened toward his leg, quickly followed by another one.  _Twins_ , he thought.  They were talking excitedly, but the words he could not make out, and he knew he was fading.

                He was horrified to be fading from this place, when he realized that the man he had been following was here, and smiling fondly at him.  The man was holding the hand of a woman he felt like he should know.  Another young woman was there—two young women, one freckled and of ginger hair, and the other a soft brown, both elven.

                _No, no I don’t want to leave!_

                “You have to wake up,” the woman told him, and he remembered—she was the one who had sang to him through the depths of his fever.

                “I don’t want to,” he responded.

                “You must,” the elf with the mismatched eyes said.

                He shook his head.  “No.  I want to stay.”

                “You can’t stay,” the man told him.

                Fenris wanted to cry.  Why not?  Why couldn’t he stay?  Why didn’t they want him?  He felt… _community_.  He felt _wanted_ here—loved.  He didn’t want to leave…  He didn’t want to go back to a world where he was alone, and someone’s property.  He wanted to stay here, with the people who had been waiting for him.  The prettier redhead faded first, followed, curiously, by the male twin, but not the female, and the woman with the long brown hair.  The others lingered, and while their colours blurred, seemed the most real to him.

                His eyes opened.  It was daylight now, and he felt weak but enormously better.  The dreams had been strange, but he attributed the faces he “knew” to the fever.  He had seen dozens of elves.  He imagined that, somewhere, he must have a family of sorts, logically speaking, but they were nothing to him if he didn’t even know if they were alive, or even their names.  If the faces he had seen in his dream were his family, it still meant little to a slave.

                In the meantime, he was feeling starved, and his lips were cracking.  That seemed more important than a few fevered dreams.

 

                Varania worked.  She worked until her fingers were stiff, and her back was aching, and still she continued to work, to try to pick up her mother’s slack.  The owner of the dress shop had been gracious, but she saw her dissatisfied frowns at her work.  She would get better at it—she had to.

                But as the weeks and months passed, the work continued to pile. Varania just couldn’t finish it all on the proper deadlines, and the woman continued to be dissatisfied, and began to tell her that she could only be paid when something was finished, else she could not afford to keep her.  She would frown at her work, and tell her what was wrong, or what could be better.  “I told you twice before how to do this,” she would say.  Or, “We’ve gone over this.”  And Varania could only lower her head, and want to crawl under the table.  She would apologize and apologize but she kept messing up.  The mage slowly began to resent all of it.  She resented freedom the same way a slave might resent their shackles.

                As a slave, she never would have had to do this.  She would be fed, clothed, sheltered.  The accommodations would be sensible.  If there was vermin, it would be taken care of when she was a slave, and free, well, she knew there were mice in her home.  The food was better here, but that was a small thing; at least she hadn’t lived in an open sewer.  The stink was unreasonable in the heat of summer.  The water was brackish and brown.  She boiled it before she used it, but still it was foul, and lately the only foods they could afford were turning anyway.

                It would only be a matter of time before they were in rags, before they lost the house.  And then she would have been better off as Danarius’ slave.  At least as a slave, her future had been certain.  Bleak, mayhap, but certain nevertheless.  Guaranteed food, shelter, clothing—and learning.  He had been training her in magic.  That would have continued, certainly.  And Shaislyn too.  She had no time to for Shaislyn now.

                She had no time for Vellus any more either.  In fact, she rarely saw him.  It had been weeks since he had come over.  He had walked home with her for a while, but lately she had only been turning him away, because she stayed so late.

                Freedom… had not been a release.


	56. A Golden Cage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris finds and quickly loses another key to his past and Kylie tries to free a captive from their cage. Meanwhile in Seheron, Shaislyn is learning about his magic. Varania is not coping well with her mother's death.

                Shaislyn was confident enough in his gift for a five-year old with Jameson’s tutorage over the past year.  He had never asked why the man preferred to live in squalor when he could aspire to more.  The one time he had mentioned it, Jameson had only said that he used to have everything he could have desired, and it did not make him happy.

                The young mage had liked that answer immediately.  Jameson sort of became a father figure to him, and it was good to have one.  He had no idea what it was like to have a father, or any male authoritative figure, for that matter.

                But, finally, Shaislyn was frustrated—something had been bothering him.  “You speak of the sunset and the ocean as if you could see them,” he complained as they walked along the shore.  Jameson had been going over the finer points of ice spells and basic earth magic—but Jameson had spent a fair amount of time letting the boy play too.

                And the old man laughed.  “Who says I cannot?”

                Shaislyn felt perplexed.  “You said you were blind.  But you have no staff or cane, except your mage’s staff.  I don’t understand.”  It had been puzzling him for months—that and Jameson’s accent, anyway.  Jameson only spoke the most rudimentary of Tevene, and so most of their conversations took place in the Trade tongue.

                “Oh, I’m blind, child, believe me,” he said gently.  “I remember the sunset and the ocean well enough…”  But his voice lowered, though there was no one around.  “But there is magic in this world, and some of it can be used to see for those with the ability.”

                Shaislyn’s heart hammered.  Sight?  He could see?  “Teach me,” he pleaded, and Jameson did.  It was hard work—harder still because he didn’t know what sight was like.  Jameson said that it had been easier for him, as he had not been born blind.  But Shaislyn had, and learning the spell was difficult.  The first time he managed to cast it—accurately, he had been so assaulted by the colors, the shapes, the dazzling… everything… that he had closed his eyes instinctively.  That did nothing; it was a spell, not his vision.  He shut it off, breathing hard like he had been running.

                Jameson chuckled.  “How did you like it?”

                Shaislyn turned to him.  “I… have to do it again,” he whispered.  And he had.  The hardest part was expanding the mana constantly, but he practiced, and learned, and excelled.  The child’s world expanded from the dark world he had known, to the bright, coloured world he was learning.   Finally, one day, Jameson took his cane and snapped it in two, proclaiming that the boy needed it no longer.  Shaislyn had never been prouder of himself.  He could _see_.

                But, as he went through life with his newfound vision, he became bitter, over time, that he had been born blind.  Somehow, it was worse knowing what he had been missing all these years.  Colours were beautiful, and he wept the first time he saw the ocean… and his mother’s face, and thinking about all he had been denied.

                He hadn’t told his mother about the spell—it never seemed a good time.  She was always so busy, so preoccupied—desperately trying to keep up with the workload her mother had left behind.  She might have noticed he didn’t have the cane any more, and probably noticed that he didn’t reach out as often.  He still did sometimes, out of habit, but it was wholly unnecessary.  The first thing he did when he woke up in the morning was to activate the spell, and he was infinitely pleased when he could make it last all day.  It took a constant, steady supply of mana.  The benefit to that, though, was that there were no _accidents_.  Young mages frequently broke things, set things on fire, and caused other kinds of destruction with their magic when they were learning.  Shaislyn’s though, was rerouted toward seeing things, so he never had that problem; he had no mana left for mischief.

                The spell he managed to focus through his eyes, so he saw like a normal person would, rather than the full spectrum view that had confused him at first.  It wasn’t so bad sitting still, but walking proved neigh impossible before he had narrowed his field of vision down.  Perhaps there was a reason they had their eyes where they did.  Blinking, though, did not interfere with his vision.  He could close his eyes, and still “see” perfectly fine.

                The best part, though, aside from the beautiful colours the world was, was Jameson teaching him to read from the books he had.  The books were so old and rare that the hermit may have sold them and lived in a nice apartment, but somehow he preferred his ramshackle hut in the docks and to keep his books.  He promised Shaislyn that one day, he would give them to him.                                                                                                    

 

                Minrathous always had lovely weather, Kylie reflected.  Lovely and grueling, that is.  Always with the hot, humid air.  Squatting on an island as the city was, at least there was almost always an ocean-kissed breeze in the air, even if she couldn’t always smell the sea in it.

                Apparently, today was her name day, and her parents had sent her a few things.  They couldn’t be bothered to come themselves—far too busy ordering slaves about no doubt—but they certainly _sent_ things—a nice pen case, a new dress all the way from Val Royeoux.  But it was the bird that was of the most interest to her, the little yellow canary that sang that interested her the most.

                And infuriated her the most.

                She had watched it at first, and thought the animal charming.  It wasn’t her hunting hawk, no, but it was a delightful creature with such a sweet song.

                But the more she listened to it, the sadder she became.  Why would it sing… if it were trapped in that pretty gilded cage?  She wouldn’t sing if she were trapped in a cage.

                Finally, she could bear it no longer, and she took it into the courtyard, carrying the cage awkwardly in both hands.  She set it down, and the poor thing fluttered about with fright.  She knelt in front of it, and opened the cage.  It wasn’t the sort of cage that opened all the way—just a small door for her hand, when it was feeding time, so she held it open.

                “What are you waiting for?” she muttered to the bird.  “Freedom is here—now _fly_!”

                But the bird twittered, and fritted about, and avoided the door.  The longer she waited, the more her despair seemed to climb.  Why… why would something choose captivity over freedom?  _Why_?  “Freedom is better,” she whispered to the bird, as if it could understand her.  She felt silly for doing it, as if she were a little girl again instead of a child of ten.

                “It’s scared of your hand,” a voice said helpfully.

                She blinked in alarm, and snatched her hand back.  The cage door banged shut.  She peered upwards, and was relieved to see Fenris—sweaty and dirty from practicing in the yard.  But at least it was him and not someone else.  Hadriana would have made that face she did when she thought Kylie was being immature.  Danarius would have had the cage brought back inside—bird and all.  And any servant would have reported her nonsense to Danarius or his apprentice.  But none of the slaves would care enough about what the niece of their master was up to, so long as it was of no harm to herself or others.

                “Do you think so?” she asked him, frowning.  “Then I need to prop the door up.”  She cast about for something she could use.  Fenris looked about the courtyard, and picked up a small stick.  He broke it into the proper shape, and handed it to her.  It was “Y”-shaped, and uneven at the bottom.  She frowned at it for a moment.  “Oh!”  Delighted, she propped the door up, and retreated to what she hoped was an acceptable distance.

                The bird, though, did not fly away at once.  It did not even explore the door immediately.  It frittered about its cage, and chirped prettily instead.  Fenris must have seen Kylie’s mounting distress.  “It will see it,” he promised her.

                She looked up at him, biting her lip, and realized her eyes were filling with tears.  “Why would something choose captivity when the door is open?  I don’t understand.”

                Fenris was silent on the matter, and looked at the bird.  “Lady Annalkylie,” he said, nodding to the cage.

                _That’s a mouthful,_ she thought to herself as she glanced back at it.  Her despair turned to hope.  It was near the open door.  No, now it was _standing_ in the open door, looking at the twig.  It peered around at the wide outside world beyond the bars.  Kylie was gleeful.  _Free, it will be_ free!

But the bird turned back around, hopping back around, no longer facing the outside world, but not entirely in the cage either.

                “No!” Kylie cried in despair.  “No— _get out!  Be free_!”  She picked up a rock, and hurled it angrily at the cage.  At the stupid bird that could not grasp its own freedom.  The rock bounced off the side of the cage, and the sound frightened the bird—but it frightened it _out_ of the cage.  It fluttered about hopelessly for a moment, before it truly took wing, and was airborne.  Kylie was laughing as it flew above the trees, and chased after it for as long as she could still see it—a few yards in to the courtyard.

                A sad truth, however, unbeknownst to Kylie, was that the canary was a creature born and bred for life in a cage.  It knew nothing of foraging or surviving on its own.  The poor creature had always been fed and watered and taken care of by another.  It did not know how to find food or shelter, though some things might be instinctive, and there was still much that it did not know and could not have ever learned.  Just freeing a captured creature was not enough; without guidance the freed one would never prosper and grow.  Fact of the matter, it was most likely to simply die, cold and hungry, and alone.

                It would not be so different for a slave either.

                But Kylie was ignorant of this knowledge, and so she came back in high spirits, and smiling.  Fenris was gone, but that was fine.  She picked up her empty cage.  It was a pretty cage.  Perhaps something could still be done with it.

 

                A handful of months later, Fenris stood, back to the wall, disliking completely how only the two mages were behind the door.  He could hear them talking in Ancient Tevene, though he understood not one word of it.  The second he heard anything suspicious, he was ready to throw the door open.  Danarius hadn’t liked it either, but there hadn’t been much choice; it was the Archon, after all.

                The Archon, in a show of good grace, had left his own guard outside—human slaves, twins, so alike that Fenris could not hope to tell them apart except by the scars going down the left one’s arm.  They were also utterly silent, owed to their tongues being cut out.

                A young slave raced down the hall on some errand, his face ghost-white, and Fenris wondered what the matter could be.  Hearing nothing more of the incident, he assumed it must be of a more personal nature.  Another slave passed, this one a woman a dozen or so years older than he, in the opposite direction.  She paused as she walked by him, frowning, and continued about her errand.

                He dismissed that as well, because a lot of people stared at him quite openly.

                Inside the room, the mages continued to talk.  He listened more to their tone of voice than the words.  Even if he understood the dead language, the door was thick enough to barely hear it.  Their words were smooth, and he detected no venom in their words, nor the subtle notes of anger or anything else he would be alerted to.

                To pass time, he thought about the different ways he could kill the twin bodyguards.  As quickly as possible, of course, which would mean one hand through each of their chests, if he could manage it.  He imagined that he could take down one of them quickly, but the other one would not make the same mistake the other had, and they had both been witness to his abilities, so they might keep their distance anyway.  If it came to that, he imagined he would draw his sword, which of course would send the household guards running, but he had to keep his master safe.

                After the bodyguards were dead, he would have a handful of seconds to act, in which case he would throw open the door and hope it was not sealed.  If it was, he would hold off the guard.  If his master lay dead, he would abandon the task and surrender to his execution.  After all, what else was there?

                The thirty-something woman passed by again sometime later, and stopped that time, arms crossed, brow furrowed.  “I know you,” she said, pointing at him accusingly.

                He blinked, eyebrows raising, just a little as his interest piqued.  “You do?” he inquired.  He had never seen her before, he was certain.  An elf, brown hair, blueberry-coloured eyes, and other than that unremarkable.  Still…  Or did she know him from… before?

                “Yeees,” she said slowly, as if she had never pronounced the word before.  “But _where_?”  She bit her lip, taking a step back, staring at his face.  Then she brightened.  “Oh, I know now!  Your name was…  What was your name?  I don’t remember…”  He opened his mouth to say something, and she held up a finger to stop him.  “Don’t tell me; I’ll get it.”  She pinched the bridge of her nose.  “What _was_ it?”

                Fenris’ heart pounded in his chest.  Did she know him?  Did she really know who he was?  Even just a little bit, anything at all, he wanted to know.  “Please…”  _Try to remember_ , he was going to say.

                She brightened suddenly.  “Oh, I know—You’re…  Geez, I lived next to your parents…”  Her lips pressed into a thin line again, as she lost whatever she had been about to say.  “I can’t remember their names…”  But she scowled at him, her tone becoming admonishing.  “You put _worms_ in my dresser once—you and my brother.  You were kids—I think you were two or something.  Hell, do you ever look just like your father!”  She gave a friendly kind of smirk.  “I used to watch him tend the garden—he wouldn’t wear a shirt.”

                He stared at her as if she had sprouted a second head.  She had known him from when he was a child?  She knew his _family_?  He had so many questions, even if she didn’t remember very much, it was still more than he knew.  And he desperately had to know.  “What’s your name?” he asked.

                “Rhinesse,” she answered, cocking her head to the side a little, still lost in trying to remember.  “Your mother--“

                The door’s handle turned, and her mouth snapped shut.  “The kitchens,” she mouthed, pointing, then dashed off.  Fenris had never questioned his ability to read lips, the same way he had never questioned his ability to speak or walk, or how quickly he had taken up the sword.

                The twins’ eyes tracked her passage, then they looked back at the door, staring at it intently.  Whoever had touched the handle had paused, and they were speaking again.  There was some gentle laughter, then it opened.  Danarius was the first one out, and looked visibly more comfortable to be out of the room, at least to Fenris.  Someone who did not spend most of their day watching him might not see any difference.

                The Archon and his master shook hands, and departed, each their separate ways.  Danarius treated Fenris as if he were not there, which was far from abnormal.  Danarius’ younger brother, Iden, was waiting in the grand library, and the magister almost had to go looking for him; it was a very large place, but one of the attendants directed him to a private reading area.

                “Where is Agasius and Annalkylie?” Danarius inquired, taking the seat opposite Iden.  Fenris stood near the doorway.

                Iden closed the book, setting it down on the table.  “In the garden.  My daughter grew restless, and when I tired of hearing her whining, Agasius was so kind as to take her outside.”

                “Is she a dog or a young woman?” the magister laughed.

                Iden smiled crookedly.  “I’m not sure sometimes,” he admitted.  “So, how did it go?”

                The magister looked pleased.  “Well, I must say.”

                Iden looked equally pleased.  “And when will it be officially announced?”

                A slight shake of his head.  “Not for a while yet, but we still have a few loose ends to tie up, and the dowry to consider.”

                “I don’t even want to know.”

                “No, you really don’t,” Danarius agreed.  “Still, we could not ask for a better match.”

                “She’ll hate it,” Iden sighed, shaking his head slightly.

                Annalkylie—marry?  Yes, she would hate it.  Still, she was becoming a woman soon enough, and it was time she, as a highborn maid, was married.  The two continued to talk, and it was plain from just their words that they were brothers, and quite comfortable insulting and generally abusing one another while still not really taking offense.

                The heavy curtain that served as a door was pulled back, and Annalkylie dashed in.  Agasius admonished her for not ringing the bell that served as knocking, and she asked when the Archon’s ball was.  Iden sent her off to change, and Agasius excused himself to do likewise.  Iden sighed, said he must make appearances.  Danarius had to agree, and the two brothers left, Fenris following from an acceptable distance.

 

                Fenris was made to stand a pace behind his master’s chair, a tooled leather collar around his neck, a thin silver chain that trailed partway down his chest, beginning at the little silver ring in the collar, and ending at his master’s belt.  The chain was thin enough that it would break if he had to, for whatever reason, move to protect his master, but it would hold otherwise.  The collar was something that Danarius would tell him to put on himself, tell him to attach the chain to, and seemed to derive a particular pleasure from doing so.

                Fenris, on the other hand, didn’t care one way or another.  He thought it was annoying, and it got in the way.  A part of him, a small part, felt it was demeaning in every sense of the term, but he did his best not to think about that.  Some combination of the oils on his skin, the collar and the leash, and the near lack of clothing was enough to make him loathe social occasions.

                Sometime in the night, Danarius unhooked the silver chain, and told him to go fetch a particular bottle of red wine from the cellar.  He bowed low, and excused himself.  To get to the cellar, he had to pass through the kitchens, which he did quickly and without incident.  Once to the cellar, he asked the cellar master about the vintage, received a particular tirade about it, and reminded the man that it was for his master.  The bottle was handed over grudgingly, and Fenris headed back up the steps.  He passed through the kitchen, walking carefully with the bottle cradled in his arms.

                The woman, Rhinesse, careened around a corner.  “I remember now!” she exclaimed, pointing toward him.  He blinked.  He had nearly forgotten her.  “You and your mum--“

                “Rhinesse!” the headmistress yelled.  “Get back to work!”

                She glanced at Fenris, and slunk back around the corner.  He looked longingly back in the direction she had gone, then hurried out.  He served the wine to his master and a few of the people at the table with him, and went back to his post, but the silver chain was forgotten.  Not an hour later, someone tapped his shoulder, and moved back.  He glanced back at Rhinesse, half-obscured behind a large pillar.  She beckoned him back.  He hesitated, and took a step backward, staring at his master, who he judged to be moderately drunk, and another step, close enough to hear her.

                “I used to live next door to your mother,” she began again.  “You and my brother—“

                The magister signaled for more wine, and Fenris had to move away again.  He didn’t get another chance for the rest of the night, though the woman did try.  She tried to speak to him when he threw out the empty bottle, tried again when the magisters were occupied, and another time as his master was preparing to leave.  Each time failed, for one reason or another, and soon he had to follow his master out.

                He never saw her again, though on the trips back—there were few of those—he looked for her.  Another key to his past, gone.

 

                The blue of the sky was the deep, dark blue of the sea after a storm, and today horizon touched the sea in an almost perfect blend of colours.  A ship sailed out into the rich blues, its white sail, rather than clashing with the shades in stark opposition, only made the blues darker and deeper around it.

                Shaislyn could, and often did, spend hours looking out at the ocean.  He had to learn all his colours after he learned the spell of seeing.  He wanted to learn more.  There was a colour for everything, he had found.  What before had only been shapes and textures to him were forms, silhouettes, and _colour_.  Colour was what interested him the most—what was the most novel to him.  That, and shadows.  Shadows were a fascinating concept.  To think, if a place were dark enough, it was so enclosed in shadow that one could not see…!  And, fascinating to think that half of a room can be in darkness and the other half in light.  Candles were a source of fascination to him for a long time too.  He had only known fire as a source of warmth before, never realizing all the brilliant colours in it, and the light and shadows it cast.

                When he watched the sun set, sitting perfectly still for hours in rich fascination at the brilliant cascade of colours—the sun boiling into the ocean, the oranges and reds streaking across the sky like… like… like nothing else in the entire world—he often wondered to himself, why does no one else stop and stare?  How can anyone not stop and look, and see the world and think…  _It’s so beautiful._

                The answer, naturally, was that people who could see often took it for granted.  He witnessed many individuals only glance at things, never study them.  They never saw the beauty in anything, he felt.  But there was so much beauty in the world—how was no one simply blinded by it?

                The sunset was just one thing, the sunrise another.  The sea was beautiful at any time of the day or even night.  But he saw a sort of sad beauty in the simple begging boy with the gimp leg, who tried to smile despite his own troubles, and that no one ever seemed to notice him.  There was a sad beauty to a broken doll in the gutter, a toy that someone had loved once and either threw away or lost—and now it was forever lost and worthless to even the one who had loved it.

                He came home late, and feeling wistful.  Lura wouldn’t be home.  Neither would his mother.  Neither would notice that he had climbed out the window, and snuck out of the alienage.  There was a loose board in the wall around the place, and Shaislyn pushed it aside and squeezed through it.  He moved the board back into place, and continued on.

                He had propped the window open, and he was alarmed to find it firmly closed.  He tried to open it anyway, but it was no good.  He bit his lip in worry.  Had it fallen somehow?  That had never happened before.  He didn’t have a key to the door—they only had two and the adults needed them more, hence the window.

                He hesitated, and tried the door, knowing it would do no good.  He wasn’t so sure if it were good or bad that the door opened.  It creaked as he stepped through, and though he tried to close it quietly, it still made some amount of noise.  Something stirred in the dark, and he expanded his magic sight, and his stomach tightened.  _Oh, no…_

                A small flame in an upturned palm illuminated his mother’s very disapproving face.  “Shaislyn,” she said, with that angry tone in her voice that meant he was in trouble.  “Do you have any idea how late it is?”

                The boy’s lips pursed, not at all enjoying being talked down to so.  “How could I?” he countered, referencing his blindness.  “I just noticed that it wasn’t as noisy.”

                The look on her face said, plainly, that she was unimpressed.  Learning facial expressions had been the most difficult thing for him, and he was still learning what all of them meant.  And why did people make one facial expression, while their tone of voice meant something else?  He walked past her, and sat down on the beaten sofa.  If he had to listen to this, he’d at least prefer to be sitting.  “Shai, you know perfectly well it’s too late for you to be out—it’s dangerous.”

                He had never encountered anything more dangerous than a feral dog.  “It is not,” he countered, decidedly turning off his spell, uninterested in watching her facial expressions.  This had certainly ruined his mood.

                “You’re four years old—you can’t do this, Shai--”

                “I’m five,” he interjected with feeling, all his belief that she never paid attention to him reaffirmed.

                A very brief pause.  “Shai, it’s dangerous for you to be out after dark.  Where did you go anyway?”

                He suddenly didn’t want to tell her, even if it were a place she had first taken him.  He remembered, when he was two years old.  His first memory was of his mother holding a seashell to his ear, and telling him that the entire ocean’s sounds were captured inside the shell.  He had asked her why, and she had said that it had been in the sea for a long time, and it captured the sound inside it.  “No where,” he insisted.

                “Shaislyn!”

                “What?” he snapped.

                He heard her walk over to him.  “You know perfectly well you aren’t allowed outside after sunset—“

                “I don’t even know what that is!” Shaislyn snapped.  It was a lie, but it was what his mother deserved.  He didn’t want to tell her about the magical sight.  He didn’t want to share it with her.

                Another short pause.  “Yes you do.  You know when it gets dark, because it gets colder out, and people start leaving. You used to always know.  How dare you pretend to be ignorant now!”

                His fingers curled into angry fists.  “I’m not ignorant.”

                She frowned.  “Do you even know what ‘ignorant’ means?” Varania demanded.  Shaislyn remained silent.  He had heard the word before, he was certain of it.  In the end, he said nothing.  “It means you didn’t know.”

                He was silent, and felt like he had walked in a place he didn’t want to stray.

                His mother only continued on.  “I told you not to go out after dark.  You know when that happens, Shaislyn.  And you went out of the alienage, didn’t you?  I distinctly forbid you to leave—it’s _dangerous_ for you to be out alone.  Don’t you understand that?  Something horrible could happen to you.”

                “It doesn’t!” he argued, even though he had been determined not to say anything no matter what she said.  If he just stayed quiet while she yelled at him, it would be over sooner.  Oh, why did he go and argue?

                “It could,” she countered.  “Someone could hurt you, or you could get lost—do you know how many people die every day in this city?  You could be one of them.  Do you know how scared I was when you weren’t home?”

                “I don’t care,” he muttered.

                “What?”  He could feel her glowering at him.

                “I don’t care,” he repeated, a little louder, crossing his arms.

                “You should care.  That’s what being responsible means, Shai.  You’re irresponsible.  What happened to your cane?”

                Shaislyn was silent for a moment.  “It broke.”

                “What were you doing to break it?”  Her tone changed a bit—slightly less accusatory and more concerned, more motherly.  Those moments were too rare for Shaislyn’s taste.

                The boy’s lips pressed together into a thin line as he mentally debated on his lie.  He didn’t want to tell her about Jameson, because then she might find out about his sight—and even so, if he told her, she might forbid him to go see him, and then he would have to lie even more in the future, and sneak around a lot.  Better to lie once, and now.  “I tripped,” he said, shrugging.  “It snapped in two.”

                She made an exasperated sound.  “We’ll have to find you a new one.”

                He made a face.  “That’s stupid.  We can’t afford a new one.  I’ll be fine,” he insisted.

                She sighed.  “I can’t believe you’d be so… so _irresponsible_ as to _break_ it.  And not tell me!  And— _Look at me when I’m talking to you._ ”

                At that, Shaislyn scoffed.  “Why?” he demanded, grinding his teeth.

                “It’s polite, and shows you’re listening,” she said with strained tolerance.

                The child huffed.  “I _am_ listening,” he argued.  “I can’t _look_ at you anyway!”

                “Turn your head towards me then.  You know that’s something you should do, Shai.  What is wrong with you?”

                _I’m half-elven with a mother who doesn’t care about me._   “Nothing,” he lied.

                At that, she launched in a tirade to end all tirades.  Shaislyn could barely keep up with her lecture.  She called him ungrateful, irresponsible, and a few other things.  She lectured him on the need to obey his parent and his elders and care for his things, and Shaislyn shifted uncomfortably, he had been sitting for so long.  He just wanted it to be over.  When she took a breath, and continued on as if she would never stop, the boy felt like he had had it.

                “Fine!”  Shaislyn jumped to his feet, whirling to face her.  “I’m _evil_ and _ungrateful_ and _irresponsible_.  Can I go to bed now?” he demanded angrily.

                He couldn’t have seen it coming; she slapped him.  He froze.  His face stung, and when he touched it; it was tender.  His eyes watered from the pain of the strike.  He took a step away from her, and rather than rebuke this, he walked away.


	57. Gold and Silver Sins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kylie is told of her impending marriage, Shai witnesses his mother and Lura struggling with debt, and Fenris... Oh, Fenris...
> 
> This has not been a good year for anyone.

                Another turn of the seasons came and went, and Kylie began to blossom into a young woman, and her parents began to write to her of marriage.  Even her uncle mentioned a match for her—after she had at least passed her Harrowing, of course.  She had cried herself to sleep at the thought.  She had always accepted that her family would choose her husband for her, but… it had always seemed so distant, so far away, that she didn’t bother thinking about it.

                Now, everything was changing so quickly.  Nothing would ever be up to her, she realized.  Her destiny was pre-determined once she was born.  She was born a mage, and into a wealthy family.  Good luck trying to forge her own path.  It wasn’t what she wanted.  She hadn’t thought that being a mage would cage her like this, but she was doomed to live her life the same way as her sisters before her.

                Hadriana had seen her crying alone in the garden, and the older woman had sat down beside her.  Kylie had sniffed, and wiped her eyes.  Hadriana said nothing, but sat next to her for a time, offering some small amount of comfort only in that Kylie was not alone.  Kylie blurted out, “I don’t want to get married.”

                Hadriana gave a small smile.  “I didn’t want to either.  So I ran away from home.  I don’t recommend it.”

                Kylie looked at her.  “Everything worked out for you though,” she said, her eyes watery.  She sniffed, rubbing at her eyes.  The gesture made her look very much her age—which was almost eleven.

                Hadriana looked on her with pity.  “But my family was poor and couldn’t force me to come home if I didn’t want to.”

                Kylie sighed, and looked down.  She wished she had been born poor, like Hadriana had.  Everything would be so much simpler if they could just… reverse.  As she spoke to the woman, she came to realize that each of them very much wanted what the other had.  Kylie wanted the freedom to choose and be free of her responsibilities.  Hadriana wanted wealth and power and, from Kylie’s perspective, _more_ responsibility.

                Well, she could _have_ it.  Kylie didn’t want it, that was for sure.

 

                Six years to the day, Danarius thought.  Since Fenris had woken up, that is.  And he rarely had to so much as reprimand him.  There was just that one incident with that girl, and that had been it.  The other magisters were still afraid of him—every time the story of how Fenris had killed that Qunari was retold, the truth was more and more stretched until it barely resembled the original story at all.  That was all to the good though.  Danarius hadn’t so much as been challenged in over two years.

                And, when he had been, he had told _Fenris_ to kill him.  The mage had demanded a duel—and when Danarius called for his pet instead of doing it himself, the man had complained.  Danarius had countered with the fact that Fenris was a creation of his magic, right before his little wolf ripped out his heart—dramatic, but he liked it.

                The other mages had been very cautious around him since Senior Enchanter Erisane’s death, but he heard the rumors all the same.  The original dispute had been over slavery laws.  Erisane—who had originally fled to Tevinter from Orlais--begged to abolish it—said it would help with foreign policy.  He wanted to _pay_ the wretches.  Not much, granted, but pay them all the same.  Well, Tevinter ran on the blood and sweat of slaves, and that obviously wasn’t going to work.  The debate had become so heated that Erisane demanded blood.  When he was dead, his assets had been seized, to cover a… gambling debt.  The man did gamble, sometimes obscenely, and whored as often as not—quite unbecoming.  Danarius, of course, claimed the debt.  The man had three children, and when the oldest had thought to try to stand up to him, demanding what could be done to provide for himself and the two little ones, Danarius had suggested, oh-so politely, to sell them.  It had been a kindness to let the boy keep his father’s sword.  He had been told the boy had been training to be a knight, so he may yet find work.  It was none of the mage’s concern anyway—half-Orlesian brats, not a one of them a mage, was worth his notice.

                After Danarius saw his guests out or to their rooms, he retired privately to his chambers.  Fenris poured him another half glass of red wine, and he sipped it, and smiled.  “Nothing like a bit of fear with your wine,” he commented, looking at the door, then his gaze slid back to his slave.  “Somehow, they think you’re quite frightening.”

                Fenris, as usual, had no reply.  Sometimes, he half-wondered if he simply lacked the wit for it, or thought he was being subservient by not replying.  He wasn’t; the comment begged a reply.  Nothing forthcoming, Danarius sipped the wine.  He hadn’t drank very much during the party—he tried to resist getting drunk since killing that whelp.  That had been in poor taste.  Amusing enough at the time, but in very poor taste.  And there were so many more _interesting_ things he could have done at the time too.

                _I’m getting quite cynical in my old age,_ he thought to himself.  He scratched the stubble on his jaw.  Last night, he had shaved off all of his beard on a whim, and wasn’t quite so certain he liked it.  Now it was just itchy, and _not_ having the beard meant constantly shaving and trimming.  Having it was much easier.  It was a shame magic couldn’t just stop it from growing, or just be used to shave…  The mundane folk—the non-mages—seemed to have the craziest ideas of how magic worked, and all of it was wrong.  He wished they were right actually—what would it be like to subsist off of nothing but pure well water and air anyway?

                He sighed to himself.  He needed to find another mistress.  It had been nearly a year since the last one got too clingy for him.  She wanted him to marry her.  Why did it always come to that?  Couldn’t they just be happy with the silks and jewels?  Whores were… all right, but it was so incredibly disingenuous that he only tolerated it for so long.

                He could name a few suitable candidates, but they were really just noting his station, his Altus bloodline, his money, and that he wasn’t married.  “Widower” would have been the proper term.  He supposed there was nothing _wrong_ with the women who saw that in him and nothing more—he was only too happy to shower them with gifts if he could get between their legs, it was their social climbing he disliked.  He wasn’t interested in… replacing Roschelle.

                Still… some things needed tending.  He supposed that was what whores were for.  And slaves.

                “Fenris,” he said, taking another sip of the wine.  The elf looked up.  “On your knees, in front of me.”  His slave bowed his head, and seemed to drag his feet, but obeyed.  He scowled.  _So dramatic.  It’s not like I tell you to do this even every fortnight—even every_ year _, you little wretch.  I don’t expect you to be eager, but stop acting like you’re dying._

                A thought occurred to him.  He looked at his glass of wine, and moved to hand it to his slave.  “Drink this,” he told him.  Fenris took the glass and downed the contents all in one long swallow.  The elf gingerly put the glass down on the table, and turned back to his master.  It wasn’t enough; Danarius knew that.  His eyes flicked to the half-empty bottle.  “Drink that too.  All of it.”

                Concern etched across the elf’s features momentarily, but he rose, and took the bottle.  He raised it to his lips, and drank it.  He drank in gulping swallows.  A trickle of red wine rolled over the elf’s lips, down his chin, his neck.  He only set it down again when it was empty, and, dizzy, he reeled back a pace, shaking his head as if to clear it.  He blinked several times, and Danarius smiled pleasantly.  “As you were, pet.”

                He was short in response, but knelt back on the floor, in front of him, facing him.  It would be a few more minutes before the drink took its full effect, but he could see that his pet’s head was swimming already.

                It was potent, that was true.  The elf had developed a bit of a resistance to cheap alcohols, but this was quite different.

                Fenris rubbed at the rivulet of wine that had gone down his throat, wiping off his face with his arm.  Danarius watched him.  “Begin, pet,” he said, voice soft.  He had his drunken slave lift the robes back, and use his hand to steady himself, the other hand he grasped him with, and drew him into his mouth.  So obedient.  The magister leaned back in the chair, sighing, his fingers sinking into Fenris’ thick, pale hair.

                He relaxed, his slave’s mouth doing all the work.  He was getting much better at it.  His teeth barely touched him, except to lightly nibble and tease the foreskin.  He used his tongue in just the right way, and even his hands, with the right amount of saliva.

                Leto had never had much of a gag reflex.  Neither did Fenris.  Oh, they had both still gagged on occasion, but nothing Danarius had done to them had ever made them vomit… from this.

                His fingers curled into his hair, and he rose, keeping his pet in place as he did so, his other hand lifting his robes off of him.  He let them fall onto the floor.  He gasped when his pet took the initiative for once, and pushed him to the back of his throat, and swallowed.

                He had to have him.  “Stop,” he told him.  Confused, Fenris moved away.  His cock was still hard, and glistening with his slave’s saliva.  Danarius put his hands on Fenris’ shoulders, and pushed him down, until Fenris was laying on his back, staring up at him, just as confused as ever.  And drunk.  Very, very drunk.

                He touched him, his fingers running over the contours of his chest, tweaking his nipples, and he remembered all the places Leto had squirmed when he had touched him, and he touched those places.  Fenris squirmed the same way, and eventually caved to his touch by the time he got down to his ankles, and he heard his pet moan, and cover his mouth, as if shocked to hear himself moaning.  Danarius laughed, amused, running his hands back up his legs.

                He tore the fine fabric in his haste to get his pet out of it.  And when he did, Fenris was as naked as he had been when the lyrium had been carved into his flesh, but this time his eyes were open, and watching him, almost timidly.

                Danarius reached toward him, touching a vein of lyrium.  It flared to life at his touch, the entire branch catching fire.  The blue light illuminated the two of them, alone in the shadowed room.  Fenris said not one word, but he looked at him, and that look seemed to say everything.  Danarius saw all of Fenris’ insecurities in that look, all of his compulsion to obey and be needed—a simple desire for attention that he would accept from anywhere and anyone.  All of the problems that he had driven there:  All the rage under the surface, the anger, the anxiety, the desperate need for validation and acceptance… the faint touch of madness.  He looked… incredibly young just then.  Even innocent.  Danarius thought of all the people Fenris had killed, all the blood on the young man’s hands, yet he still looked oddly innocent.  _He’s a virgin_ , Danarius realized, a sick feeling beginning to rise in his throat.  Leto hadn’t been by the time he had taken him, but Fenris _was_.

                He began to lose his resolve, and his will to continue.  He tried to summon up the same desire  again, but it was no good.

                He swore, and shoved his pet away.  He rose, his back to Fenris.  “Go,” he snapped.

                “Master…”

                “Before I change my mind,” he growled.  But Fenris hadn’t moved from the floor.  He turned back toward him, and had half a mind to fuck him then, out of anger more than lust.  “Do you _want_ me to rape you?”

                Fenris looked up at him.  Not into his eyes, but at his face.  Incredibly bold.  Too bold, and Danarius would have punished him for his impertinence, except for what he said next.  “You have but to command me, Master.”  His eyes glistened with unshed tears, and the compulsion for approval from his master; the same thing that had made Fenris feel abandoned when he had left him for a few weeks years ago.  _You left me._   “It wouldn’t be rape.”

                Danarius’ mouth felt dry, and he took a step back.  His little wolf was obedient to a fault, he reflected.  He’d even participate in his own rape and insist it wasn’t, if his master so commanded it.  Unthinking, unfeeling—and perfect to the point where it was almost disgusting.  “Get out,” he told him.

                “Master—“

                “Out!” he roared.  By the time he looked back, wanting to tell him not to go, Fenris had already gone.  The door swung shut.  He wondered what Fenris had intended to say.

                _He was drunk.  That’s all.  Drunk, and young, and desperate to fuck—just like you were at his age._   He could ask him.  When he was sober the next day…  Oh, bloody hell—the elf likely wouldn’t even remember it.

 

                He didn’t remember it.  Not really.  Oh, Fenris remembered a few things.  He remembered his master’s organ in his mouth.  He remembered the serving outfit tearing, but couldn’t remember why or the details leading up to it, or after it.  He had just woken up in his room, sick.

                Dutiful as ever, he had still gotten up, dressed, and reported for a miserable day standing vigilant about his master—who took one look at him and ordered him back to bed.  Fenris wasn’t about to complain—his head was pounding, he had thrown up twice already, and his stomach was still churning.

                He was in the privy, vomiting, when a servant came by his room.  The man was still inside when he came in.  The man did not turn to look at him when he spoke, “Magister Danarius ordered you to drink this.”  He gestured to a thick brown, sludge-like liquid sitting in a stone cup.  “Drink all of it.  And don’t ask what’s in it—if you knew, you wouldn’t drink it.”  The servant laughed at his own joke.

                Fenris regarded the cup with suspicion as the servant left.  He sniffed at it.  It smelled like…  He’d rather not consider what it smelled like.  There was a flagon of wine sitting beside it—to wash down what he had no doubt was an awful taste.  He did not relish this task his master had set before him.

                It had the consistency of the muck found in a pigsty with a similar attractiveness in odor.  It tasted like tar primarily, with an aftertaste of something like charcoal and some kind of ghastly flower.

                He drank it all in one long swallow, grimacing when it was done.  He downed the wine immediately, wondering why he still had a taste for wine at all, all things considered.  But this flagon of wine wasn’t particularly potent—just something to wash the taste out of his mouth.  He curled back into bed, and tried to sleep.

 

                Shaislyn had lain awake for nights, listening to Lura and Varania talk.  Lura had gone to the brothel—had been going most nights now for the past couple of months.  But it wasn’t enough.  Varania was nearly in tears, but she was on the verge of joining Lura in the brothel.

                The child was only that—a child—but he still felt like he needed to help.  He knew people at the docks, and did odd jobs there.  They didn’t pay him much, and Lura and Varania both hated to take the copper pennies he gave them, but there came a point when there was little choice but to do so.

                But his mother was falling behind at her job.  Her customers were getting angry, or leaving, or sometimes even threatening her.  She came home frequently in tears, and sometimes not at all.

                Shaislyn remained quiet throughout all of it, and found himself staying at home less and less as time passed.  He stayed with Jameson, and read his books, and talked about their contents.  He asked about shapeshifting, if it were a real magic.  The old man had laughed.  “Of course it’s real, boy,” he told him.  “But not everyone can do it.  You must first study an animal, and learn about it, before you can become it.  And once you do, will you even want to go back?”

                It had given Shaislyn a lot to think about, but he found himself watching the animals in the city like he hadn’t before.  Stray cats, half-feral dogs, pigeons, crows, gulls, and rats.  No matter how much he studied though, he wasn’t sure that he was really learning anything useful.

                One day, Shaislyn told Jameson about his mother’s problems.  The old man had looked at the boy, for a long time, and the half-elf had wondered if his tutor would respond, or had even heard him.  Then he replied, “I see.”  The next day, he gave Shaislyn a whole gold coin, and told him to run home to his mother and give it to her.  The gold was nice—it helped a lot.  But not for long, and Shaislyn refused to ask the man for any more.  He didn’t want to be beggar, or, worse, a leech.  So he kept working at the docks, helping people and running errands, and all the while tutoring, though there was less and less of that as time passed and he became too busy trying to make money.

                Shaislyn would wait until the two women were asleep, and he would take his copper pennies and sneak them into their purses, hide them in places around their little apartment—just things to be found.  They would never take the money if they knew it was money he had earned; he had tried that before.  But they would take it if he left it lying about, pretending that it was money that had been lost and forgotten.

                They just seemed to get more and more behind.  The money-lenders had come, and Shaislyn had listened at his door as his mother begged them to give her more time.  They threatened her, and left her.  Varania had gone back to work rather than stay and try to rest.

                Lura came home before the sun rose, and Varania still had not returned.  But Shaislyn was awake.

                “What are you doing?” Lura asked him, sitting down beside him on the old sofa.

                He looked up.  “Sell me into slavery,” he said with all the seriousness of a child.

                Lura paused.  “You don’t know what you’re saying,” she told him gently.

                He shook his head.  “I’m a mage.  The army would pay a lot for me—I heard them talking at the docks.  It would be more than enough to pay off the moneylenders,” he said.  He glanced away, and did not add the rest.  It would be one less mouth to feed, one less body to clothe.  He looked back at Lura.  “Please, Lura.”

                Her honey-colored eyes welled with tears.  “Oh, Shai…” she gasped, and hugged him.  “No—No.  I couldn’t…  I’d sell myself before…  No, you can’t.”

                He struggled free of her grasp, and rose to his feet to look down at her.  “You wouldn’t fetch as high a price,” he countered reasonably.  He swallowed.  “I’ve been thinking about it—a lot.  We can’t afford the rent.”  He left out that they had lost the house that Mieta had.  They were in an apartment now—it was infested with rats, and had but one bedroom that Lura gave to mother and child, quite graciously.  In the past, the two women had shared the bed, as Lura worked at night and Varania was away in the day, but lately, Varania slept little enough, and when she did stumble home, Lura did not wish to interfere with her rest by making her sleep on the cot in the main room.  He left out their threadbare clothing and the thin porridge, the cabbage soup, the millet soup with mold in it.  He left out that he knew Lura and Varania often went hungry in an effort to feed him.

                “Shai…  No.  It will work out; I promise.”

                He looked at her, and knew she was only saying that.  Empty words, to try to calm a child, nothing more.  “No it won’t,” he said softly.  “It hasn’t worked out at all.  It just keeps getting worse.”

                She touched his arm comfortingly.  “I know it looks bad right now—“

                “Stop treating me like a baby!” he complained, jerking away from her.  “I _know_ we can’t pay the rent.  I _know_ that the moneylenders are threatening Mother.  I _know_ that we can’t afford to feed ourselves.”  He paused in his rant, to get his thoughts together.

                In the pause, Lura tried to calm him.  “Shaislyn, it looks desperate at the moment, but it will get better—“

                “Stop saying that!” he cried, as if in pain.  This was hard enough as it was.  Didn’t she see that he was scared?  That he didn’t want to be a slave?  He didn’t want to leave his family and everything he knew, and be enslaved the rest of his life.  He didn’t _want_ that—but what choice was there?  He didn’t see any other options that would work.  “If you don’t sell me, the moneylenders will take me.”  He crossed his arms.  “I heard them say that to Mother.”  By Lura’s silence, he knew it was true, and he hadn’t misunderstood.  “If you sell me directly, you’ll get more money.”  Either way, the end was the same.  He’d rather that Lura and Varania have the extra money.  _And maybe then, Mother will finally care about me, if only for the sacrifice I made for her._ He had known his mother was less than genuine with her love and care for years.  He knew she tried, tried very hard often as not, but that she didn’t love him.  He did not resent her for it; he was the product of rape, and understood.  Varania never would have told him that, but he had cornered Lura, and Lura had finally confided in him, just a little, under the promise that he would say nothing about it to anyone.

                Lura looked down.  “We have to tell your mother.”

                He shook his head firmly.  “Mother would sell herself before she sold me.  And she’s a trained mage—she’d sell for more, most likely,” he said quietly.  But he looked up.  “But she’s a woman, and…”  He didn’t have to say it aloud; Lura knew what he meant.  He was afraid that his mother would be raped again.  Another thing that scared him—if he was here when the money-lenders came, what if they took Lura instead?  What if they took his mother too?  Where would that leave him?  Alone, on the streets—that’s where.  When it came down to it…  It just made sense for Lura to sell him.  It was logical, but it was not an easy decision.

                Lura looked back at him.  “Give me three days, Shai.  I’ll try to get the money by then.”

                He wanted to scream.  “The moneylenders will be back in four.  We need the money to pay them, or they’ll take me.  What if they come back early?”

                “Two days,” she told him.

                He grudgingly agreed.

 

                The match had been made.  Annalkylie’s uncle had told her of it this morning, and she had run from the room.  She had ran from everything, hating the world and everything in it.  She wanted the entire world to burn for her hatred.

                It wouldn’t be for another two years, until she came of age, but she hated it all the same.  Everyone said it was a good match.  Everyone said that she should be pleased.  “Everyone” could take it and shove it up their ass; she didn’t care.

                She wanted to wear riding leathers instead of gowns and robes.  She wanted adventure.  She wanted to find a place where she could be alone and feel like she was the only person in all existence.  She wanted to find a land where she could travel for miles in any direction and not see a single soul.  She wanted to feel freedom like she had never felt it—strong, clear, beautiful.  She wanted to let her hair down and feel the wind rushing through it.  She wanted to see the world and all its splendor with her own eyes.

                She did not want a squirming pink babe sucking at her teat.  She did not want a highborn, Altus husband.  She did not want gold and jewels and titles.  She did not want any of that.

                And so she began to think, and plot, and plan.  Most of her plans were preposterous and silly—even she could see that, but she still planned and schemed all the same.  There had to be some way—something she could do—that would free her.  Something…

                She didn’t know.  She just didn’t know.

                She flatly refused to have anything to do with her wedding plans, and made up that it was bad luck for a bride to plan her own wedding.  When that was met with frowns of disapproval from her family, she had only said that she wanted it to be a surprise.

                Kylie planned surprises of her own.

 

                Lura was intimidated by the military men as they scrutinized Shaislyn.  She had asked around, and the military would give the best price for mage-flesh.  She had serviced many a man in uniform, but this was different for her.

                “He’s blind—what good is a blind mage?  He can’t see where he’s casting,” one of the men said, and turned from them, dismissing them.

                Lura’s hopes were dashed.  She had finally admitted to herself that it was the only way, and then…  “Buy him,” another suggested.  “We’ll give him the brand, and he can work with lyrium.  Don’t need eyes for that.”

                Lura did not miss the way that Shaislyn bristled.  “Giving the brand” was just another way of saying “Tranquil,” after all.  A life of contented servitude, without emotion, will, or desire.  It severed a mage’s link to the Fade, forever, and made the person they were an empty husk of a thing.  If it were that… they would go elsewhere, or, better still, not sell the boy at all.

                “I can see,” Shaislyn countered.

                Lura looked at him.  She had noticed long ago that he seemed to look at her when she was talking, that he made mention of things he couldn’t know otherwise, and his cane had disappeared.  She had suspected something, but never said anything about it because the truth was just too preposterous.  Varania had just been too busy to really notice.  “How is that?” a man asked, bemused.  “What colour are your sister’s eyes?”

                “She’s not my sister, but they’re brownish gold,” he said.

                “He’s just repeating what he’s heard,” another man said.

                Shaislyn looked positively offended.  “It’s a spell,” he blurted out.  That piqued their interest.  “I can see with it.”  He paused.  “In some ways, I see more.”

                The woman in the room folded her arms beneath her breasts.  “Even if you can see, you’re a child.  We would have to train you.  It’s cheaper to buy older apostates.”

                Shaislyn’s lips pressed together.  Lura wanted to tell him that they had best leave, but he would not back down.  “Exactly,” he said, and smiled like a card player with a card tucked up their sleeve.

                One of the two men looked back at him.  “Care to enlighten us, child?”

                He smirked.  Lura wanted to hit him— _Don’t be insolent; they don’t want that in a slave!_   “Teach me the Qunari tongue.  Send me out as a refugee… and a spy.  Why would anyone suspect a half-starved, blind, half-elven child?”

                They all fell quiet, and looked at one another.  The woman smiled wryly.  “Well, wouldn’t that be the epitome of the word ‘pathetic’?” she laughed.  “He’s right.”

                “It would take some time before he learned enough to be useful,” the second man reminded them.

                “But he’s right,” the woman insisted, if grudgingly.  “Even when he gets older, no one will ever suspect the blind.”  She frowned in thought.  “People often treat the blind as if they are deaf too, more so if they never suspect he knows their tongue.”  She looked Shaislyn in the eyes—something few people ever did, eyes as pale as his were unnerving.  “Can you read, child, with this ability?”

                Lura froze.  She had never thought to mention to him that the Imperium liked their slaves illiterate most of the time; a blind child could never learn to read, she had thought.  “Yes,” he answered, and Lura felt like they might as well leave immediately.

                And the woman smiled.  “I like someone who can tell the truth.”

                “I’m not sure how I feel about a slave who reads and sees with magic,” the first man said, making a face.

                The woman looked at him.  “He’d be more useful than you are,” she countered.  “Your spies always get sent back in pieces, if at all.”

                He conceded the point.  “Fine—we’ll take him.  Five sovereigns.”

                Lura only raised an eyebrow.  “Shai—let’s go.  They plan to cheat us.”

                The men bristled, but the woman laughed.  “Oh, you I like,” she purred, and began the haggling.  They settled on a fair sum.  If Shai had been a teenager and more learned, it would have been twice the settled amount, the woman said with some regret, but they had to teach him until then.

                Lura hugged him fiercely, and looked back at him as they parted.  Her heart felt heavy as the purse, and when she got home, she cried until the tears wouldn’t flow again.  Shai was just like Leto, she realized.  Always putting his family first, to a dangerous fault, always at his expense.  And they had ended up exactly the same, she realized with great sadness.  A life of slavery, for herself and Varania.

                Varania slapped her when Lura had to tell her, and she had screamed, and cried like someone dying in turns, but a week later, apologized to Lura, and embraced the other woman, and they both wept for the lost child.

                “I understand,” Varania told her.  “I’m sorry—I just…  He’s my _child.”_

Lura swallowed.  “I know.  He was very brave.  He did it for you, Varania.”

                She stared at the other woman with watery green eyes.  “Leto did too,” she whispered.  “I’ll never see him again either.”

 

                Another year, and more pieces were falling into place.  Kylie’s allies and hired informers slowly grew.  Her plan was foolproof, and she was going to win this game.  She would have everything of her heart’s desire in one fell swoop.  It heartened her to think on it, at least.

                The most difficult part by far was the planning, and the messages were the most deadly.  Those were the ones that made her blood run cold when she penned them, and made her stomach tie in knots when she handed them to someone else.

                There were so many plans to make, so _many_ ends to tie.  She had one more year still.  One more year until the wedding.  It was time enough, and now that she knew what she did, it was easier still to plan.  In fact, everything was working out in her favor.

                No one knew.  No one even suspected her beneath her charming smile.  People looked at her blonde curls and blue eyes, her highborn station, and her magic, and thought her nothing more than any of that—a pretty strumpet with a bit of power, but mostly she let them see the pretty strumpet.  She pretended to be silly as any highborn girl.  She feigned interest in dancing, and became quite good at it.  She feigned interest in learning the harp, and spent many an hour playing it.  In time, her wild ways were widely thought to be put to rest, and she did her best to make sure that all anyone ever saw was her being precisely what everyone else expected of her.

                It pleased her parents, and dulled the suspicion of those around her, exactly as she desired.  She disliked it when others spoke about her as being something she was not, but she told herself that she would only have to tolerate this for another year.  Nothing more.

                And so Kylie smiled, and when someone asked for her hand in a dance, she let herself be led to the floor, as graceful as any lady.  She wore flowing silks and jewels, the sort of which she never would have worn just two years ago.  Her hair was pinned up in a silver net of pearls, a sapphire on her throat the same shade as her eyes.

                She went from partner to partner, and was as gracious as could be.  She blushed prettily at the jests and friendly teasing.  She smiled at the words of congratulations.  It was her engagement party, just announced.

                Her betrothed stepped into the dance, and she found herself partnered with him.  The Archon’s son.  As she moved she looked at him, and he was as courtly as one would expect.  He was not ugly, at least, and they were of an age together.  He was a mage, she had heard, as was only fitting a match.  The Archon of Minrathous was not a rank passed on by blood all the time, but rather through skill.  There was no guarantee the boy would ascend to the title if he had a more able relative, but it was still a prestigious house, and still considered a very good match.  Her dowry had been enormous, she had heard, all the same.  They danced, and she heard people talking about them, and she tried to ignore the whispered words.

                “You seem in high spirits,” he said conversationally, taking her quite out of her frame of mind.

                And she made herself blush as if his words came from the Maker himself, remembering that she was a proper lady now, and had best act the part.  “Oh, yes, mesere,” she agreed.  “And why ever not?”

                He seemed as if he were far away for a moment.  “You don’t want—“ he started to say, but the song changed, and it was time for new partners.  She wondered what he had intended to say, but decided that, in the end, it didn’t really matter at all, did it?  They were both nothing but their parent’s pawns.  Pieces to be moved on a board, nothing more.  They were their family’s alliances in flesh.  Once their marriage was consummated, that alliance would be secure, at least for a generation or so.  Sometimes less, but it was cause to celebrate all the same.

 

                _At least I don’t have to pour the wine,_ Fenris thought.  But he disliked parties all the same.  The Circle mages were all blood mages, he was certain.  Danarius mentioned it often enough to his fellows—sometimes jests, hints, or anything of that nature.  They had inside jokes and Fenris wasn’t deaf to them—fact of the matter, he was often the subject of them.  At first confusing, but he understood enough in time to realize what they all _meant_.

                Over time, he had also learned the weakest mages were the ones who refused blood magic, and the ones who were most often to die and least likely to ascend through their ranks.

                He looked around at the engagement party, the dancers, the musicians, the revelers, but only really saw the slaves in attendance.  Since that child had died, he had seen countless other atrocities committed in the name of amusement.  He had seen two children told to try to kill the other, or they would both be killed.  He had seen captives who would not be cowed and subservient as slaves thrown into the Provings, and set upon by wolves as the crowd cheered.

                _Little wolf._

                His master’s sigil was a wolf.  Maybe that was all there was to it.

                And he had learned to school his expressions, to stand with a blank face while these things happened, and a small part of him died for it.  Those children deserved more than a stoic gaze, but what else could he do except to learn to accept it?  Besides, he felt he owed it to them to watch, to remember their faces, even if he didn’t know their names.  _I can’t help you, but I can remember you.  I can remember your terror and your pain._ It was all he could ever hope to do.

                In the corner, out of the way but well-lit and looking ornamental, was an eternally sad-looking elven slave.  Fenris had seen her multiple times, each time just as miserable-looking as the next.  Her master was another one of the magisters—some southern one--who boasted of her musical abilities.  He had said, “She can sing in six languages, and play nearly ever instrument.”

                Right now, she didn’t sing, but strummed the big gilded harp with shapely hands.  She had an accent, when she sang, that the magisters described as “Dalish” but she lacked the tattoos.  She was in her early twenties at latest, and though he had seen her many times, she never spoke a word, not for anything, something her master—at least publicly—didn’t seem to care about; it wasn’t what she _said_ that he cared about but rather what she could _sing._ He would come across her in the hall when she assisted in the cleaning after a party or banquet, not trusting anyone else to care for the instruments, and even when someone else would carry out the heavy cases, even try to speak to her, she would never respond.  Strange, considering that everyone knew she wasn’t mute, not unlike Vairin, except she didn’t strike him as being utterly mad.  As a result, no one knew her true name.  The magister called her “Wren” and after over half her life a slave, that might as well be her name.  _Like me?_ Fenris wondered fleetingly.

                As the night wore on and Annalkylie retired, it gave leave to many of the other ladies to do so as well, and so they did, and their men with them, but the wine still flowed, and the others still drank.

                A magister—he guessed from somewhere south and east by his accent when Danarius had spoken to him earlier--across the table was drunk, and had a slave girl by the arm.  He was saying something rude, Fenris could tell by the look on her stricken face, but he couldn’t hear what exactly.

                The man seemed to be hurting her—his grip on her arm made her knees buckle, and the human threw her onto the table, sending dishes scattering.

                The others hardly gave it any notice other than an amused glance, maybe some laughter.  All except the slaves, who stood by mutely, and pale.  Fenris felt himself become curiously blank, down to his stance.  He simply felt numb to it.  It was just one more atrocity to add to the ever-growing, towering pile of them.

                The man raped her.  There at the table, drunk on too much brandy.  The girl cried, but was good not to resist; she would have been beaten for resisting.

                “How crude,” Fenris heard his master comment.

                “It’s just a bit of fun,” another mage interjected.

                “He could at least take his ‘fun’ elsewhere,” Danarius said, sounding most displeased.  The girl continued to cry.  Fenris, for once, agreed with his master.  It was bad enough to be raped, he imagined.  Worse still, to be raped with an audience to the deed.

                A female magister, this one from some southern city but well-traveled, laughed.  “You’re becoming quite prudish in your old age, Danarius,” she teased.  She was middle-aged and graying herself.  “Still—I think he broke a dish or two.  Perhaps the bedroom would be better.”

                “Slaves aren’t good enough for a bed,” the other magister commented.  Fenris recalled his master making mention before that half the man’s current slaves were very probably his bastard-born children… who it was entirely possible that he only continued to fuck with a flagrant disregard to incest.  He kept human slaves, and said that elves made him feel like he was “fucking a child” because they had little body hair.  But he wasn’t above it.

                Danarius laughed.  “But you’re the one who has to fuck them on the floor.”

                “I’ll fuck your elf on the floor,” he said, gesturing with his glass to Fenris, to the laughter of the others.  Fenris shifted in the shadow, uncomfortable.

                “Do you want him, Jairus?” Danarius asked, bemused.  _Please…  Please not that…_

                The man looked at Fenris again, studying him with hazel eyes.  “I’d fuck him.”

                “You’d fuck a stuck pig,” the woman informed him.  “And likely have.”

                Danarius glanced at him.  “Speaking of which, where’s your wife?”

                “I left her in her pen this time—at home,” he laughed.  “She doesn’t like it when I fuck the slaves.”

                The woman’s painted lips pursed into a smirk.  “But the pigs are all right, then?”

                He laughed, and drank to her jest.  “Why, fair lady, I’d sooner fuck you.”

                “On the floor, I imagine.  I hear you’re fond of that,” she sniggered.

                “Only when the one I’m fucking isn’t bred for a bed.”

                “Hard to breed them for a bed when they’ve been bred on the floor,” she went on, and the talk shifted comfortably away from Fenris.  He was grateful, and looked back at the poor slave girl being raped, his eyes full of pity.  The magister had just finished, and straightened his robes, and strutted away to continue drinking.  The girl slipped to the floor, in tears.  A servant, the one minding the slaves apparently, reprimanded her, and from their expressions, seemed to be threatening her.  She climbed to her feet on shaking legs, and left the room.  Fenris was dismayed to see her changed, cleaned, and serving again in a quarter of an hour.  She was shaking enough, though, that they kept her away from anything too breakable and expensive.

                He kept his master in sight as the mage milled around, talking, and drinking.

                The general talk and the music became too loud to quite hear them, and the elf didn’t care enough to try to.  He just made sure that his master was in sight at all times, and he watched out for anything suspicious.  The last party they had been at, someone had tried to stab him.  Fenris had seen the flash of steel, though, and said man was missing an arm before his master was in harm’s way.  Danarius had seen fit to reward his little wolf with a new sword, which was still being forged.

                His master glanced at him twice, and Fenris frowned quizzically.  _Talking about me?_   That wasn’t so uncommon.  It had been years, but he was still a bit of a sensation.  They were afraid of him, and some of the fear he didn’t even understand.  It seemed so much deeper than his abilities.  It was hinted that it had something to do with the Ritual itself, but he just didn’t know…

                The serving girl who had been raped stumbled as she came near him.  He caught her automatically, but her tray dropped with a clatter.  It had been empty, or she may have been whipped.  Fenris picked it up hurriedly, giving it back to her.  Her eyes were red and puffy, and she trembled as she walked, but she tried to smile when he gave it back to her, because she was too distraught to speak.  She moved away.

                Raped, in front of an audience who didn’t care.  Had she been a maiden?

                The hour grew still later, and Danarius went to retire.  Fenris would escort him to his rooms, at a respectable distance, before he would slip away to the servant’s quarters he would be confined in for the duration of their stay.

                Danarius stopped at the door, as if just remembering something.  Fenris doubted it though.  The man smiled at him, not in a way his slave liked.  “Do you recall where Magister Elden is residing?”

                Fenris blinked.  This had not been what he was expecting.  “Yes, Master.”

                The mage’s smile turned into a smirk.  “Good.”  And he gave him his instructions.  Fenris paled, but bowed all the same, and walked slowly, oh so very slowly, to Magister Elden’s room.  The room was empty when he arrived, so he resigned himself to wait.

                When the man came, he was drunk, and laughed aloud when he saw him.  He pissed in the privy with the door open.  Fenris took the opportunity to peel out of his clothes, lest they get ruined.  He was resigned to the rape.  It was only rape.  Thousands of people had been raped before.  He had no doubt that many of them were male.  He also had no doubt that thousands more would be raped.  He wasn’t special or unique in that regard.  _At least I don’t have an audience,_ he thought.  _That poor girl._

                It couldn’t last that long either.  The man was drunk, for one thing—very drunk.  He imagined that it would be over quickly, and then the drunkard would shove him out the door—likely naked with semen running down his legs, just like Perya.  He was beginning to associate mages and drinking with atrocity.  But… no.  He was a slave, in every sense of the term.  If his master desired him to let another man mount him, then… that was all there was to it.

                Furthermore, he would get over it.  If he hated it, if it was the worst thing he could ever hope to experience, then he could be comforted in that he knew he could overcome it.  The worst of it would pass—it couldn’t last forever.  His memories could, but they were only memories.  He could live without memories—he knew that—which meant he could live with the painful ones too.  If it hurt, the pain was fleeting.  The only pain that was constant was the lyrium, he reminded himself.  The only thing in his life that mattered was Danarius and his master’s orders.  If his orders were to do this, then he must obey.

                The magister came out of the privy stumbling and peeling off his clothes.  He left a trail of them to Fenris.  “Your master tells me you can swallow,” he commented.

                Fenris flinched.  How much had his master said?  _How much is he whoring me for?_ “Is that what you desire, mesere?”

                “Don’t talk until I tell you to, slave,” he hissed, and seemed like he was going to hit him, but was apparently too drunk to see straight enough to deliver it.  That was all to the good then.  “Start swallowing.”  Fenris almost sighed aloud, and lifted himself to his knees, and brought the man into his mouth.  Even fully erect, he really didn’t have enough for him to swallow, so much as let rub repeatedly against the back of his throat.  But the man didn’t seem to care too much about that.

                He spilled his seed suddenly and unexpectedly.  Fenris flinched, and forced it down his throat, leaving a salty taste behind in his mouth.  He began to daydream of something to get the taste out.  Danarius always gave him something afterward—wine, water, something.  Magister Elden, however, with his lascivious appetite for rape, thought nothing of it.

                He complained about his sudden orgasm, and hit Fenris as if the elf could control it.  He fell upon the elf, and was about to hit him again, but the slave cried quickly, “My master forbade you to hit me.”

                He had.  He had told Fenris as much before he sent him away.  Elden growled his displeasure, but his hand fell away.  He grumbled, and made Fenris suck on him again.  It took a long time, and his jaw was aching by the time he was hard enough for the deed again.

                And he was no less drunk.  He pushed Fenris down, on his back, and his lips found his neck.  Fenris cringed.  “My master forbade you to mark me,” he practically yelped.

                He felt teeth against his skin, and sensed a strong desire for violence from the other man.  He pulled away, and fumbled with his erect member.  The elf flinched before contact, and stopped breathing when he penetrated him.  His fingers curled into fists, suddenly angry that this was happening.  For one moment, the lyrium flared to life, before Fenris controlled it, and it faded again.  The mage had gone still, some part of his drunken mind realizing how dangerous the elf really was.

                In the end though, lust won out over common sense, and he held on to the slave when he pounded into him.

                Fenris’ eyes closed, no longer desiring to see the man.  He knew somehow that he was not the first man Magister Elden had bedded—or raped for that matter.  That was almost comforting.

                He tried to think about something else—anything else.  Nothing came to mind.  Nothing but the sickening sensation of his throbbing member inside of him.  The magister stopped for a moment, and when Fenris opened his eyes, he saw the man drinking again—straight out of the bottle.

                As if he needed more wine.  The drunken pig.  Fenris found himself hoping he choked and died on it.

                But then he set the bottle down, and resumed where he had left off, as violent as ever.  He felt himself torn, and knew he was bleeding.

                _It can’t last.  It can’t last._

It felt like an eternity.

                He heard all the same sounds he had heard when Perya had been raped.  Even the whimpering, and realized that that was himself.  He hadn’t thought he would whimper.  He had thought…  He didn’t know what he had thought.  The hardest part, he reflected, was keeping his legs apart.

                “Fuck!” the man cried out in anger, suddenly.  Fenris’ eyes opened in time to see the man slap him, regardless of what Danarius had told him.  His flaccid penis slid out of him.  He had drank too much, Fenris saw with no small amount of relief.

                The man lifted the bottle, and drank some more, and made as if to throw the empty bottle in his anger, then glanced at the elf lying naked beneath him.  And he chuckled, and Fenris suddenly felt very, very cold, and very, very small.

                The empty bottle was placed where his member had been a moment ago, and the elf gasped upon its rough entry, and the magister just laughed.  The bottle didn’t go deep enough to suit the magister, so after a short time, he pulled it out.  He used his fingers for a while, and still he was too flaccid to finish it.  Two fingers Fenris almost didn’t feel after everything else.  Three he felt, but when it came up to four, he was whimpering again, and the man’s movements and the rings on his fingers were violent enough to tear him, and keep tearing.

                His hand clamped over his mouth to stifle his cries.  He hated it more than he had thought, more than he knew he could hate it.  Then the man left him, and he sagged in relief.  Was he going to go pass out somewhere?  Please say he was…

                He was going to take a piss.  Fenris was thankful for the reprieve anyway.  He shivered, and found himself shaking and sick like he hadn’t thought he could be.  How could something so simple hurt so much?  How could it make him feel so sick?

                When the magister came back, he used the bottle again.  At least it was smooth for the most part.  At least it couldn’t stretch and bend the way his fingers could.

                The movement slowly stopped, and Fenris looked up.  The magister was slumped against the bed, unconscious more than asleep.  Fenris wriggled away, kicking the bottle away.  He had half a mind to smash it—against the magister’s face preferably.  He found himself holding his breath when Elden’s brown eyes flickered open, then relaxed when they closed again, sliding down onto the carpet.

                But when the slave tried to stand, he fell.  Even that didn’t wake up the man, though.  He was shaking, and felt like he was going to vomit.  He was bleeding, too, and covered in sweat, he found.

                He was shaking too badly to dress himself, but his tunic was long today, he could put that on.  The rest, he carried.  He had walked around in less often enough to not care very much about other people seeing him naked.  It was the blood on his legs that was worse.  _At least it’s not semen._

                He stumbled out of the room, and closed the door.  He slid against the wall, falling to his knees.  He’d never make it to the servant’s quarters.  He felt sick, and shaky, and had a dizzying hatred for drunken mages.

                _No_ , he thought.  If he had wanted to rape him, he would have raped him, drunk or no.  Maybe it was better that he had been drunk; he hadn’t been able to perform.

                He sensed someone behind him—heard footsteps, and was too sick to care.  A hand rested on his back, and someone knelt beside him.  “Oh, Andraste’s tits,” the man swore.  “Can you walk?”

                Fenris paused, and considered that question.  “No, mesere,” he answered, cringing inwardly.  His head swam, and the sickness took him.  He retched, and when he was done, was shaking too badly to move.  The man put the elf’s arm around his neck, and helped him stand up, his own arm around Fenris’ waist.  At least he had missed the carpet, he noticed.

                They walked down a few doors, and the man turned, and opened another.  _He’s going to rape me too, isn’t he._

                All Fenris’ suspicions seemed confirmed when he settled him onto the big canopied bed, and pulled the bundle of clothing out of the slave’s hands, and set it on the floor.  The man gave him a cup of watered wine from a crystal cup.  Danarius gave him wine frequently when he took him in his mouth.  At least that was all his master had ever asked of him.

                This magister, though, had not even asked his master’s permission.  Typical.

                “Are you finished?” the man asked him.

                “Yes, mesere.”

                He took the cup, and set it down, and gave Fenris a damp cloth.  “I trust you’d like to clean the blood off,” he offered.  The elf nodded, and did so.  It took a while.  He was shaking and couldn’t seem to move how he wanted to, and it hurt when he cleaned the area between his legs.  But the bleeding seemed to have stopped.  He wanted him clean before he raped him, that was all.

                The magister studied the elf with judgmental hazel eyes.  “You look weary.  Go to sleep,” he commanded.  The order made Fenris blink in surprise, but the magister immediately snuffed out the lamp, casting the room in the dim glow of the coals in the fireplace.

                “I… it’s your bed, mesere,” Fenris protested.

                “Go to sleep—in it,” he repeated.  “I have a bad back, and I need to sleep on the floor anyway.”

                Feeling awkward, he slid into the bed, but resolved to sleep on top of the blankets.  They were already pulled down, as if the man had been abed earlier.  He pulled himself out of the tunic, and set it down near him.  He _was_ tired, he realized as his eyes slid closed.  _So_ tired.  His stomach ached, and his ass hurt, and he felt like hell.

                Someone pulled the blankets up to his shoulders before he fell asleep.

                When he woke, it was late in the morning, and the magister was sitting at the table, reading a book.  Fenris panicked when he saw what time of day it was.  His master would be furious.  He flew from the bed—too quickly.  His stomached churned.

                “I’ve taken the liberty of informing your master that I saw you in the hall last night, and couldn’t resist bringing you to bed,” he said without looking up.  “He understands that you will have slept a long time, and gives me his blessing—after I gave him a few coins.”  His hazel eyes shifted to the elf.  Fenris just felt confused.  He had thought…  Why was he being kind to him?  The magister was a renown rapist, hated elves, and had been very outspoken about the benefits of slavery and the need to subdue slaves… 

                “I… Yes, mesere.”

                “Jairus,” he answered.  “Is my name, Fenris.”  And he looked back at his book.  “If you’re tired, you can go back to sleep.  If you’re feeling well enough to eat, I have a tray of food.”  He gestured vaguely to a tray on a table, laden with fruit, cheese, and bread, and something else that was covered.  “If your master asks, I suggest making sufficient noises about how I fucked you so hard you could feel my cock coming out of your mouth or something.”  He turned a page in his book, clearly more interested in that.  “A bit of whining about the way semen feels running down your legs would help matters.  But it is only a suggestion.”  He kind of smirked.

                A suggestion.  Not an order.  He was as confused as ever.  This was Magister Jairus, the man who refused to own an elven slave because he hated looking at elves.  The man that had no doubt sired most of his current slaves, and only continued to sire more off of his own bastards.  He was corrupt and disturbed.  He…  _Helped me_ , Fenris thought.  _Why?_

Jairus looked up briefly.  “Sorry about my language, if it offended you; I used to work as a healer, treating whores.  They used to talk like that.”

                The elf blinked.  “Why did you help me?” Fenris said, picking up his tunic.

                The man was silent for a moment.  “I despise rape,” he responded, still utterly engrossed in his book.

                “Your reputation says otherwise.”  He cringed as the words left his mouth; Danarius would have slapped him for it.  It was terribly out of line, not at all something a slave should say to a magister.

                “My reputation may say whatever keeps the other magisters from asking too many questions about what I do with my free time,” he said, and seemed to have no inclination to say anything more.  He didn’t care about his discourteous comment.

                The elf paused.  “And what do you do with your free time, mesere?”  Even as he said it, he knew it was terribly rude, and quite out of line.  Danarius would have given him that withering stare that meant he would soon be lashed to the whipping post.  Sometimes, he couldn’t help himself.

                He smiled to himself.  “Come to me if you ever free yourself of your master, and I’ll tell you.  Have some cheese.  I don’t trust anyone who doesn’t like cheese.”

                After some time, Fenris finally felt a bit more comfortable with the man, and started picking at the food and drink on the table.  “You didn’t really sleep on the floor, mesere, did you?”

                Jairus nodded.  “I slept on a stone floor until I was… I think I was fifteen.”  A pause.  “Twelve years, sleeping on the floor.”  He shrugged.  “I can’t sleep on a bed.”

                Fenris wondered what he had done to have slept on a cold stone floor until then.  His question must have shown on his face, because the magister answered, “I’m from Kirkwall.”

                “Kirkwall…”

                “Um.  South and west of the Imperium.”  He gestured vaguely, and frowned when he realized it was in the wrong direction.  He pointed in the correct direction.  “I… _escaped_ the Circle there when I was fifteen.  The Templars didn’t catch up to me until I had already begged one of the Tevinter Circles to take me.  I spent _weeks_ studying maps before I even made the attempt.”  A brief pause.  “The Templars in Kirkwall treat their mages like criminals—their crime being their birth.”

                Danarius asked about Jairus, but Fenris, for the first time, lied to him.  He did not have to say a word to do it either.  He only looked down, and thought about the way the bottle had felt, and his expressions had done the rest.  Danarius had been amused, nothing more.  He complained about the bruise on his face, and confronted Elden about it.  Fenris wasn’t sure how that had resolved itself, but Danarius seemed well contented by the end of it.

                He eventually found out how much Elden had paid for that night.  _He sold my virginity for a magister’s favor, and a bag of gold and silver._

                What Fenris didn’t know was that Elden had also given Danarius time:  A temporary alliance between the two magisters would mean a temporary cease in the political backstabbing the two of them normally did to one to the other.  Elden had never quite forgiven Danarius for combating him becoming a magister, and held a small grudge against him for being so offended when he had hit one of his whores.  Danarius, similarly, had never forgiven him for drunkenly abusing his property.  The alliance, however, was more valuable than the gold, though no less repulsive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm--And what could Kylie be planning, I wonder? And how will that tie into Shaislyn's future? And how will their lives effect Fenris? No character is mentioned whose life does not directly effect his, after all--for better or worse. Though most often, it just makes everything worse. Even those with good intentions just make everything worse--sort of like real life.
> 
> Oh, and fun: Did you remember who the two magisters are? They were mentioned back when Leto was still around...


	58. A Tangled Web

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris contemplates suicide and Kylie's plans begin to take action.

                Kylie pulled her dark cloak tight about herself, the hood up to conceal her hair and face.  She had requested a room that opened into the private garden.  Frequently, she went to the garden to study, but there was one more reason…

                She clutched the heavy brass key in her hand.  She had taken it herself earlier in the day from its hook.  It would not be missed until morning, and she would be back well before then, she told herself.  Her heart pounded in her chest, for her actions were the very thing of treason.  _I can always go back_ , she told herself.  _I can always turn around and go back to bed._

                The letter in the satchel at her belt felt heavier than mere parchment could be.  It felt like everyone around her knew what she was doing, even though she had written the letter just a few hours ago.  Every footstep in the hall had made her jump and stare in terror at her door.  Her rooms would be dark, and she had sufficiently padded her blankets, just in case someone should come inside.  She had long ago forbidden the servants and slaves from doing that, but just in case…

                The garden key made a clanking noise as the lock turned, and her heart thudded in her chest, terror peaking her senses, but no one came.  She opened the gate just enough to slip through.  It creaked, and sounded like a banshee’s wail to her ears.  As she passed through the gate, the hem of her cloak caught on a stile.  She tugged on it nervously, freeing it.  She locked the gate, and stuffed the key back into her pocket.  The young mage walked quickly, lest she lose her nerve, away from the big manor house.  She kept her head down—just an ordinary servant out on the streets.

                She had stolen men’s servant garb from the store room a few days ago.  It was ill-fitting and simply wearing it made her afraid.  Everything about this made her afraid.

                But the alternative was worse.  She shivered more at the thought of the alternative than from the cool evening wind.

                The streets in this neighborhood were well-perfumed and brightly lit, yet still she kept to the shadows where possible, and walked briskly past strolling guards.  She checked her satchel frequently, feeling the rolled parchment in its leather case to assure herself that it was still there.

                If she wanted to turn back, it still wasn’t too late.  She paused in the market square, head down, the dark Chantry looming behind her.  She swallowed hard.  If she were caught, she would be beheaded.  Her family would be publicly shamed, and quite possibly also accused of treason.  Her mouth felt dry at the thought.

                It was nearly enough to make her turn back, to abandon her mad quest and burn the letter and the evidence.  Plenty of apprentices snuck out at night—to visit whores, or bars, or both, to gamble and bet—and who was to say that wasn’t what she was up to?

                And she nearly turned around then, but when she looked up, she saw the tarnished iron of the slave cages, saw the auction block and a pile of heavy chain and rope.  The blood spilt during the whippings stained the wood of the auction blocks, coloured the iron bars, and until a rain washed it away, marked the stone under her feet.  Minrathous—all of the Imperium—was built upon the blood and bones of slaves.  Every day, she trod upon their corpses and their pain, her every luxury and comfort at their expense.  Her clothes were made by slaves:  Every silk worm harvested, every thread spun, every flax seed planted, every tuft of cotton picked, every yarn woven, every stitch.  Her food was prepared by slaves, grown by slaves, butchered and picked by slaves.  _Nothing_ in her life was not built upon the overburdened back of a slave.

She looked to the shadows, and saw poor beggars come to look for scraps that might have been dropped when the merchants packed up for the night.  She looked farther, back to the warehouses she knew the slaves to be, and her heart ached.

                If she turned back…

                She looked over her shoulder, at the Chantry in its grandeur, and in the distance, the manors she had left behind.  She looked back at the cages, and couldn’t bear the thought.  She would marry the Archon’s son if she went back.  She would have slaves attending to her every want and desire—handpicked creatures for their looks and their manner and their talents, none of which were truly their own.  She would try, oh so very hard, to change the Imperium.  She would try, and be laughed at and scorned, as she had been in childhood too.  She would do everything she could, and knew in her heart that no one would listen.  She had learned that at a miserably young age, where even her peers and playfellows had not understood what she had seen.  Slavery was so much a natural part of Tevinter that the wealthy scarcely noticed their suffering, but she had.  She _always_ had.  Her friends had looked at the vineyard and saw the fruit, and called them beautiful when they were in flower.  Kylie’s eyes had strayed to the poor slaves tending it, always.  She didn’t want to see so much misery in the world.

                She couldn’t…

                She kept going on.  There was no other alternative.  If all her actions did was end in her death, at least she could say that she tried, and her conscience, if nothing else, would be clear.

                But could she trust her courier?  She saw no reason why not.  If the rumors were true, the elf was originally Dalish, and held no high regard for Tevinter law, or Tevinters for that matter.  How he had ended up in Minrathous was anyone’s guess, but the word was…

                Well, the rumors were exactly why she could trust him.  He seemed like a good candidate for her errand.

                Still, it paid to be cautious, so she had done some asking about him, under the pretense of trying to find him to imprison him—which had been done and again multiple times, actually.  The Dalish always found a way to “escape” from the prison, and she suspected the magisters had uses for him, as the elf could accomplish illegally and in secret what they could not.  Yet, for all her digging, no one seemed to know his name exactly, and that he was Dalish at all was only a rumor, because he didn’t have the tattoos and the people who _had_ heard the elf speak never mentioned an accent, or speaking the queer elven— _elvhen_ —tongue for that matter.  In fact, they said his Tevene was as fluent as if he were a native speaker.  She wondered if he didn’t just _say_ he was Dalish to sound more mysterious—more likely.

                She waited at the drop point, fidgeting anxiously, pacing, wondering if she was late and he had already been by.  She stared anxiously at the moons, and at every alley and dark corner.

                A barefoot man in a heavy mantle walked down the street on the opposite side.  She assumed he must be a beggar of some sort, and glanced sidelong at the guard as he rounded the corner, and walked down an alley.

                The barefoot man unhurriedly crossed the street, and she cringed inwardly.  She was usually one to give to beggars, but she rarely gave them coin except in the saddest of cases.  She had nothing on her person, though, and she hated to have to say no and shoo him away, lest the Dalish pass her by.

                She tried to look past the beggar, and continued peering into the shadows, looking and waiting for something—anything.  What did the elf look like anyway?  What made people refer to him as “the Dalish”?  These and a million other questions buzzed around her head, amidst her doubts and her fears until the beggar, standing only a few paces away, cleared his throat noisily.  Instinctively, she glanced toward him, and meant to move away, thinking that mayhap she was standing where he normally laid down to sleep, except that the man stepped into the light, and it illuminated his face in the hooded cloak.  Her eyebrows arched in surprise, and she suddenly felt foolish.  The elf stepped back into the shadow, and she stepped after him.  He was shorter than she, which was normal enough in elves, but she could not guess his stature, for the heavy mantle.

                He had some of the prettiest eyes she had ever seen, though, when she had glimpsed them in the light—the colour of gleaming steel.  Humans almost never had purely gray eyes—they always had other tones in them—but the elf’s were as blue-grey as folded steel and just as sharp.  “I am the one you seek,” he said, confirming her thoughts as if reading her mind.  He smiled charmingly, which was meant to put her more at ease, but given the circumstances, just made her stomach all in knots.

                She clutched the satchel close to her person, reluctant to part with it until she was more certain.  “How do I know that?”

                He pushed the hood of his cloak back with one hand.  He had a face that was androgynous enough to be called either a pretty man or a handsome woman, his hair a shaggy dark brown.  She was almost annoyed when she found him to be less than a decade her senior.  He had done quite well for an elf, though—more so an elf as young as he was.  “How do we know anything?” he countered.

                She hesitated, and answered, “The words of others.”  He had been testing her himself.  Those were the words she had been told to use when he asked “a question”.  That was what the thief had told her, anyway.  She prayed it was accurate, that she had remembered correctly.

                There was a long moment that seemed to stretch and go on forever before he opened his palm to reveal a small, carved wooden ring.  It was what she had been told to wait for, and what she had been told to inspect upon receiving it.  She lifted it, and looked for the mark.  Carved with the utmost of care was the smallest figure of a halla she had ever seen.  She had only seen drawings of the creatures, to tell the truth, but she recognized it all the same.  Maybe that was why they called him “the Dalish”.  Satisfied she handed him the satchel.  He did not even open it; it simply disappeared under his mantle, and she glimpsed a pair of daggers at his belt when it did.

                “It’s lovely,” she told him, still looking at the carved ring.

                A pause, as if in regret.  “Destroy it,” he told her, his voice devoid of any emotion, especially regret.

                She stared at him, aghast.  “But… it’s beautiful, and it must have taken so long to make…”

                He looked at her, silvery eyes judging her as if he did not like what he saw.  She could not say, at first, why she found the look to be so offensive—and then realized that it was simply, all her life, no elf had ever _dared_ look at her like that.  Yet this one did, and instinctively, she had found it to be offensive and rude immediately.  Just how deep did her upbringing go?  She made a mental note to examine this idea more thoroughly—she had not realized she was so biased before that moment.  Kylie found that she learned more and more about how wrong her world was with every passing day.  Just more reasons that it had to change.

His voice was but a whisper, and she could hear his very Dalish accent clearly:  “Cherishing beauty will blind you to the peril around you.”  And her eyes widened as she felt the small blade against her throat, and she wondered how quickly she could cast a spell to protect herself—just for an instant before he withdrew, the blade disappearing in his sleeve.  With that, he turned and left.

                In her palm, the ring burned to cinders with her magic, and she let the ashes fall to the ground.  He had a good point, and she had best remember it.  But was his message to never be fooled by beauty, or something more?  There were beautiful plants that were poisonous, beautiful animals that were deadly, and the snow and the sea were beautiful but could be lethal as well.

                She thought about what it really meant to “cherish”.  Was the effort of preserving that which was beautiful dangerous?  _Freedom is a beautiful concept_ , she thought as she passed back amongst the slave cages.  There were so many things the Dalish’s words could mean, and each meaning was deeper and darker than the next.

 

                It had been a few weeks.  He wasn’t a virgin anymore.  Some rape victims still considered themselves virginal after rape, but Danarius considered it suitable enough.

                His pet knelt on the floor beside him while he settled disputes.  Not paperwork this time, but a proper hearing.  These he did once a week—things that could not be resolved with paper, or needed tending immediately.  They were dull.

                As a man explained to the magister about how another man had cheated him at dice, he twisted the long silver chain between his fingers—apparently pulling too much on the slack.  Fenris jerked, and Danarius let go of it enough for his slave to straighten again.  He had him dressed not so much like a bodyguard, but as if he belonged in a harem, and the leash amused him.  The Imperials in Seheron were losing ground to the blasted Qunari.  Well, if the Qunari deemed it appropriate to leash their mages, he deemed it appropriate to leash the warrior.  Born in Seheron, he may have been born under the Qun, and that amused him as well.  His power was unique and amazing.  Fenris was a skilled warrior and resembled a Dalish goddess.  And he had him on the end of a leash, in an outfit befitting a harem.  It was all as if to say:  Look; look at what I have reduced him to, despite anything he may have accomplished otherwise.

                Fenris also continually drew the eye of all of those come to bitch about their lives to the magister, sometimes distracting them completely.

                When the last of them had gone, he had the room cleared, for a moment of silence if nothing else, but he found himself looking at Fenris.

                He wasn’t a virgin.  He wanted him.  Why didn’t he just take him?  He was his slave—it was his right as his master if he wanted something of him.  Strange that he had to convince himself to do so.  In the past, he had always just acted first and thought about it later—usually only briefly at that.  Maybe it was just a mark of his age.

                The magister gazed at his pet, and reached down, and touched his long white hair.  Once it got down to his hips again, he’d cut it.  The wig makers were only too pleased with it.  Danarius was feeling irritable after the delegations—anyone would be really.  Did he really have to be the one to dispute whether or not a man was cheating _at dice_?  A horrible waste of time.

                “I once read about an ancient elven goddess with white hair…  If you were female, you’d be the damned goddess incarnate,” he mused aloud.  Fenris made no reply, or even any inclination that he had heard him.  “It’s why I keep your hair long.”  He laughed aloud.  “I keep you on this leash, my little wolf, as a mockery to the Qunari customs, and you know I hate those.  But your hair, the clothes I usually have you wear…  That’s a mockery of what your people used to be, and of what they are now, my slave.”

                Fenris still made no reply.  He barely blinked, but still made no inclination of hearing him.  He had to have heard him though.

                Danarius frowned, displeased.  Sometimes, he’d _like_ Fenris to be a little angry.  He’d like beating him back down right now.  Leto would have been quietly enraged, and, furthermore would have rose to the bait.  “Say something,” he ordered him.

                Fenris turned toward him, but kept his head down.  “Master…  What do you want from me?”

                _What do you want from me?_   Leto had say that too, in the same broken tone of voice.  His tone implying that something precious and fundamental about him had been broken.  Maybe it had been.  Maybe when Danarius had accepted gold and favors for his pet’s rape, or maybe it went back farther than that; he wasn’t sure, but the brokenness was there all the same.  The mage paused, staring down at the slave.  A good question, and completely valid.  What _did_ he want?

                The room was empty, but there were too many doors, too many windows.  A shame.  He’d change his mind by the time he got to his quarters.  But he would like to have him strip down to nothing but that leather collar around his neck.  He’d like to push him over the desk, just like he had with Leto, and fuck him until he crumpled to the floor.

                Maybe, if he still wanted to by the end of the day, he would.  In the meantime, there were other things to do.  He went to his study, and sent Fenris to change and go to the practice yard.

                A few hours later, Fenris came back, his hair still wet, but no longer dripping, from a bath.  He was wearing more practical garments this time, which was fine; he had no more appearances to make.       Danarius looked at him for what felt like a long time, and his staring made Fenris uncomfortable, he could tell.  He cleaned off the quill pen, and replaced the lid on the inkwell, lest it dry.  He reviewed the last form, and set it aside.  He looked back at his slave.

                “I have a mind to take you to bed,” Danarius informed him.  “Fenris.”

                The elf stared down at the floorboards.  “If that is your wish, Master,” he replied.  His tone of voice was as blank as the elf could manage it, but the magister had known him too long.  He heard the faint tremble in his voice, the slight edge of fear.

                He was quiet for a long time, debating.  He rose.  “It is.  Come.”  Fenris followed him back to his quarters.  He kept the appropriate distance, and did not drag his feet, yet still produced the air of one who did not wish to be there—a learned skill, one that only served to remind the magister of how much younger Fenris was than he.

                Danarius should get him drunk first.  Fenris was much more compliant when he was drunk.  Most people were. _That_ gave him an idea for the next slave uprising.  On his way to his room, he ordered a servant bring him a bottle, and sat in a chair until it came.  The servant left, and closed the door on the way out.

                Danarius’ gaze flicked to Fenris, and back to the bottle.  The elf stepped forward, opened it systematically, and poured.  A white wine this time—something different, though he was more fond of red.  The glass filled, and the elf set the bottle down gingerly, and stepped away.  He wondered what he must be thinking, or even if the elf thought at all.  What does one think before they are raped?  What do they think as they watch it happening?  What do they think when they know it is inevitable?

                He sipped at the wine, and set the glass down.  “Fenris.”  The elf almost jumped at the sound of his name.  He stared downward, but his hands came up to the buttons on his tunic.  “No.  Not yet.”  The elf’s hands fell away.  “Before I take you…  Do you want the wine?”

                Fenris glanced at the bottle, and his eyes seemed to linger for a moment as he considered it.  “No,” he said, and seemed to shiver.  “Master.”

                That confirmed Danarius’ suspicions.  He had… seen the bottle lying on the floor in Elden’s room.  “I see.”  He paused.  “Elden was too drunk to really rape you, wasn’t he?”

                Fenris’ head snapped upwards.  His eyes were wide.  His head lowered again as colour rose to his cheeks.  “Not… entirely, Master.”

                Danarius actually laughed.  Fenris seemed to shrink at the sound.  “So the bastard used the bottle, is that it?” he asked him.  He saw the elf’s lips part to reply, but no sound came out, and they closed again.  He didn’t need him to reply; he knew it was true now.  He had done the same to Leto, but that was really only to better prepare him.  He liked humiliating him, certainly, but the preparation was important and he wasn’t willing to use his fingers.  Without preparation, it would have hurt him even more.  True, he had no doubt that Jairus had not been so inhibited, but, he thought condescendingly, Fenris would be well-prepared by then.  His immediate desire was to keep laughing, but Fenris chanced a glance upwards, and the laughter died on his tongue.  His pet looked miserable, his sage eyes wet—rain on foliage.

                Danarius sighed, and rose.  He strode up to his pet, and cupped both sides of his face, forcing him to look at him.  Most elves would stare up at him, as they were nearly a foot shorter.  Fenris was tall enough to almost look him in the eyes if he stood up straight, but he never stood up straight and even so, something about his demeanor made him look as though he were looking up at him from a vast distance.  “My poor pet,” he said, as if speaking to a hurt animal.  The elf’s large eyes flicked downwards.  “I won’t do that to you.”  _Just to Leto, and he’s gone._   “He must have hurt you.  Did he?”

                Fenris only nodded once, his eyes downcast.

                The mage studied his slave, his hands falling away.  “You were too good for his like anyway,” he decided.  “No one will ever appreciate you the way that I do.”  No one else had sacrificed so much for him either.  The magister turned from him, lifting the glass of wine to his lips.

                He told him to strip.  His back to his pet, he listened to the garments falling to the floor.  He took a sip of the wine.  “Put this on.”  He set the leather collar on the table, next to the wine.  He watched, out of the corner of his eye, as the elf lifted it off the table.  “A few months from now, I’m going to start looking for a gift for you, I think,” he told him.  “Have you looked at women, Fenris?”

                The subject obviously made the elf uncomfortable.  “I…”

                The magister smirked, turning to look at his little wolf, his hands just falling away after buckling the collar.  “Of course you have.  What was that slave girl’s name?  The one I sold to a brothel?”

                Fenris looked nothing short of pained.  “Perya, Master,” he offered.

                The mage only continued to smirk.  “Perya.”  He considered for a moment.  “She was a little pixie of a thing, wasn’t she.”  His lips pressed into a thin line as he thought.  “I may be able to find a girl short enough, if that’s what you like, but she needs better hips.”  He sighed, taking another sip.  “When I give you this girl, I’ll expect certain… things… from you.”

                Fenris looked at him briefly, then back down at the floor.  He said nothing.

                Danarius set the glass down.  “I will expect you to beget the bitch with child.  But it’s a few years off, I suspect.  For the moment…  Get on the bed, pet.”

 

                Fenris lay on the rug, and found his mind going to places he had never allowed himself to think of before.

                This had been happening… with more and more frequency.  Even he could see that.  In the past, but rarely he was expected to pleasure his master with his mouth.  But it had been so infrequent that each time might have been the last.  But the past few months…  No.  No, this couldn’t be how it was going to be.  It just…

                But all the evidence seemed to suggest otherwise.

                _He’s going to rape me again.  And I can’t say no, and I cannot fight him.  I have to submit._   His body was his master’s.  He _knew_ that.  Of course he knew that.  But…  He wished he had a say in what was done with it.

                His eyes squeezed shut, and he willed sleep and thus oblivion to come.  It didn’t.  He lay awake, listening to his master’s steady breathing, and the soft hiss of the dying embers in the fireplace.  The balcony door had been open to let in the breeze, and it was getting colder.

                Danarius had thrown him to the floor and told him to stay there.  _Just in case_.

                He knew what that “just in case” was.  The elf felt sick at the thought.  Elden had been smaller—to the point where he could have penetrated deeper with his fingers.  But Danarius _wasn’t_.

                He should have had that wine.  Gotten so drunk that he wouldn’t remember the way his sweat had dripped onto him, the way he panted from the exertion of pounding into him.  The… sounds it made.  The way he had felt inside him.  The worst part was probably when he had finally released in him.  It meant it was over and done with, but it meant, also, that it ran down his thighs, and even soaked his own unresponsive package.

                _No_.  It was _wrong_ to think of it as rape, or so he tried to insist to himself.  His master could not _rape_ him; he was his possession.  And he had commanded him, so it wasn’t, couldn’t be… rape.

                But he hadn’t wanted it.  He hadn’t enjoyed it.  What did that make it?

                He didn’t know.  He didn’t even care, not really.

                The wind billowed the curtains.  He shivered, and sat up.  His legs trembled a little bit when he rose, but he was at least satisfied to find that he wasn’t as shaky as he had been that time with Elden; Danarius had not hurt him.  He would have preferred it if he had.  He would have preferred it if he had hit him, beat him bloody.  At least it would remind him that he was not as breakable as he felt.  And he felt so breakable, and his master had held him like a porcelain doll, touched him as if he were the finest glass.  Elden had beaten him and he had known he would survive; Danarius had caressed him and made him feel fragile.

                He went to the balcony door, and paused at the handle, then he slipped outside.

                The wind and the dark felt good.  He liked looking at the moons and the stars, and the glittering city laid out below, the sea in the distance.  He wouldn’t really mind dying on a night like this.

                If his master were to… bring him back to bed…  If that were to happen again, he wasn’t sure that his mind wouldn’t break from it, and that frightened him.  _I can’t bear it._

                Nothing was stable.  Nothing was the same.  He was always in pain, always hurting— _that_ was always the same anyway.  He had witnessed so many horrors and atrocities.  The only island in this sea of instability and pain had been his master.  And now…

                The semen on his legs had dried, but Fenris could feel it cracking as he moved.  If this is what it had come to, then…

                _I’d rather die._

                His fingers wrapped around the edge of the balcony, and he found himself staring downwards.  It was such a long way to fall.  A body would fall, and hit the stone walkway below.  His other hand rose, his fingertips touching the leather collar at his throat.

                He glanced upwards.  The urge to let himself topple over the edge was too strong.  But he looked up instead, and found himself looking at the tower.

                A few years ago, he had found Annalkylie carrying a basket of apples from the orchard up to the tower.  He had observed her carry them to the top of the tower, and run back down to fetch a second basket, this one of oranges.  He had relieved her of it and demanded to know about her mischief.  She had grinned, and taken the basket back, and had him carry the third one—the heavy one with the lead balls.  “No one else who is strong enough to lift that will,” she explained.  “My uncle is at closed court, so he won’t miss you.”

                So he had somehow become indoctrinated in her mischief.  She began by tossing the apples, oranges, and balls of lead out the window and timing their descent, saying that she had read about it in a book somewhere and wanted to do a similar experiment on her own.

                But later, she ignored the basket of lead entirely, and simply pelted her fruit missiles at the unfortunate servants down below.  He had had no part in that, other than scolding her, and she had likewise gotten in trouble.  Though, he had been satisfied to note, she did not mention Fenris at all during her scolding.

                He thought about the splattered oranges and apples.  She had stolen a melon from the kitchens that day too, and had tossed that out of the tower with the rest of her supplies.  It had split.  Would his skull split the same way?

                He looked down.  It wasn’t quite as high up, but…

 

                Danarius’ grey-blue eyes opened, annoyed to wake for seemingly no reason.  He closed his eyes again, and looked inwardly for Fenris—the small light in his inner eye.  It was blazing right now.  Why…?  It had never done anything like that before.  And why wasn’t it at the foot of the bed?

                The wrongness of it made him rise, and look at the foot of the bed to be certain.  He looked to the balcony, and felt a tightness in his throat and chest.  _No_ …

                And he was running.

                He found Fenris perched on the balcony, one hand against the side of the building for balance, lithe as any elf, and beautiful in the moonlight.  The lyrium was especially lovely in the starlight—the way it seemed to glitter.

                “Fenris,” he breathed.

                The elf turned and looked at him, alarmed.  “I…  I wasn’t…”

                _You are mine._   He wanted to drag him off of that balcony and backhand him.  He wanted to beat him for what he had almost done.  Fenris was _his_ , to do with as he wished.  He lived and died at his command, and at his say-so.  How _dare_ he presume to throw his life away because he wanted to.  His wants were nothing.  He had thought he had better trained his pet than this.  But his anger died as soon as he saw the hurt look on his slave’s face.  “Fenris,” he sighed, all the anger leaving him.  “Climb down, and get back inside.  You’ll catch a cold.”

                The elf glanced back downwards, and the magister saw the moment of indecision—torn between the jump and the compulsion to obey.

                Danarius stayed away from him—tactfully.  “It’s a long way down, isn’t it,” he tried instead.  He glanced at his pet.  “What do you think will happen to you, when you die?  Wouldn’t you rather live?”  The magister paused, and let the elf consider.  “It’s the only life you’ll ever have, Fenris.  Do you want to throw it away?”

                And the elf listened, and slowly, _so slowly_ climbed onto the balcony floor, and slipped inside.  Danarius sighed inwardly in relief, following his slave back inside.  What had brought that on?  This had never happened before.

                He shut the balcony door behind him, and locked it.

                Could it really just be because he had brought him to bed?  He found that difficult to believe.  Suicide?  Really—over so small a thing?  No, what if that were only the latest of things?

                He looked at his pet, and sighed.  He wanted him again, but not at the expense of driving his prized possession to suicide.

                He threw on a robe, belting it at the waist.  “Fenris,” he said.  “Clean yourself off.  There’s water in the basin, so use that.”  The elf hesitated, but obeyed.  Danarius didn’t watch him do it.  Rather, he went to a book he had been reading, and sat in his favourite chair.  When he sensed that his pet was finished, he looked up.  “Rouse the servants—I’ll have a bath and a light breakfast, in that order.”  It was almost dawn.  He might as well get up.

                His pet, though, looked haggard at best.  He had been awake all night, he didn’t doubt.

                Fenris hesitated, a question dancing about his lips, wearing nothing but that leather collar.

                “Yes—you may dress,” Danarius told him, scarcely glancing up from his book.  Fenris did so, and fled to go rouse the servants to his master’s desires.  The servants returned before Fenris did, carrying water to fill his bath.  It mattered little to him if it were cold or not, because he could heat it with a thought.  His servants had learned that long ago—that it was more important to deliver him the water than to waste time heating it.

                He watched them scurry to and fro into his bath chamber, and Fenris returned—hair braided down his back and his clothes changed--and dutifully stood near him.  Once the servants had gone, and shut the door, signaling that they were finished, the magister set aside his book, and looked at Fenris.

                “A bodyguard that isn’t near me is useless as such.  But an exhausted one less useful still.  Go to sleep,” he told him.  Fenris apparently took that to mean to go to his room, for he started for the door.  “No.”  Danarius set his book aside.  “You may sleep in my bed.  I want you near.”  His eyes lingered on him for a moment.  _Climb back on top of him, thrust into him.  The breaking point for him was the release—if I spill my seed on his back instead, he won’t break._

                But he doubted that, and so he only turned from him, and took his bath.

                When he came back out, Fenris was asleep in his bed, lying partway curled on top of the blankets.  He wanted him again, but he could wait until what was broken had been repaired.  He didn’t mind the waiting.  It made the moment even better.  He had waited six years to fuck that elf again.  _Six years_.  Why had he put it off so long, anyway?  Fear, he decided.  Fear that he would remember.

                Taking him had been sweet.  And it had lasted so much longer than the last time too.  Preparation had been difficult, and Fenris had been so shy about it.  In the end, he had used a lot of oil, on both of them.  After he had coaxed his pet into relaxing, entry had been almost easy.  Coaxing him had been the difficult part, trying to convince him that it didn’t have to hurt.  He didn’t mind hurting Leto until the little brat had been in tears.  He didn’t feel the same way about Fenris.  Fenris _deserved_ the coaxing, the same way he had deserved the gentle treatment and the oil.  The same way he had fucked Leto until he bled, but was gentle enough with Fenris that he didn’t bleed.

                He remembered that Leto had liked it even then.  That, when drunk, he had gotten an erection.  Would Fenris be the same way?

                He made a note—the next time… the very next time, he would make certain that Fenris was drunk.  And there would definitely be a next time.

                The magister’s fingers gently trailed along a vein of lyrium, from his bare back, up to his shoulder.  He touched the elf’s cheek with his hand, and still he was dead asleep.  He ran his fingertips over his slave’s hair, traced the curve of his arm.  Fenris sighed, and shifted, but still did not wake—or if he had woken, he was pretending to be asleep.

                He decided to leave him there.  He looked pretty, and he liked the idea of him exhausted in his bed anyway.  Didn’t dogs sleep on their master’s bed?  That was all it was.

                _Who am I kidding?  I’m fond of the lad._   The realization made him uneasy.  But he _liked_ Fenris.  He _liked_ having a slave that was as dutiful, as devoted, as unquestioning as his pet was.  He was pleasing to the eye, and he had a pleasant voice.  And it grated on his nerves to think that when he died, Fenris would just go up for auction and be sold to the highest bidder.

                Something must be done about that.

                But what?  He refused to give Fenris to Hadriana; she would toss him into the coliseum to die.  Many another magister would do the same, many just for spite.  Now the thought only bothered him.  He didn’t want to see his work destroyed for sport or spite—the end result was the same.  No, he wanted Fenris to live to the end of his natural lifespan, if possible.

                But… how could he ensure that that was what happened?

 

                Danarius had sent Fenris out to watch over his niece when she went hawking—a deal he had worked out with her when she protested all the retainers.

                Fenris had the idea that it wasn’t as much for Kylie as for himself somehow.  _If he thinks this makes up for it, he’s wrong_.

                But it was a beautiful day.  His favourite days in Minrathous were actually when it was cloudy, the skies grey but without rain—exactly like today.  The two were still well within the grounds of the city.  They could even still smell it—though that meant little; cities had a horrid stink to them, even with all the incense constantly burning.

                Annalkylie had her hawk, and her favourite black gelding.  It was sort of nice to see her like this.  All the other mages he knew wore expensive robes and jewelry, strutted about like peacocks, and thought murdering children was a source of amusement.  But Annalkylie would run barefoot in the surf, pick up her hawk’s kills herself, and seemed happiest in her dirty riding leathers.

                “I was born in the saddle,” she had explained with a jaunty wink.  “Much to the discomfort of my lady mother.”

                As they rode back, her kills dangling on wire from her saddle, her hawk on its perch, she said to him, “Do you ever wish you could be someone else?  Just for a little while?”

                He paused.  “Why would I wish that?”

                She frowned at him.  “Just to see what it’s like.”  She paused, and seemed to wait for him to speak, but he did not.  Rather, she filled in the gap in conversation instead.  “I’d like to be a boy.  Maybe a highborn boy, but not a mage.”  She smiled to herself.  “I could go hunting, and riding…  I could learn to be a knight.”  She paused in thought.  “I should think I’d like to a be a second son though.  I don’t really want to inherit family business or anything.  Like my father,” she added.

                He offered no reply.  Whatever she was looking for in him, she wasn’t likely to find it.  The wind picked up, carrying the scent of the ocean with it.  It tousled his hair, and he moved to push some of it back behind his ear, as was his custom, but it was a bit too short and just fell away.  Danarius had had it cut again recently, to sell to a wig maker.  Apparently, it sold well and at a high price.  White was a rare hair colour, even among elves.  Someone had once told him that his hair meant he was special somehow.  The thought gave him pause.  Who had told him that?  He couldn’t remember…

                Annalkylie said, “And I could piss standing up.  That’s important.”  Fenris wondered if he had heard her correctly, and by the smug look on her face, he had.

                “I’m certain I shouldn’t be hearing this,” he commented dryly.

                The girl sighed, disappointed that he wasn’t as amused as she was, and was silent for a bit, then she reigned in her horse, looking at Minrathous.  “It’s not even that late,” she told him conversationally.  “We could go ride down by the shore a while longer.”

                He raised an eyebrow.  “As you wish.”

                She turned her horse back, and as they did, she said, “If I could destroy my phylactery, would you come with me if I ran away?”

                The question made him blink in surprise.  “What?”

                She looked at him, her face the picture of all seriousness.  “Did I stutter?  Would you come with me?” she repeated herself.  He only looked at her, unable to answer.  What she spoke of was… illegal.  “I hate the way my uncle treats you.  He beats you, and parades you around on a leash like an animal.  It’s disgusting.  Run away with me.”  She pointed, off down the shore.  “My phylactery is less than a day’s ride from here.  We could be there by sunset.  You have a sword, and I have magic.  We could break in, and destroy it.  And then we could run away.”

                “My lady…” he said.  It was illegal.  Every word of it was breaking a different law.  Every word in contradiction to everything he knew and had been trained.

                And then she laughed suddenly.  “A jest,” she insisted, laughing, but the laughter did not touch her eyes.

 

                Of course it couldn’t have been that easy, Kylie reflected.  No, it would have been too simple.  She may have been able to pay off guards, if she offered a high enough price, but her uncle had chosen well in Fenris.  Money didn’t tempt him, for he did not have real knowledge of the value of money, save perhaps from what he had heard when his master spoke.  A slave had no need of money, after all.

                She had offered him freedom instead:  The greatest gift she could think of.  And he had refused her, just like that damned canary.

                She rode back sullen, and near to tears at the thought.  Danarius put that man on a leash.  He ordered him to kill and maim people.  He had sold him to other magisters to slake their lust upon him.  All of that, and more, and he had refused freedom?  How?

                How could he?

                But she remembered the canary in the cage, and how it had been afraid of her hand.  Was that it?  Did he not trust her?  He had known her since she was a child.  How could he not trust her?  Surely, he had seen enough of her character.  Surely, he had known her to be true in her ambitions?

                It made her want to cry, thinking about it.  She had opened the door of his cage, and he had barely looked at it.

                She needed to find the stick to prop the door open.  She needed to find the rock to force him from the cage.

                To force a lot of slaves from their cages, if possible.

                As they went back into the city, passing between the golems, she changed direction, into the poorer districts of the city.  Fenris stuck close to her then, and she understood why.  But she had done this before, after all.  She dismounted her horse, and took a rabbit from her hawk’s kills, and gave it to a poor woman with two children.  The woman blessed her, and Annalkylie kept walking.  She searched for the saddest, the most decrepit.  She saw a begging boy in an alley, dimwitted and ugly, covered in filth.  He was too weak to go to a better district to beg, but he still tried to smile.  No one noticed him in this place—no one but her.  To him, she gave a fish, and she only kept going.

                She gave away each of her hawk’s kills in turn, until there was nothing left.  To the last, a family of elves.  Slaves, she assumed, by their manner.  Either escaped and could not get far, or else their master had died somehow and they fled when the estate was being fought over.  It happened, and the mother wept when she gave them the pheasant.

                Annalkylie smiled back at Fenris, who was watching her as if he had never seen her before.

                It was interesting how many allies and friends could be bought for a dead bird.  How many informants, how many letter-carriers who were stalwart in her defense.  Who loved her for her kindness, and would not betray her for it.  Coin did not do that to a person.  But food to the starving, and a kind heart to those downtrodden—that could go far.

                It was only something she had learned, not something she had gone looking for.  That it coincided with her ultimate goals was something else entirely.

                Deep down in her heart of hearts, she wanted to do away with slavery, with alienages too.  She wanted to do away with the different ways people treated one another—be they from race or class.  She wanted everyone to be free, for everyone to have the same opportunities as everyone else.

                And things were starting to fall into line.

                She was to be fit for her wedding gown a few months from now.

 

                Shaislyn observed Vanessa, and listened patiently to her lecture.  She had been the woman who had convinced her superiors to buy him.  Of course she was a mage, and had been eager to learn his ability from him, but he hadn’t been able to teach it to her.  He had tried, and she had tried as well.  It wasn’t for lack of trying, or even a lack of him explaining it well enough.  He explained it to the best of his ability, and more so.

                The two had eventually concluded that Vanessa relied too much on her eyes, and she did not trust what her magic saw, but rather what her eyes told her.  As a consequence, she would never be able to see with her magic for the very reason that she saw with her eyes.

                “ _This_ is a collar that the Qunari put on their mages,” she said with distaste, dropping the item into Shaislyn’s hands.  He looked at it, running his hands over it the same way he might have if he were truly blind.  It was lightweight, and bendable, and did not seem wholly remarkable, in fact.  His lack of astonishment must have shown, for she raised an eyebrow.  “Put it on.”

                Shaislyn only shrugged, and snapped it around his neck.  To his horror, his world suddenly went dark again.  His magic was not cut off exactly, but out of his reach.  He was blind again, well and truly blind, as if he had never learned how to see.  His hands went to the collar, and he fought with it in an effort to get it off.  It wouldn’t come off the same way.  Panic seeped into him.  No— _No!_   He couldn’t bear to see the world in all its brilliance, only to have that ripped away from him.  It would have been better to never have seen it at all.  “Vanessa—you _have to get it off!”_ he screamed, but that wasn’t what came out of his mouth.  The words he said were garbled and unclear, as if he were gagged.  His hand covered his mouth in horror.  He trembled, and he heard a clicking sound.  The collar fell into his lap, and he breathed in relief, and reactivated his vision spell.  He had begun to rely on it an awful lot since then.  But he honestly didn’t know how a person functioned without the ability to turn it on and off as it pleased them.  He didn’t think he would ever relax enough to fall asleep if he didn’t have that ability.

                Vanessa was looking at him, a sad smile on her face.  “Horrible, isn’t it?” she said quietly.  “It turns the best of us into helpless children.  And you…”

                “Would be blind again,” he finished, still shaken.  He held the device in his lap with a newfound respect, and fear.  Worse,  this would plague his nightmares, he knew.  This is what real people were going through right now.  This is what the Qunari did to their mages, and they thought nothing of it.  Worse, they thought it _necessary_.  “How could they…?”

                The woman plucked the cruel thing from his hands, and set it on the desk behind her.  She was holding a short rod.  “Why do you think we are waging this war?” she said gently, and took a deep breath.  “So don’t let them get one of those near you, child.”  She showed him the short rod.  “This is a control rod—the _Saarebas—_ have a sort of handler who carries this.”

                She went through the rest of the items on the desk.  More mundane things, nothing compared to the frightening collar that had made him feel so helpless.  A few Qunari weapons he should familiarize himself with, but the painted symbols she showed him were more important to remember.

                She dismissed him for the day after the lesson, with a small errand.  He finished his errand, and went down to the yard, watching the other slaves spar.  He strode up to the instructor, and looked up at him.  “Teach me the sword,” he said to him.

                The man looked down at him.  “Why do you want to know the sword, boy?  You’re a mage.”

                They had put him in robes since he came here, and everyone saw him practicing magic with Vanessa.  He only looked at the big swordsman.  “I’ve experienced what it’s like to be helpless and without magic.”  He paused, swallowing.  “I never want to be helpless again.”

                The man nodded.  “Good enough for me.  Talk to your mistress,” he told him.

                Shaislyn nodded, and shivered again, his hand going to his throat.  He found Vanessa in the study they usually had lessons in.  She was reviewing a document.  She smiled when she saw him; she always did.  “Shaislyn?  Didn’t I give you the rest of the day off?”

                He smiled back at her.  “You did,” he answered.  “I’m requesting more lessons.”

                She laughed.  “You know I spoil you, don’t you?” she asked him, tousling his hair affectionately.

                She was the mother he had never had, in truth.  Vanessa was human, but she was kind and affectionate, and not at all like the stories Lura and Varania told of the magisters.  But they said Vanessa was a magister herself.  He wasn’t so sure.  The magisters they spoke of were evil and greedy and cruel.  Vanessa had never been anything but kind.  “I want to take up sword lessons,” he told her, getting right to the point.

                She was amused by this.  “Really now?”

                He nodded seriously.  “Yes.”

                “A mage with a sword,” she said with mild delight.  “Oh my.”

                “I think I’d look quite dashing,” he bantered.

                She laughed again.  “Dashing,” she agreed.  “Oh, all right.  Maker knows I don’t have enough time for you anyway.  So go pester old Ser Taggart.  But only when you’re not doing something else.  And you be careful.”

                “Yes, Mistress,” he said.

                Her reed thin lips curved into a warm smile.  “’Vanessa’ is my name, little one.”

                He frowned at her.  “Mistress, why are you always so kind to me?” he had to ask.  She had never once struck him, never once said a harsh word to him, or treated him like how Lura had warned him about in her attempt to talk him out of this.  Had she been making it all up this entire time?  Vanessa was just nothing like the stories.

                She glanced at the door, and sat down in her chair.  She looked down, then back at him.  “I had a baby once,” she told him.  She smiled softly.  “A beautiful baby boy, and a husband.  My husband went to war and never came back.  And then my baby took a chill.”  She looked away.  “He’d be about your age now.”

                Shaislyn’s face contorted into an expression of sorrow and sympathy.  Everyone he knew had lost something in the war.  “I’m sorry, Mistress.”

                She leaned forward, and ruffled his hair again.  “Nonsense.  If I had a husband and a child, I’d be on the mainland right now.  And Maker knows I hate court.”  She rose.  “Off you go—I want to see you covered in bruises tomorrow morning from the wooden sword.”

                He smiled, for her more than anything, and took his leave.  He told old Master Taggart that Vanessa had allowed him the lessons, and the master of swords wasted no time in getting him in padded leathers with a wooden sword.  There were other boys too, and he was put to train with the youngest of them—being little younger than himself.

                It was hard for the first few days.  The others mocked him—nothing he hadn’t heard before really, but it hurt all the same.  They mocked him for his half-elven blood, and for his blind eyes.  They told him that he was a mage, and mages didn’t use swords, and they sought to drive him from the practice grounds, if not by force, then by cruelty.  He ended up covered in bruises, but he was getting better at delivering his own bruises.  He studied.  His magic lessons came first, but the sword lessons came easier to him.  Vanessa told him that it was because of his vision.  If he could learn to move without limiting his vision, nothing would ever hit him.

                But magic came to him at a snail’s pace compared to the physical training.  Vanessa was never disheartened by this.  She assured him that his real strength was in the ability he already had, and they both knew why he had trouble casting.  The spell of his vision required a constant flow of mana, draining nearly all he had at his disposal.  Other spells were secondary to him, and came only with more effort.

                But the sword lessons gave him something to do with his dull afternoons, even if he hated the way the others mocked him.  Their mocking laughter and the ridicule drove him to try harder, and he made it his goal to give each of them a bruise by the end of the lesson.  He didn’t always succeed.  He didn’t always win.  But he always improved.

                He never wanted to be helpless.  He knew, deep down, he would never be half the mage Vanessa was.  Nor half the mage his mother was, or his unknown father.  No, he struggled to light a candle.  He was a mage, but all of his mana went towards sustaining his vision, so he had to have something else.  The only thing left he could think of would be the sword.

                The books Jameson had were only theories—brilliant theories, but theories.  He had mentioned them to Vanessa, and also that he thought Jameson might be Chasind.  She had told him that the Chasind were known for harboring “witches” and “shapeshifters”.  Though she didn’t know if any of it were true.  She encouraged him to experiment, as ever she did, but he watched tons of birds and other animals, and never learned enough to take their form.  But maybe that was for the same reason that he had trouble casting magic—he just didn’t have the mana after the spell for his sight.

                So, to compensate, he studied the sword.

 

                The magister leaned against the window frame, looking down at his garden.  His gaze wandered farther, to the training yard.  He watched the boys practice with interest, like he always had.  And why not?  He would sink substantial amounts of money in the games, so why shouldn’t he be interested in his own investments?

                “Fenris,” he said, barely turning his head.  He took another sip from the cup.  The wine was a vintage from Orlais—it had just come in off the docks early this morning, and of course he had to try it.  “Look in the yard.”  The elf stepped forward, and looked, but the magister wondered if he were looking at the same thing.  “Do you see the boys down there?”  He gestured with his cup, and took another sip.

                Fenris looked at them, and was silent for a moment as he tried to decipher what his master wished of him.  “Yes,” he answered.

                Danarius stared down at them, and was silent for a long moment as he thought about a dark-haired child wielding a wooden sword that was almost too heavy for him.  “When you were a child, I’d watch you from this window,” he commented.

                He noticed that Fenris suddenly looked up, his eyes getting a little wider.  _Ah, so desperate for information about your past, aren’t you, my pet?_

                The mage’s eyes flicked back to the yard.  “You were easy to spot, because of your hair.”  He took another sip from the cup, but carefully never mentioned that Leto’s hair had been black as ebony, black as the Black Divine’s obsidian.  “When I bought you…”  He frowned to himself.  “Bought” wasn’t the right term, but he decided to go ahead with it anyway.  “—I was never sure if I wanted you in the house, the yard, or a brothel.”  He glanced at him.  “You could have fit into any of them.”  He smirked, but Fenris seemed so starved for information about his past that he completely missed the slight.  “I was still on the fence about the issue, but I saw you beat two other boys with a stick, and I made my decision.  Seems it was the right one, wouldn’t you say?”

                Fenris looked at him—past him was more accurate—his eyes had the look of a starving man.  “If you say so, Master,” he said hollowly, though his eyes betrayed him.  They always had.

                Danarius looked back at the yard, and was silent for a moment.  Did he dare to go on?  Did he dare test the limits of the memory loss?  It had been years.  It was well grounded.  There was no going back from it, not after this long.  He was willing to bet that he could tell Fenris his real name, and he still wouldn’t regain his memories.  He might have a few years ago, but no longer.  The time had passed.  “I once asked your mother why an elf would want to wield a great sword, when your kind are so much more suited to other weapons.”

                He saw Fenris’ pretty green eyes moisten, just a little, his lips parted the smallest bit.  His poor pet.  The magister paused.  “Is this too much for you, my pet?” Danarius asked him.

                Fenris seemed unable to speak for a moment, then shook his head.  “No, Master, I…  I just…”

                Danarius finished the wine, and turned from the window.  “Perhaps I should stop.  Another time, perhaps,” he said.  His back to Fenris, he smiled and set the cup down, and counted the seconds.

                “Please…” the elf began.  _Three,_ the magister thought.  “Would you tell me what she said, Master?”

                His fingers trailed idly around the rim of the cup, and he sat down in the chair.  “Perhaps,” he answered.  He debated briefly on another cup of wine, and decided against it.  He leaned back in the chair.  “Do you want to know?”

                The elf didn’t even hesitate.  “Yes,” he answered.

                Oh, what could he make the elf do for this bit of information?  Suddenly, he knew.  “Draw the shades.”  Fenris did so.  “Before me, on your knees.  When you’re done, I’ll tell you.”

                The elf hesitated, and realized he had a choice.  Danarius watched him take a step backwards, away from him, watched the indecision on his face.  He looked away, and shook his head.  “I don’t need to know, Master,” he decided.

                “Fine.  Get on your knees anyway,” he ordered him.  Fenris obeyed, but looked somewhere on the verge of tears.  _It’s not fair, is it?_

                But Fenris had become a talented whore, and an obedient slave.  He could have gone to the pleasure house—him and his almost nonexistent gag reflex.  When he finished, the magister adjusted his robes, and watched Fenris wipe his mouth and stare at the floor.  “When’s the last time you’ve been to the yard?” Danarius asked him.  When Fenris had to think about it, he knew he needed to send him.  “Go.  Get someone—maybe a couple people—to train with you.  I don’t want you gaining weight or getting lazy.  Dismissed.”

                Fenris rose, and walked to the door.  Something nagged at the magister.  “Fenris,” he called suddenly.  The elf turned back toward him.  “Your mother.  She said—with some reluctance, I recall—that your grandfather wielded a two-handed sword.  Like you.”

                Danarius watched the elf’s alien eyes fill with unshed tears.  He bowed low.  “Thank you, Master,” he said.  His voice did not waver.  He left, but a little too quickly.

 

                The garden was strictly off-limits, and the servants wouldn’t let anyone through it—except maybe the magister.  Some large project of theirs.  Unfortunately, it meant that Fenris had to go all the way around, behind the slave compound, through the second orchard, and be let through the wicker gate, down the alley, to the front of the manor when he was finished with practice.

                It was a bit irritating, truth be told.  He had only rarely been in the slave compound.  His master had no business there, and he had seemed to take special efforts to see that Fenris never interacted with any of them, or went there.

                But the path always felt oddly familiar when he walked up it.  He didn’t walk inside it, but he walked around it, his fingertips trailing along the uneven stone as he considered why it all felt so familiar.  Maybe he really had been his master’s slave all his life.  Maybe that was all it was.  Danarius had said…  He had said that he had bought him when he was a child.  He wondered if he had been a slave all his life?  He owned his mother as well.  He wondered if there were anyone else.  And was his grandfather a gladiator?  A slave soldier?  He wished he knew…

                He turned at the corner, and kept along the wall.  One of the stones was loose, and he paused.  For some reason, he picked at it, and when he knelt, he discovered that it would pull free.  A child’s hiding place?

                He looked inside, simple curiosity and boredom driving his actions—and a sense of nostalgia that he could never place.  Inside, he found two tiny figures.  His hand enclosed around them, and he pulled them out to look.  He opened his palm, and lifted the first one.  At first, it looked like a goat of some sort, and then he saw the tiny nubs where the horns had been—and when he looked at it, it seemed… off.  _A halla_ , he thought.  He had seen drawings of the creatures before—Danarius had a few in various different books.  Sometimes, he would leave them out, and open, and Fenris would have to put them away.  After all, he was his slave before he was his bodyguard.

                The other carving was some kind of dog, or…  _It’s a wolf_ , he realized.  The carvings were small, and crude.  They were worn smooth from years of handling, but the hole in the wall had nicely preserved them.  He guessed that the wood was walnut.  There was a walnut tree in the garden, so if these carvings had belonged to a slave child, maybe that was where the wood had come from—just a fallen branch, maybe scraped from the rubbish heap.  The pair had obviously been there for a very long time—they were covered in dust.

                He replaced the stone in the wall, but kept the carvings.  Why, he couldn’t say, except that a part of him liked them, even though they were small enough to be fully eclipsed by his hand and the work was crude at best.  There was just something about it that he liked.

                Forgotten, worn, broken toys—once relevant but now forgotten.  He felt that way sometimes.  He decided to keep the carvings.  Danarius had never forbidden him such things—he had simply never had them.  All the same, he resolved to keep them hidden.  That wasn’t to say that a servant wouldn’t find them eventually—maybe even report them to his master.  But for the moment, the little carvings were his own.  _Really_ his own.  The only thing that was truly _his_ and no one else’s.

                The small weight of them in his hand suddenly felt good.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was a lot of symbolism in this chapter: The wooden ring, some of the things people say, broken things, the two carvings Fenris finds that Leto left for him...
> 
> And, yes, I did, in fact, compare Fenris to a canary.


	59. Lost Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris continues a downward spiral into depression and Danarius delights in dangling his past in front of him without revealing any of it. Meanwhile, Shaislyn finds some acceptance from an unlikely source.

                The solution, of course, was obvious.  In fact, staring him right in the face day by day.  _Annalkylie._   Danarius’ niece was the perfect solution to his dilemma of what to do with Fenris.  The girl would not throw him into the coliseum, nor would she be likely to sell him off.  She seemed interested in him, so it was always a possibility that she might perform experiments on him, but that was acceptable enough in its own way.

                It would be socially acceptable for him to bequeath his prized possession to his mageborn niece, as well as suiting his own ends.  It was perfect in its simplicity.

                Satisfied, he stopped worrying about it, and made a mental note to make an adjustment to his will.

                The wedding would be the event of the century—two powerful mages wedding, two powerful Altus houses uniting.  The silks for Annalkylie’s dress were being woven right now, and a year from now she would wear it—in Seheron.  The two families agreed that with the recent defeats in Seheron, and the populace feeling poorly about the war, what with the defeat and the death, the perfect thing to bolster their spirits was a wedding of epic proportion.

                No expense would be spared:  Gifts, clothing, the scenery, the feast, music, performances—all of it and more.  And Seheron would host it.  Seheron, right on the war front.  Not only was it an affront to the Qunari—a celebration, something they did not even recognize—but it would hearten their fine soldiers.

                Of course every precaution would be taken.  Ships would be in the harbor, the guard on the wall doubled. The gates would be closed for days to travel, just in case.

                All would be well, and it was precisely what was needed.

 

                Fenris stood perfectly still while the woman used a string to measure him.  All of him, apparently.  She measured every part of his torso, making notes in a book, next to a sketch his master approved of.  She measured his arms, even his neck, and then moved down to his legs—that required even more measurements.  She spent a good half hour just measuring everything that could possibly be useful, and then it was off to the armory.  Danarius was having him fitted for armor—something lightweight but useful, and visibly appealing he imagined.

                His master did nothing by halves.

                Before the measurements, she and his master had spent nearly an hour going over a large book of fabrics, discussing textiles as well as shades and dyes.  He could think of few things that were less interesting.  Danarius seemed to take more interest in what Fenris was wearing than what he himself was wearing—to the wedding, that is.

                He hadn’t been _told_ about it specifically, but it was difficult to not hear about it when everyone around him was talking about it.

                At least Fenris wasn’t going to be in one of those serving outfits—he was quite satisfied with that knowledge.  No—each slave who would be there was handpicked for beauty, grace, and poise.  And, since the groom’s house colour was blue and gold, each slave would have to have blue eyes and blonde hair.  Fenris was automatically disqualified.  He wondered how this could not be an affront to the bride, however—considering that Kylie herself was a blonde, blue-eyed woman.  But that was none of his business.

                However, he would be present in the attendance of his master, as a bodyguard.  _At least I won’t have the leash_.  He would have to stand too far back to make that justified.

                But ever since that night, suicide had continuously crept into his thoughts.  It came unbidden and at a moment’s notice.  Maybe at the sight of the leash and collar, maybe when his master laughed at a cruel jape, or spoke of the maleficarum that dominated the Circle and thus Tevinter.  Sometimes, he poured wine, and thought about the slaves that had made it and their suffering, and his thoughts again drifted to suicide.

                He thought about all the ways he could kill himself.  He could throw himself over a balcony.  Maybe if he fell just right off of a horse—people died from that all the time.  Sometimes, he thought about it when he cared for his sword.  The blade was so sharp, and his flesh only so deep.  If he cut himself badly enough, it would be a matter of minutes.  Sometimes, he thought about hoarding all the alcohol his master gave to him, and drinking all of it before a bath, and just letting himself drown.

                But he never did any of those things.  He never even tried.  That night that Danarius had talked him down from the ledge had been the last time he had the courage to try, and even then, he had been uncertain enough to come down.  Suicide was just… so permanent.  And he didn’t really _want_ to die, not when it came down to it.  He wanted to live.  He just didn’t want…

                He didn’t want the leash and collar.  He didn’t want those horrible serving outfits.  He was terrified of being ordered to his master’s bed again.  Danarius had wanted him, and he had him, fully and in every meaning of the word.  Somewhere in Fenris’ mind, he knew that if he tried, he could have stopped him.  He could have rebelled and fought, and maybe stopped it from happening at the very least.  Did that mean, somewhere, deep down, he had wanted it?  Perhaps not interpreted as a perverse sexual desire, no, but perhaps he felt he _deserved_ something like that to happen to him.  He had had a hand in the murder of a child, helped Hadriana torture and punish people, witnessed Perya’s rape and did nothing.  Didn’t he _deserve_ punishment?

                _I didn’t want it!_ Fenris wanted to scream.   _Then why didn’t I do anything?  Why didn’t I try to make it stop?_   He already knew the answer:  Because Danarius was his master and no matter how much he wanted it to stop, he could not disobey him.  It would be like… like refusing to breathe, or sleep.  It was so much a part of him that there could be no other way.  Yet he still wanted it to stop.

                But how could any of that stop except to die?

                Those thoughts bothered him, more than he cared to think about.  It was distracting, and he knew he needed to put an end to those ideas.  He needed to concentrate more on what he was doing now, not on his thoughts and feelings about it; that was secondary.  What was important was his master’s desires.  His own were a distant second, if at all.

                That thought gave him pause.  _My own desires_ …

                He shook the thought off.  It was useless to think about himself at all, when he didn’t matter.  It was worthless to think about what he hated or didn’t want, because that didn’t matter.  He knew nothing else.  He couldn’t for a moment imagine it any other way.

                He looked at people who were not slaves—even the poor—and couldn’t understand how they lived.  How could they… do anything with their lives, without someone else making their decisions?  How could they make their own choices?

                Danarius had begun to frequent the slave markets.  He usually brought Fenris, and for some reason, they made him uncomfortable.  He reasoned that he just disliked the starved looks on their faces, the air of desperation and overwhelming despair.  Danarius had so far rejected all the wares, though, and after the fourth trip in as many months, he finally told Fenris what he was doing.

                “I’ve decided that I want you bred,” he told him, though reminded him was more accurate.  Fenris supposed that he had willingly pushed the memory from his mind.  Inwardly, the elf was in turmoil.  _Bred_?  He wanted him to get a woman with child?  For reasons he could only begin to fathom, the thought filled him with dread—and images of Perya being raped.  Outwardly, he barely blinked.  “You’ve been very good, pet.”  His master smiled, as if pleased.  _Yes.  I’ve never disobeyed you—not once.  I’ve never done anything to deliberately displease you.  All my life that I can remember, I’ve only tried to please you—even when you ask things of me that I hate.  And this is how you treat me?_   “So I’ve a mind to reward you, after all.”

                Fenris felt ill.  A reward?  He thought of this as a reward?  A reward would be allowing him to get to know another person.  He was… incredibly lonely.  He didn’t want a mate.  He wanted… just someone to talk to sometimes, someone who would listen.  But he said nothing, and tried to keep his face blank, and knew he failed.

                “You seem displeased, my pet,” Danarius commented.  “Why?”

                The slave stared down at his feet for a moment and chose his words with care.  “I am… surprised is all, Master.”  He thought of how Perya had slapped him, how she had stumbled when she walked.

                The magister had an expression on his face that said, plainly, that he did not believe him.  “Ideally, I am looking for a perfect physical match for you.  It is proving… more difficult than I would like, so it could be some time still, my pet.”

                Fenris was inwardly relieved to hear it.  Outwardly, he only nodded.

 

                Shaislyn led Vanessa down to the docks.  The sailors he knew waved, but were silent—likely from the magister’s presence.  He waved back, and said hello to Nora.  He continued on, and he went down the alley.

                The day was muggy out, and threatened to rain.  It had been raining off and on for the past few days, and puddles had formed along the streets.  Since he had been sold, Vanessa had decided that he would wear shoes.  When he wondered why, she had smiled and told him that the fort was a big place with a lot of shrapnel, and it was unbecoming for him to limp about bleeding all over the stone if he cut himself on something sharp.

                It was better for swordplay, too—because the other boys were not above stepping on one’s toes given the chance.  Taggart sometimes looked at him oddly, as if he were trying to piece something to together.  Shaislyn thought very little of that, because people so often looked at him strangely, but perhaps one day, he would ask about it.

                In the meantime, though, Vanessa wanted to meet old Jameson, and Shaislyn saw no harm in introducing them.  Jameson was a Circle mage, after all—just the sort with no ambition and proud of it.  “Jameson!” Shaislyn called, realizing that he was excited to see the old mage.  He hadn’t seen him in months.  It would be good to get to see him again.

                He went up to the ramshackle hut that leaned against a wall.  He knocked loudly, and peered inside.  He wasn’t there.  He started to frown, but realized that he may be buying food or something.  He turned back to Vanessa.  “Maybe he’s buying food,” Shaislyn offered.

                “Yes, perhaps,” the magister agreed.  For all her rich dyes and fabrics, she looked not at all uncomfortable at the docks.  “Come—I want to go down to the market.  We’ll visit here again on our way back.”

                Shaislyn hurriedly agreed to that idea.  The magister led the way to the market square, and she found a book seller’s stall, where she contentedly browsed the wares.  When she saw him watching her, occasionally sighing, and shifting about impatiently, she reached into her purse.

                “I’ve a bit of a sweet tooth today, so why don’t you go to the candy maker?  I think I’d like some rock candy,” she told him, a small smile about her thin lips.  She handed him a whole silver piece.  “Maybe some of those little honey cakes too—I like those with tea.”

                Shaislyn’s eyes got as big as a gold sovereign.  “I…  Yes, ma’am.”

                “Run along, and take your time.  No need for you to hurry and drop everything,” she pretended to scold him.

                “Yes, ma’am,” he called as he dashed away from the stall.  It had begun to rain, but it was light, and the air was warm.  He actually liked it.  The rain was rejuvenating and fresh, and made him think of purity, like it was washing the world of its sins and stains.  But maybe he felt that way because he was a bastard.  No amount of water would cleanse _that_ stain.

                But maybe he could redeem his birth one day, if he worked hard enough.  Maybe one day, he could be something more than a blind bastard child.

                Shaislyn had grown up with everyone around him telling him “no”.  Not to be cruel.  They meant it out of love, really—but always “no”.  Always saying that he could not do such things, because it wasn’t possible, because it was dangerous, because they were afraid he would hurt himself.  All of it was because he was blind or half elven.  He had heard that most half-blood children tended to look more human than elven, but not Shaislyn.  Rather, he looked like an odd combination of the two—entirely too obvious what his breeding was, to everyone.  He had once heard his grandmother comment to Lura that it had been his sister that was born human, as if she had taken all the most human traits from both of them, and left him with the remnants of the elven traits.  Not that it was much, granted.  He could still pass for human most of the time, and it would be easier on him if he completely denied elven heritage, but he refused; he identified more with being elven than human.

                Other children did not have to be watched constantly by adults, and he had resented it.  He hadn’t understood that he was different than they for such a long time, after all.  He couldn’t have understood it.  They could not explain what sight was to the blind.  He had not been able to truly comprehend that other people could _see_.

                He could see now, but still he encountered things he was told that he could not do.  He wanted to prove them all wrong.  He _would_ learn the sword—two swords.  He wanted to duel-wield swords.  He had seen an older elf doing that, and they had looked so beautiful and graceful.  He wanted to be useful.  He would like to fill someone else with the same inspiration and awe that he had felt when he saw Vanessa cast a spell, or when he saw the experienced soldiers sparring.

                On his way to the candy maker, he got distracted by a trinket shop, and milled about in the crowd, clutching the silver coin in one hand tightly.

                “Shai!” a voice called.  He turned in the direction of the voice, and grinned, waving.  Lura came up to him, and despite that he was almost eight now, she swept him off his feet, holding him tightly.  His mother was close at Lura’s heels, and her eyes were wet when she saw him.

                He looked up at them both when Lura set him down.  “Did… Did it help?” he had to ask.  “You paid off the debt, right?”

                Varania blinked, and the tears dripped down her face.  She knelt, and threw her arms around him.  He felt that it was terribly embarrassing.  “Shai…  Oh, Shai…”

                He sighed, and wished that she would let go of him.  Mothers…  “Mama— _let go_!  You’re squeezing me in half!” he complained.

                She hugged him tighter in response.  “No,” she insisted.

                Lura laughed, and he stared up at her, scowling.  “Are you on an errand?” Lura asked him gently.

                Shaislyn nodded, though could not move with how tightly his mother was hugging him.  “Yes—and I need to finish it!” he whined.

                Varania reluctantly let go of him.  “Can we walk with you, then?” she asked him, and he felt like they intended to no matter what he said, so he nodded.  He led the way.  “Where are you going?”

                “The candy shop,” he answered, and flashed the silver coin.  “Magister Vanessa said she’d like some cakes—and rock candy.”

                Varania frowned.  “You’re a mage, and they have you running errands like that?”

                Shaislyn made a face.  “ _We_ were running errands.  She’s looking at books, and gave me a coin to go to the candy store.”

                Lura laughed.  “Oh, I see,” she said.

                “Shai… are you doing well?” Varania asked him.

                He glanced back at her.  “Yeah, I’m fine,” he responded.  “They make me bathe more often than I like.”

                “More than once a week?” Lura gasped, hiding a smile behind her hand.  “Your skin must surely fall off in clumps!”

                Shaislyn felt like he was being made fun of.  “I don’t _need_ a bath every day,” he protested.

                Varania stroked his dark curls.  “Your hair feels nice, though.”

                He jerked his head to the side.  “Hey!” he said, regretting hailing Lura when he had.

                “You look well,” his mother told him.

                He supposed he must.  Bathing frequently, wearing the wool and linen that the military used.  His clothes were mostly just things that the others had outgrown, but they were clean and in well enough repair.  He was used to hand-me-downs.  And the boots—those too.  “Yeah.”  But they hadn’t answered _his_ question.  “Why are you in the market?”

                Lura lifted her basket, partway filled with potatoes.  “Shopping,” she responded.

                Why did adults always dodge his questions?  Or give him such stupid answers?  They asked him questions, and expected detailed responses, but didn’t answer his own the same way.  It was hardly fair.  He pushed open the door to the candy maker’s shop.  A dwarven woman and her husband manned the counter.  She was mixing something in a bowl, and he had the look of a man who was his own best customer.  There was no one else in the shop, so Shaislyn strode up to the counter, and put the coin down.  “I’d like some rock candy, and some honey cakes, please.”

                “Equal amounts of each?” the man said, not unkindly.

                Shaislyn frowned, and considered that.  The rock candy was nice, but the honey cakes were nicer.  “I bet your mistress would prefer more honey cakes,” Lura offered, and smiled warmly at the proprietor.

                The child nodded in affirmation.  “Yeah.”  So they worked out portions, and the packages were weighed, and he took his silver, leaving Shaislyn with a big bundle of cakes and rock candy, and a few coppers left over.  Varania gently lifted one of the packages from his hands, so he could better balance the other.

                “I’m sure your… mistress… will be wondering where you are,” Varania said uncertainly.

                Shaislyn shrugged.  “She was looking at books.  She spends _hours_ looking at books,” he told her.

                Lura said, “Are you learning a lot there?”

                The child nodded enthusiastically.  “Yeah.  The magister teaches me about magic, and…”  He realized that he should say nothing about the Qunari.  “And I’m learning the sword too.”

                Varania stumbled, but dropped nothing.  “Oh,” she said.

                The child looked at her for a moment.  Had he said something wrong?  “I really like it.”

                The two women exchanged looks that the boy did not understand.  “Your uncle learned to wield a sword when he was a little younger than yourself,” Varania told him.

                He was excited to hear that.  Varania almost never spoke about her brother, except in hushed whispers to Lura, and she always seemed sad to speak of it.  “Really?  I’m learning with two swords.”

                “He favors two-handed weapons,” the mage continued, but as if she weren’t really listening.

                That impressed the child—something like that had to be enormous, especially for an elf.  “What’s his name?” Shaislyn asked.  But at that, the two fell silent again.

                Lura said instead, “Where’s your mistress?”

                The half-elven child knew when his questions were being avoided.  He let it go, and nodded toward the bookseller.  Sure enough, she was still there, and seemed to be haggling about the price of a particular volume.  He had best leave her alone for a few minutes at least.  “Over there.”

                “Vanessa?” Varania said aloud.

                Shaislyn blinked.  “You know each other?”

                Varania sort of shrugged.  “I know her from when I have to go to the Circle.  But not well.  We never… talk.”

                Shaislyn did not inquire.  Rather, he started walking up to the magister, and stood just outside the stall, in the light drizzle, thoroughly relishing it.  The other two women were simply used to it by now.  He heard them whisper to each other.  Either they did not realize his hearing was sharp, or for whatever reason, they spoke of him.

                “He seems happy enough,” Lura said gently.

                Varania looked troubled.  “He doesn’t know any better.  That’s all.”

                “Is Vanessa cruel?”

                “I don’t… really know,” his mother admitted.  “She keeps to herself.”

                And Vanessa finished her haggling, and paid.  She turned to Shaislyn, and was surprised to see Varania and Lura.

                “Oh, who’s this?” she said, then looked closer.  “Varania—I know you.”  She looked at Lura.  “And you’re…?”

                Lura smiled, but it looked forced.  “Lura.  I’m a… family friend.”

                “The one that sold Shai,” Vanessa said, suddenly recalling.  Lura flinched.  Varania looked away.  The magister continued on as if it were nothing.  “Yes, I remember you now.”

                “Ah… we should be going,” Lura said, clearly uncomfortable.

                Varania suddenly nodded.  “Yes—I’ve got so much to do.  We had best be quick.”

                Vanessa blinked.  “Well, as you wish.  Varania, I’ll see you at the Circle next week.”

                The elven mage nodded.  “Yes.”  She looked at Shaislyn.  “Goodbye.”  She looked like she would say more, but was reluctant to do so for some reason.  She gave the packages back to him.  “Bye,” she said again.

                “Bye, mother,” he said.  She did not hug him again, or anything of the sort.  She glanced back once as the pair moved away.

                Vanessa had since acquired a sackcloth bag, and she reasoned that the candy and cakes would fit inside it with the books.  They fit, but it was a little snug, and Shaislyn was careful with it when he held it to keep from crushing any of the contents.  “I think we’ll have tea when we get back,” Vanessa said.  “You should learn to brew tea.  What use is a slave who can’t brew a good cup of tea?  And of course you’ll have to learn about tea before you can brew it properly—so you’ll have to drink as much as possible.  We’ll start today.”

                Shaislyn sighed deeply.  Another thing he’d have to learn.  There was so _much_ he had to learn.  Magic, and language, sword fighting, and now _tea_.  That seemed the most useless of all of it.  He made a face.  “What’s there to learn about tea?  It’s hot water with leaves in it.”

                Vanessa laughed.  “That just tells me that you’ve a lot more to learn about tea, but now I know where to start.  Now, let’s see if this Jameson of yours is home.  Shall we?”  They went back down to the docks, and along the pier.  They went back up the alley, and Shaislyn struggled to balance the package and knock at the same time.  Vanessa lifted the package from his hands graciously, and he knocked.  There was no reply, so he knocked louder after a moment.

                He called, “Jameson?”  There was no answer.  “Jameson!”  Where could he have gone to?  Surely he would be back by now…  He was never too far away, and never gone for very long.

                A washerwoman stopped when she heard him calling. “Boy,” the woman called.  Shaislyn turned to her.  “That old man passed away days ago.  Never would’a known, but for the smell.”

                The half-elf grew pale.  His throat felt tight, his mouth suddenly dry.  “Thank you,” Vanessa told her.  The woman nodded, and went back to her washing.  Shaislyn was staring back at the decrepit little hut.  How could that be?  How…?  He stepped inside, still too small yet to have to duck.  Shaislyn fell to his knees.  Why…?  His grandmother had died, his twin, and now Jameson too.  Who was next?

                He wondered if the books were still here.  They had been hidden under a loose cobblestone.  He pried at it, the dirt and grime getting under his nails, but the stone lifted free.  Under it, in a beaten and decaying leather sack, were the books.  He lifted the sack out.  There were no coins—the old man had kept those on his person, so they were undoubtedly looted.  But the books—most precious of his possessions—were still here.  Shaislyn hugged the bag close to himself, but knew that he was a slave, and had no possessions.  He _could_ have no possessions, save for what his mistress gave him.  So he would give her these books, and maybe he would be allowed to read them again one day.

                He gazed around the small shack with its low ceiling, his heart heavy.  It was vacant, but it didn’t feel like a place someone had died.  But he had died—alone and in poverty.  It made Shaislyn very sad at first, before he realized that it was precisely how Jameson had lived, and how he had been happiest.

                _He died as he lived_ , he thought, and somehow the thought made him feel better.  If one had to die, it was best to die as they had lived if they were happy alive.

                He emerged from the hut, still sad, but feeling better than he had when he had entered.  He proffered the books to the magister.  “Mistress.  These were Jameson’s.”

                She looked at them.  “Why don’t you carry them; my hands are full.”  She turned.  “Come on.  I’d like that tea.”

                He nodded numbly, and followed her back to the barracks.  They put the bundles in the little room they studied in, and she lifted out a small brazier from a shelf.  She had some charcoal, and sent him to fill up her tea kettle.  When he got back, she had selected a tea from a tin, and had two teacups sitting out, the honey cakes on plates.

                “Now, I’ll begin your education on teas,” she said, smiling wickedly.  He groaned, setting the kettle over the brazier to heat.  He stood, and listened to her lecture on the fine art of brewing tea, answering questions when she quizzed him to make certain that he was listening.  They were having a jasmine tea, and he was bored to death by the time she had finally brewed and poured it.  She offered disks of honey for sweetening, and sugar respectively.  She suggested the honey, though, so he put in a disk of honey and added a couple more after taking several sips.  He decided that he didn’t hate tea, but wasn’t particularly fond of it either.

                Lura had drank a lot of tea, he recalled, but she liked cool teas.  Varania had no taste for teas, but would drink it in preference to plain water when it came from the alienage wells.  Shaislyn had always preferred lemon water or juice when he had the option.

                The water here was much better though, even for slaves.  And he had regular meals, too.  He felt he had little to complain about, in truth.  The way that Lura and Varania had talked about slavery, he had thought he would be clapped in chains and fed gruel.

                “Have some honey cakes,” Vanessa said.  “There’s too many for just me, and it goes well with the tea.  You’ll have to learn what to serve with the teas, you know, so you’ll need to know from experience.”

                _More work_.  But work he enjoyed this time—he liked honey cakes.

                They finished their tea and cakes, and Vanessa rose.  “Put the books on the shelf, and take the dishes down to the kitchen to be washed,” she directed him.

                “Yes, Mistress,” he said, and cleaned up the dishes first.  He took the books—including Jameson’s—and put them on the shelves, scarcely glancing at the titles as he did so.  But as he went to grab the last book, he noticed that the newest addition to the bookcase did not belong.  He touched the cover, and pulled it back off the shelf.  He skimmed through it, and looked up.  “Mistress?”

                “Vanessa—I’m _Vanessa_ ,” she insisted, but walked over to him.  “Yes?”

                He held up the copy of _Orsweld’s Tales and Fables:  A Collection of Fantasy_.  “This one isn’t a book of magic or instruction,” he said.  “What shall I do with it?”

                Vanessa knelt, and looked at the title.  “Oh.”  She blinked, unconcerned.  “That silly bookseller must have put this one in by mistake.”

                Shaislyn frowned.  “I’ll go return it to him,” he offered.

                She laughed, and shook her head.  “Ah, no.  I paid more than some of these were worth—so I think we’ll keep it.  Tell you what—you take that one.  Keep it in your room.”

                He stared at the slender volume, and back at the magister.  “But…  I…”

                “And I’ll be quite offended if you don’t read it,” she told him, standing up, and striding back to her desk.  He looked back at the book, and set it aside, and put the last book on the shelf.  He picked up the empty sack, and the other book— _his book_ , he realized.

                He saw Vanessa take the rock candy, still in its packages, and simply place it in a drawer in the desk.  She gestured at the empty packages.  “Go throw this out, and put your book away.  We’ll be studying ice spells when you get back.”

                He nodded, holding his book close.  She moved away from her desk, and he picked up the trash, shoving it into the rotting leather bag.  He found the receipt for the books—something scrawled onto a piece of scrap paper in a flowing script that meant the man may also be a scribe.  He would have simply thrown it away, but for some reason, he skimmed it.  And, sure enough, _Orsweld’s Tales and Fables_ was written in the same script, right in between two other titles, with its price listed next to it.

 

                Fenris watched, out of the corner of his eye, his master making marks in the ledger he used to keep track of his slaves.  Every time he looked at the tome, he felt his knees get a little weak.  Everything he needed to know was in that ledger.  His real name, maybe his family…

                He just wanted to know who he had been.  That wasn’t such a large thing, was it?  The hole in his memory was painful.  How much of his life was he just… missing?  And the idea that, maybe, he had a family… someone who had cared about him…

                It was a bit much sometimes.

                His master finally finished, and called him to put the book back.  Fenris lifted it, and paused, staring down at the cover.  “Master?” he heard himself say, and regretted getting the man’s attention almost immediately.

                “Is there something you need, pet?” he said, not even looking up.

                “No…”  He hesitated, wondering if he should try to back out of it now.  He was afraid that Danarius would become angry, but…  He just needed to know so badly.

                The man looked up, more wrinkles in his face in the past few years, his dark brown hair tinged with gray.  “Fenris, what were you going to say?” he said, his voice dangerous.  If he wanted to, he could pluck the words right from his mind.

                Fenris glanced back at the book.  “Is my name in this book?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.  He knew the answer already; Danarius had looked up his age before in that book, and he wasn’t likely to forget that any time soon.  But which name?

                Danarius paused.  “Yes.”

                He looked at it, his eyes flicking back up to his master.  “Is my… the name I had before…”

                The magister’s face suddenly became unreadable.  He pushed the chair back, and stood up, as if stretching.  “Yes.”

                Fenris looked back at it.  His real name was somewhere in this book.  “Master, please, I…”

                The magister was walking around the desk, strolling really.  The magister looked at him, then backhanded him—hard.  His ring sliced into his cheek, cutting along the bone.  Fenris flinched, and stared downwards, ignoring the blood running down his face.

                “ _Never_ ask _anything_ about your past again, is that clear?” he hissed.

                Fenris cringed inwardly, wanting to back away.  He had never really done very much to earn his master’s wrath, but he had seen Danarius angry before.  It was something else to have that anger directed at him.  He wanted to shrink, to take back his questions, even the desire to ask.  He was angry with him.  _I’m supposed to be his slave.  He called me perfect.  I’m not being perfect now, am I?  He’s so angry with me…_

                Fear made his heart race—fear of angering his master, of failing his master.  “I’m sorry, Master,” Fenris said, and meant it.  “I won’t ask again.”

                “Don’t even think it,” Danarius said crossly.

                The magister glanced at the blood on his ring, and back at his slave.  “I’m sorry,” the elf said again.  _What right do I have to know, anyway?  My master doesn’t think I need to know, so I don’t.  It wouldn’t matter anyway._

                “I’ll let you choose your punishment,” the magister said, turning away from him.  “No less than five—lashes, I mean.  But take however many you think you deserve.”

                Fenris bowed once, and left.

 

                Hadriana looked up as the door opened.  She looked back down when she saw that it was Danarius.  She had all the windows in the library open to let in the breeze, and was going over the accounts on a big oak table with an abacus.  Normally, she would be doing accounts in the file room, but the library was her favourite room in the manor, and she really needed a change of scenery.

                Danarius strode out onto the balcony, and stood there.  She looked up, wondering what he was looking at.

                She went out, standing beside him.  “What are you…  Is that Fenris?”

                The magister smirked.  “Yes.”

                Hadriana watched in fascination as the whip cracked over his back—again and again.  The elf was tied to a post, more to keep him upright than anything else.  He was naked to the waist, head down.  The overseer had paused, stalking around him for a moment, maybe taunting him, maybe trying to guess if the elf were going to faint or not.  “What did he do?”

                “Asked about his real name,” Danarius said.

                “What is his real name?” Hadriana inquired.  There was another crack of the whip.

                The man blinked.  “Fenris,” he said bluntly.  “But… the man he was before the Ritual—his name was ‘Leto’.”

                Hadriana frowned.  “And you had him beaten for it.”

                He nodded.  “Yes.  It was out of line and extremely rude of him to ask.”  He paused.  “And I don’t want him knowing anyway.”

                She watched dispassionately as he was eventually unlashed from the post, and the elf just collapsed to the ground.  She smirked, secretly delighting in the entire episode.  “I’m surprised.  He’s usually so well-behaved, isn’t he.”

                Danarius frowned.  “Yes.  It’s… strange.”

 

                Danarius looked up when the door opened, then back down.  He listened to the elf limp, and resume his position, trying to keep his breathing steady.  His hair was damp, his skin drying—perhaps he had washed off the blood and perspiration.

                The magister looked up, observing his posture.  “You didn’t go to the infirmary.”  It was an observation, nothing more.

                Fenris blinked, mildly alarmed.  “I… you didn’t instruct me to, Master,” he said, his voice sounding a little hoarse.

                Danarius frowned.  No, he supposed he had not.  Fine.  “Come here.”  The elf limped over to him, back hunched.  He gestured with his finger for him to remove his tunic.  His slave did so, and the magister had him turn his back toward him.  “How many lashes, my pet?” he inquired, running a fingertip lightly over his back, down his spine.  The blood had been washed off, in the sense that Fenris had dunked himself in water afterwards, but he was bloody all the same.  His back was simply a network of lashes.

                “Twenty-five,” Fenris answered quietly.

                At least he understood the severity of his actions.  He couldn’t really ask for more, could he?  He did learn quickly.  The magister smiled to himself.  And he had been so concerned for a moment…  He drug a fingernail across one particularly nasty-looking lash, scraping along the torn flesh and muscle.  Fenris bit his lip hard to keep from crying out, but the magister saw his fingers curl, and he began to shake, his breathing shuddering.  He twisted a piece of hanging flesh on his back, looking at the lyrium that was more than skin-deep under it.  He twisted hard, and yanked the clump of flesh off of his back.  Fenris made a tiny sound of pain but did not otherwise move.

                The gob of flesh and blood in his palm began to smoke and crack, the blood on his back doing likewise. The magister reached out with his free hand, touching a vein of lyrium on his back.  The lyrium flared to life, brightening the room, and mingled with his blood magic, the way he had designed it to.

                He poured his healing talent into it, and watched the flesh knit back together as if it had never been rent.  He ran a hand down his perfectly unmarred back, the lyrium as perfectly done as the first day.  “The lyrium is all still there, in case you were curious, Fenris,” he told him.  He moved his hand to his hip, idly stroking his bare skin in the same manner one would stroke a dog or a cat.  “So long as you live, you won’t be able to get rid of it by trying to cut it off.  It might scar, but you will never be able to remove it while you live.”  He rose to his feet, his other hand moving up the elf’s back, over his shoulder.  “Do you want to know why?”

                Fenris looked down.  “Only if you want to tell me, Master.”

                Danarius smiled, the hand on his shoulder running down the lad’s arm.  _Good boy._   “Pet, do you have vivid dreams at night?”

                He swallowed.  “Yes, Master.  Often.”  Though he did not usually remember them.

                “This beautiful substance is why.”  He traced his fingers up to his shoulder blades, enjoying how smooth his skin was in comparison to the poured metal, and the hard muscle underneath.  “Lyrium exists in the Fade, and that is where your soul wanders when you sleep.”  His fingers touched the elf’s bare neck.  Fenris tilted his head, leaning almost pitifully into the barest touch—half-desperate for any kind of affection, or perhaps just trained well enough to know what his master wanted of him.  “During the ritual that made you this way, I wove the lyrium into your soul from the Fade as well.  So you see, pet…”  He pushed his palms flat against the elf’s back, the lyrium igniting, engulfing his slave completely.  “You can’t escape from it.”

 

                Varania had apparently fallen asleep at the table, over her work, for she woke to the sound of the door opening, and sunlight pouring in through the windows.

                The owner was a bit surprised to see her, but not overmuch.

                Varania straightened.  “I’m sorry—I’ll just… finish this up, Miss Johnis,” she said hurriedly.

                “Varania, wait,” she said, and sat down across from her.  Something about her demeanor made the mage still, and made her worry.  “You haven’t… been able to keep up with the work.”

                Her heart skipped a beat.  _No_ …  “I—I’ve been working so long, I…”

                She put a comforting hand on the girl’s arm.  “I know.  But I just… can’t afford to keep you if you can’t keep up,” she told her apologetically.  “I’m going to have to let you go.”  Varania was struck dumb, and found that she could not speak.  The woman rose, and went to her strongbox.  She unlocked it, and spoke as she did.  “I’ll pay you for your work, but you’ll give me your key, and I’ll have to see you out.”

                Varania finally found her voice.  “B-but, Myriel…”

                She looked nothing but apologetic.  “I’m sorry.  And I’m sorry about your mother, Varania.  I truly am.  But this is a business.”  She gave her a bit of silver, and a few coppers.  Varania found herself handing over her key, her heart caught in her throat.  What was she to do now?  The gold from selling Shaislyn was gone—gone to pay off their debtors, and on other expenses.  The two women’s clothing had been in tatters.  They had only bought more used clothing, but it had been necessary.  They hadn’t spent it frivolously, and that was what hurt the most.  But the rent had been raised, and the two did all they could to survive.

                The mage walked numbly back to her apartment, the coins pressed tightly in her palm.  It wasn’t enough.  She would need to find another job—and quickly.

                She sat in the old chair, and stared at the coins, and finally cried.  She had lost everyone dear to her.  All of her family was gone.  Leto was a slave, her mother was dead, her father she had never known, and her son she had sold for a few sovereigns.  She had thanked the Maker, though she scarcely believed in him, for being able to see Shai, and it was heartening to see him well-fed and cared for, but she worried about him all the time.  Leto had saved him, and wanted him to live.  Shai was all that was left of her family, when it came down to it.

                Had she been a good mother to him?  She wasn’t certain.  She knew there were things she could have done to be better for him, but she had been so young when he was born, so immature and naïve.  She had done as best she knew how, but knew in her heart that it had never been good enough.  That something was wrong with it.  Like perhaps she could have done more for him.

                She stared down at her hands and found herself thinking of Vellus.  She had thought…  Never mind what she had thought.  But she was lonely, and wanted someone to hold her and tell her that it would be all right, like when she was a child.

                He had kissed her, and told her that he loved her.  He had wanted to lie with her like a man and woman, but she had gently refused.  He had waited, and waited, and still thoughts of the rape drove her from a bed with him.  It had been inevitable when she saw him kissing another girl.  She did not confront him; she had known that it was over between the two of them for a long time.  But she had cried herself to sleep that night all the same.  It hadn’t hurt any less, even for the knowledge.

                A mage really couldn’t find love and happiness, could they?

                Sex scared her.  That had been all that it was.  She was afraid of being with a man.  She still remembered, all too vividly, the room.  The way she had cried as he thrust into her.  She felt like she had begged him to stop, but the words just tumbled from her mouth without conscious thought.  And the thought of a man— _any_ other man—thrusting into her and caressing her made her shiver with dread.  Vellus had not been able to tolerate it, and she doubted any other man would either.

                She didn’t know why she was worried about falling in love and having someone love her in return when she had other worries.  The rent, for one.  Feeding themselves, for another.  She still could get a few coppers for healings, but she wasn’t good enough at healing to make a real living off of it.  And, sure, she could make ice, and people would pay for that, but less than for a healing.

                She didn’t know what she could do, and at the same time, was afraid of what she would have to do to get by.

 

                _Wind likes the surf,_ Kylie thought to herself as she raced along the edge of the sea, the waves crashing against her horse’s ankles.  Wind was enjoying himself, and seemed half inclined to take her swimming, so she had to keep a good hold on the reins, lest the spirited animal get away from her.  She could control Wind with her feet and legs, if it came to it—the animal was responsive and well-trained and she considered herself to be a skilled rider—but she hoped it would not come to that.

                It was so _good_ to be away from Minrathous, with its stink of the city—the sewage and the filth, rotting food, the fish that came in from the sea, and the incense burning constantly throughout the city at an attempt to mask its stench the same way women caked on paint to mask their age, just as effective.  She could tell which district she was in by the smell.  Did it smell like sage and fish?  She was by the pier.  Did it smell like frankincense and fear?  She was in the slave market, the one just near the Chantry.  And the list went on.  Most of the magisters had their own particular incense.  Her uncle had a special blend, in fact—something subtle that he called _Roschelle_.  She had inquired as to the name—once—and he had given her such a look that she was sorry that she had asked.

                She kicked her heels into Wind’s side, and the horse gaily burst into a run, and deeper into the surf, then shied away at the larger waves, then darted back out again, chasing after the surf.  It was a fine game, and Kylie enjoyed it for what it was.

                From the corner of her eye, she spied a large bird soaring over the waves, and turned to look, trying to make out what sort of bird it was, then she stilled.  It wasn’t a bird.

                It was a dragon.

                She wheeled her horse to a halt, torn between petrified fear and fascination.  She had never seen a real dragon this close before.  Minrathous was littered with statues and mosaics them—carved with magic no less—but this was altogether different.  It soared high in the air—so high she had mistaken it for a large bird.  Now she just felt foolish for doing so.  It hardly had to flap its wings as it soared.  She wondered what it would be like to fly in the sky like that, to look down at the world and its petty problems, so far below her.

                Sometimes, if Wind ran fast enough, and she closed her eyes, she could pretend that she was flying, but being able to _see_ what that dragon saw… that would be amazing.

                Some magisters had dragons as something like pets.  None of those magisters were in Minrathous, though.  No, keeping something so large _inside_ the city would be… frowned upon.  But she had heard tales of them being kept in the countryside.  Orlesians kept wyverns sometimes too—and she imagined there was a magister or two that had those creatures as well.

                She imagined the way it would feel to have such a powerful creature beneath her, its mighty wings beating in the air.  She almost shuddered at the speculation.

                “My lady!” a voice cried, so faint she barely heard it; she was watching the dragon, who was slowly disappearing from view.  On a boat, it would be hours—days—before she traveled that far.  To the dragon, it was mere minutes.

                The wave knocked her out of the saddle, and she narrowly avoided being stepped on by Wind as the animal dashed away.  She tried to regain her footing but a second wave crashed against her, knocking her down again.  Then she was under the waves.  All around her, she felt like she was slipping, being pulled away.  She couldn’t touch the bottom.  A dim part of her mind realized that this was a drop off point.  How had she come so far already?  The rest of her only panicked at the thought of drowning.

                Her head broke the surface once, and she gulped in air, and fought down panic.  Panicking would get her drowned.  She had to calm, and think, and _swim._ Swimming had been something her mother had frowned at and disliked completely—primarily because Kylie had ruined many a piece of clothing in her watery adventures.  Still, she had felt determined to learn, and though she could have been better at it, she was no novice to the matter.

                So she found the surface, and wished she could easily pull off her boots; swimming in them was proving more difficult than she imagined it could be.  She struggled to break the surface again, before another wave pulled her down, and then the current had her.

                She felt like she was lost.  She would drown, tragic and too young, and there was nothing she could do about it.  It seemed so silly—so completely mundane.  Any normal person could die from drowning, but she was a mage.

                The water didn’t care.  It pressed around her, chilling her to the bone, and constricting around her.  She struggled for the surface, but could no longer tell which way was up.  She inhaled a lungful of saltwater, and choked and coughed on more of it.  Something grabbed onto her arm, and suddenly every tale she had heard as a child surfaced in her mind.

                Sea monsters—things that would grab her, eat her, drown her.  All kinds of creatures—things that dwelled in the deep, things with tentacles, claws, razor sharp teeth, and cold, cruel eyes.  She tried to scream, but her mouth only filled with more saltwater.  She lashed out, and kicked, and tried to summon a spell, but she was underwater.  The fire fizzled out.  The ice was misdirected at best, and the lightning didn’t even work.  And then she was so lightheaded that she could scarcely make the right gestures for the spells, and the thing drug her further.

                She imagined it was pulling her out to sea, farther away.  No one would even find her body.  It was going to eat her.

                Something lifted her from the water, and in her confused state, she couldn’t imagine why.  It hurt to open her eyes, but then she realized someone was holding her.

                She looked up timidly, suddenly ashamed for believing—even for a moment—in sea monsters.  “Fenris,” she breathed in relief.  “I thought…”  She broke off coughing up water.  He set her down in the damp sand, and held her hair back as she spit up violently.  When she had stopped, she tried to make her way up the beach, but fell against the elf instead, too dizzy and weak to make it.  She heard him say something, but it sounded so far away…

 

                Fenris carried the mage, unconscious, up to the shore.  He laid her down gently on the trampled grass, checked to make sure that she would be all right, and went to go find her damned horse.

                Wind, fortunately, liked Siren and had circled back to the destrier.  He led them both back to where he had left Annalkylie, and was pleasantly surprised to see her awake, though unhappy and shivering from the cold.

                Neither had thought to bring a blanket either, and he was just as soaked.

                She shivered, her hair dripping.  “Well, that was pleasant,” she said conversationally.  “Let’s do that again sometime.”

                “My lady, we should return to the city,” he suggested, ignoring her comments.

                She looked at him guardedly.  “So you can tell my uncle what an idiot I am, and affirm for him why I should have a dozen guards staring at me every waking moment?” 

                He said nothing.  What was there to say?  When they both arrived back at the manor, dripping wet, questions would be asked, and Fenris would never dream of lying about it, and Annalkylie knew that.

                Her lips curved into a pout, her arms crossing stubbornly.  “Well, I’m staying right _here_ until we’re both dry.”

                He glanced down at the stubborn mage, unimpressed and far from amused.  “You will catch a cold,” he reminded her, keeping his tone gentle.

                “Great thing about magic—it can cure that,” she said with a snort, then a thought seemed to occur to her.  She rose to her feet, and made a series of gestures with both hands, and held them close to the top of her head, slowly lowering her hands along her body.  It did not dry her so much as drain most of the moisture from her clothing and hair.  When she was done, a globe of water hovered in front of her.  She frowned at it, and seemed to shove it away, where it drained into the grass.  “I’d love a glass of wine right now.”

                He had gotten some of the saltwater in his mouth too, so that he could understand.

                She looked at him then.  “I never thought that spell would be particularly useful,” she commented.  “It just drains the moisture from something—it’s supposed to be used when books get wet or something.”  She paused.  “You remember when the vaults flooded in the manor a couple years ago?”  She smiled in memory.  “My uncle, Hadriana, and I spent ­ _three hours_ draining the water from all the books and scrolls down there—and half of them were still ruined.”  She laughed, but it faded quickly.  She shrugged.  “Your turn.”

                Fenris automatically stepped away, but could only go so far with both the horses just behind him.  “That’s… unnecessary,” he insisted.

                “What about catching a cold?” she huffed.  “Come on—just hold still!”

                He was extremely reluctant to allow such a thing to happen, and she seemed equally determined that it did.  In the end, Annalkylie won out, but only because she agreed not to play in the surf again.  “Your hair is a mess,” she said after it was done, running her fingers through her own self-consciously.  But his was twice the length of her own, and had come out of its braid somewhere in the surf.

                “I don’t have a comb,” he retorted, and started to turn to the horses.

                She darted ahead of him.  “I do,” she said, and fished about through a saddlebag, bringing out a mother-of-pearl comb with a triumphant smirk.  “We can’t have you return to your master looking as if I can’t take care of you.”

                He frowned, knowing full well that this was just because she didn’t want questions to be raised.  If no one asked, he would not tell the truth, after all.  Regardless, he took the comb and took his time brushing out his long hair, before she got bored, and took if from him, offering to brush it for him.

                “My sister has hair as long as yours,” Annalkylie said conversationally.  “Caleigh, I mean.”  Fenris offered nothing in terms of conversation, but the young mage seemed perfectly content to blather on anyway.  It was strange, actually.  She spoke to him as if he were just another citizen, not a slave.  As if he were truly… a person.  “My uncle sells your hair—doesn’t he?  To a wig maker, I mean.”

                “He does,” Fenris said without feeling.

                A pause.  “Do you like it long?”

                “I’m used to it.”

                By the way she sighed, she seemed dissatisfied with his answer, but moved on anyway.  “I don’t know why I bother to ask—I’ve heard the wig maker griping about when he’ll cut your hair again, so he can finish that wig.”  She was silent for a moment as she worked at a knot.  “You have such beautiful hair.”  She held out a lock of it.  “It’s not really white at all in the sun.  If I hold it just right, I can see all the colours in it.”  She sighed.  “Nothing like premature aging, not really.  But it’s why my uncle makes so much money off of your hair.”  She was silent for a long time then.  “The end result will be priceless… enough, I imagine, to compensate your master.”

                The sentence seemed unfinished.  Compensate him for what?

                She changed the subject slightly.  “Will my uncle be having your hair hacked off before my wedding, Fenris?”

                He kind of flinched as she struggled at another tangle.  “No.”

                “Shame.  It’d be nice to finish that wig, wouldn’t it?” she went on, leaving voids in this conversation that she was pretending to have with him. 

 

                Fenris had been sulking for weeks now.  It did not escape Danarius’ notice, and his solution to it was simply to keep the elf busy.  Standing about for hours and being ornamental was doing nothing to improve this sulky behaviour, but keeping him too busy to think about anything seemed to be improving it.  He had him drilled all day until he dropped at night, and after a couple of weeks of that, his attitude had more or less gone back to the blank but contented state it had been before.

                Danarius was a touch suspicious that Leto might actually be a better swordsman than Fenris, but that was sword only, not special abilities.  But that made sense.  Leto had trained since childhood.  Fenris may have learned things entirely too quickly, but it was wholly different.

                He had decided to stop frequenting the slave market; it was so much simpler to tell the merchants what he was looking for, and if they came across anything appropriate, to tell him.  So far, they had said nothing.  He was tempted to offer to pay more than he had said, but was concerned that they would only present him with fakes.  They would lighten their hair, or if he offered a high enough price, find glass eyes for their wares.  He _was_ offering a higher price for a slave that was more… pedigreed, but that was to be expected that he wanted a slave that was _tame_.  It would make it easier on Fenris in the bedroom if she were tame and subservient.

                He doubted Fenris would have it in him to just pin her to the bed and take her, and even if Danarius had her tied to it, and commanded him, that was no guarantee he would be capable.  They needed more than a command to elicit desire.  He could command many of his slaves to breed, but Fenris had not been conditioned for that.  He reflected that forbidding him from being with a woman or even a man certainly had not helped the matter.

                Mayhap he should revise that clause.  He considered it.  But that would mean relinquishing some of his hold on the elf.  No, he didn’t like that idea either.  He thought about it—momentarily—before he thought of a solution.

                Danarius looked up at the sword, mounted in the hall.  “Fenris—take the sword,” he told him, frowning in thought.  The elf barely blinked, and reached up on his toes to take it down, steadying himself with his fingers lightly pressed against the wall.  He lifted the large sword down with one hand, and then used his second to steady the blade, thinking to present it to his master.  Danarius shook his head.  “Hold it in your hand—as if you were to wield it.”  His slave obeyed, but had a questioning, confused look about him.  “Activate the lyrium in your skin.” 

                That had become very easy for Fenris, similar to when a mage touched their mana.  When the lyrium ignited, the sword lit up too.  Interesting.  Danarius looked at them both.  “It’s a Sword of Mercy,” the mage told him.  “They’re awarded to those in the Imperium who have served the greater good of the empire.”  He left unsaid that he had been awarded the sword for his work on Fenris.  “Put it back.”  _I’ve learned what I wanted to._   The light dissipated, and Fenris eased the sword back into its resting place.  The Silver Swords of Mercy were costly, and for what they meant, he coveted them.  The lyrium etched into them made them all the more valuable.

                But this was only the most recent of his collection.  He had acquired three more in previous years, but all through coin or cunning.  _This_ one was special, because it was truly _his_.  Each one was the slightest bit different, when he compared the four swords.  One of them was well over two centuries old, and its make was different as such.  Two of them bore the same mark—made by the same smith, or at least from the same smith’s forge, which was interesting because he had managed to find one at an auction house, and another one he had won in a bet—both in different parts of the country.  He had wagered the first Sword against the other—in a gladiatorial fight, in fact.  Leto had won him that Sword.

                He considered that.  For some absurd reason, he had an urge to give it to Fenris—a mockery of what he used to be.  And why not?  Fenris was already a mockery to the Qunari customs, to Dalish customs, so why not a mockery of what _he_ used to be as well?  And the poor thing would never even know nor realize it.  But, oh, he couldn’t just _give_ it to him.  No.

                That was it though.  Once he picked out a suitable mate for Fenris, when the bitch was carrying his bastard offspring, if that were even possible, then he would give him the Sword.  Appropriate, all things considered—and why they were awarded.  Speaking of which, he turned back toward his slave.  “Fenris.”

                The elf stopped, and looked up but not at him.  “Yes, Master?”

                Danarius looked at him.  “Perhaps I’ve been… harsh with you,” he said.  “And I’d like to revise something I’ve said before.”  Fenris blinked.  “Do you recall, my pet, that I expressly forbid you… company?”  He raised his eyebrow at the last word.

                The elf was momentarily confused, then blinked as he understood what his master meant.  “Oh.  Ah, yes, Master.”  He seemed uncomfortable to be mentioning it.

                “Indeed.”  He frowned for a moment, as if displeased with what he saw when he looked at Fenris.  The elf picked up on it almost immediately, and it made him uncertain and even anxious.  He was good at picking up nonverbal cues, the mage reflected, but didn’t understand wordplay at all.  But, then again, he rarely spoke or was truly spoken to at all.  He had no verbal finesse because he had no practice with it nor use for it. 

                Fenris’ expression changed to something between hurt and puzzlement.  “… Master?” he said, voice soft and uncertain.

                All this time, and his anxiety had never really gone away.  He desperately sought approval, and Danarius was the only one who would give him any.  Taggart had—perhaps too much approval.  It was why Danarius had to get rid of him; he was too kind to the elf.  It had only left Danarius.  It pleased him; it made the elf incredibly dependent.  “I will… no longer forbid you to take a woman—or a man—to bed.  Provided they are willing.  They need not be slaves either.  Let it never interfere with your duties, however.”  He paused, frowning in thought.  “And one more thing:  Before anything else, you must come to me and ask permission.”  _And any woman will swallow potions to keep to their moon cycle._   And, it meant that the magister still had the final say, and it meant his slave would have to ask.

                Fenris looked down.  “This isn’t… necessary, Master.  I don’t want…”

                “How old are you, Fenris?” Danarius said flatly.

                The elf paused.  “I think… I’m about 26,” he admitted meekly, but uncertainly.

                Danarius blinked.  He was really that old already?  He had thought he was 25 or something…  He might be 26.  The magister hadn’t been counting, and, frankly, didn’t particularly care.  “Don’t tell me it’s unnecessary.”  If Fenris were any of his other slaves, he would have no doubts that he was sleeping with _someone_ —be it a man or a woman.  But he kept such a close eye on him that he seriously doubted that.  

                All of this business only reminded him of how long it had been.  Maintaining a relationship was tiring, and a waste of his time really.  He was tired of trying to keep someone else happy.  All the women ultimately only wanted one thing—the same thing—from him when he saw them for too long.  _Legitimacy._ To take Roschelle’s place.

                To hell with that idea.  Whores existed for a good reason, and he was finished with his river of paperwork for the day.  They would surely drum up more by the morning, but for the time being…

 

                Fenris stood at the door, and tried not to hear any of it.  It was easier said than done, though; elves had good hearing.  The walls of the whorehouse were thick, the doors thicker, but the window was open to let in the breeze, and another window in the hall, and he heard things all around that he would be happier never having heard.

                But, this would be a prime time to try to murder his master, so stand vigilante he did.  He was distrustful by nature, so it was only natural to suspect everyone that came by.  A girl with a tea tray, a boy running on an errand—he even suspected them.  Children were naturally charming, but could be told to do the most vile of acts.  He again recalled the two children told to murder one another, or they would both be tortured and killed.  One had refused, but the other had bashed the other’s head in with a rock.  It had made a sickening sound when he hit him—over and over again.

                A woman—one of the whores in a long flowing gown—opened a door.  Her gown was askew, and she wore a circlet of gold fashioned into rose buds, tiny pearls clasped in the thorns, atop her dark ringlet curls.  A sweaty man with an egg-shaped head took her hand, and kissed it, and gave her a mock bow.  “My black queen,” he said in farewell.

                The woman’s cherry-red lips curved into a smile.  “Farewell, mesere.  May you come back to my arms soon,” she said, batting her lace of dark eyelashes at him.

                He groped her clumsily, and she giggled, acted as if she were shy, and he turned to go, almost whistling as he left.  The “black queen” stood and watched him go, and the farther away he got, the more she adjusted her dress and changed her posture, until she stood with her dress straightened, her shoulders slouched, and her arms crossed.

                “He should just buy me.  He’d save more money that way,” she grumbled to herself, before she went back into her room with a huff.  The door clicked shut, and the hall was empty again.

                Some more time passed, and a slave came by the dark-haired woman’s room to change the sheets, and left.  Down the hall, he heard two of the male prostitutes talking.  They had been walking down the hall, and one of them stopped and perched on the window seat.

                “… No, if done right, it doesn’t hurt,” the older one assured the younger one.

                The brown-haired youth seemed unconvinced.  “How can that _not_ hurt?”  He frowned.  “And if you do it a lot, don’t you lose…”  He seemed uncomfortable for a moment.  The older one raised an eyebrow.  “Don’t you lose muscle control?  Jess says you can shit your pants from it.”

                The other made a face.  “You’d have to do it _a lot_.”

                “But…”  The younger whore looked around, and seemed at a loss for words, but it seemed clear enough, even to Fenris from across the room.  _But I’m a whore_ , seemed to be the rest of the sentence.  It was also quite clear what they were talking about.  Fenris’ eyes flicked downwards.  He wished he didn’t know what it was like, or what it felt like.  He’d like to be as innocent as that boy.  But he _did_ know, much to his chagrin, and he knew he never wanted to experience anything like it again.

                “Just because you’re a whore doesn’t mean your clients will _all_ be male.  Nor does it mean they’ll always want to be on top.”  The man kind of smiled.  “I get more men that want to be on the bottom, to tell you the truth.”  He snorted a laugh.  “But I have to promise not to tell.”

                The boy frowned, but looked hopeful.  “Really?”

                “Really.  Why would they go see a male whore to mount him when they could go to a female for the same thing?  Think about it.”  The older whore left the younger one, and headed down the stairs.  The younger one sighed, and looked out the window for a bit, then paced back and forth restlessly.

                He walked to the end of the hall, and leaned partway out the window—it happened to be nearer to Fenris.  The boy looked back at him.  “Were you scared your first time?” the boy asked suddenly.  He didn’t know how to reply to that.  _Yes_.  _No.  It was rape.  It wasn’t rape.  He’s my master, so it wasn’t rape and I couldn’t be scared for the same reason_.  When Fenris’ reply was not forthcoming, the boy rattled on regardless.  “I’m scared.  I’m supposed to be with a man—tomorrow night.”  He kind of shivered.  “He bought my virginity.”

                Fenris almost shuddered.  He prayed it wasn’t as awful for the boy as it had been for him.  How old was he?  Fourteen?  “You’ll be all right,” he told him.  They weren’t allowed to cause any kind of damage to the whores or they risked being banned from the house.

                The boy seemed uncertain.  “How would you know?  Have you ever been with a man?”

                _Yes, and I hope never again_.  “That’s none of your business.”

                He looked up at him, and frowned.  He was kind of pretty for a boy.  “You have,” he said, his tone teasing.  “Does it hurt?  Truly?”

                _Not as much as you’d think in some ways.  In others…_   “At first.  But it gets better,” he lied.  _I got used to it, and wide enough for it, and I didn’t bleed with Danarius.  But that didn’t make it better._

                He seemed relieved to hear him say that.  “I don’t think the other whores remember what it was like the first time anymore,” he told him.

                “He won’t hurt you,” Fenris found himself telling the boy.  Some part of him felt sorry for him.  He should have a choice…  His first time, he should have a choice… but he had never known choice.  _Neither have_ _I_.

                “I hope you’re right,” he said, and walked away, down the stairs with a mumbled goodbye.  Tomorrow night, that boy would lose his virginity to the first man who wanted it and had the coin to buy it.  The worst part was that the child would receive no amount of that money.  Some part of it sickened him.

                That boy was a _child_.  How could…?  Why would…?  They killed and slept with children and thought nothing of it, these magisters and their lackeys…

                With a plaintive creak, the door opened, and scattered Fenris’ train of thought.  When he looked up, he saw inside the room briefly.  Dim, with a wide, canopied bed.  Two women lay in each other’s arms—a picture of perfection, one a tanned brunette and human, the other a porcelain-skinned elf.  The elf was asleep, and the human fast fading.  And small wonder—Fenris had been at the door for hours, listening and trying not to.

                He was anxious to be gone from this place.  Though, he reminded himself, if his master would slake his sexual appetite on whores, it wouldn’t be _him_.  Danarius was sweaty and weary but not exactly _tired_.  Rather, he seemed refreshed in a way Fenris couldn’t quite understand, and likely wouldn’t for some time.

                His master had lifted the edict on him but after what had happened before, he really had no desire to try.  Besides, he had no doubt that those encounters would be nothing but brief flits in the dark, during the time he should be resting.  He had to train in the evenings most nights—he had no energy for that.  And it wouldn’t mean anything—first and foremost, it wouldn’t mean anything.  He wanted it to mean something—he wasn’t sure what, but something.

                Besides…  Why would anyone want him?  He was a slave, and covered in lyrium besides.  He could kill them so easily, and in the past, without trying.  In the past, it would flare up seemingly randomly and he had killed a woman by accident.  Funny, it had been so long, he couldn’t really remember what Larissa looked like any more.  Why would anyone want to get that close to him of their own free will?

                Danarius would say things, like that he was “perfect” or other such things.  And he wasn’t deaf; he heard what people said about him.  The magisters had a tendency to talk right over slaves as if they were not there, and he had heard many a thing that clearly were not for his ears.  Some spoke of him like breeding stock, and that made him the most uncomfortable.  He could tolerate the looks, the fear in their eyes, the whispers about his abilities.  But when the conversation shifted to himself rather than the lyrium, he only wished to be elsewhere.

                So, in a rudimentary sense, he “knew” he was pleasing to look at, beyond the lyrium.  Most elves were—really only tragic accident or very rare misfortune made an elf truly unattractive—at least from what he had seen.  Though, he had to remind himself, nearly every elf in the Imperium had close blood ties to slaves or were themselves and they had been… selectively bred; for their looks, for their skill set, for strength.  Logically speaking, he knew that his bloodlines must be much the same and he was confident enough in his skills and strength, but he never _felt_ attractive.  He _felt_ hideous.

                Danarius only took him because he was nearby.  That was all; his master had a need, and he was nearby.

                _If it weren’t for the lyrium, I’d be just as disposable as any of his other slaves_.  He had to wonder, for the millionth time in his life, about who he had been before.  Had he known how to fight?  Had he worked a field?  Served wine and food?  Had he been one of the whores at the House of Jade?  He had no idea.  When his master went to the coliseum, he wondered if he had fought down there before in the sands.  When he had been fighting the Qunari years ago, something about it had felt right, but maybe that was just because he felt the most at peace with a sword in his hand.

                If he had fought in the coliseums, had he been one of the slave gladiators?  Danarius had told him that he had had him trained with a sword, but sometimes he wondered if the man weren’t lying to him.  He didn’t know how much he could trust what his master said to him, and that frightened him.  If he couldn’t trust Danarius… what could he do?

                His hands had been callused when he woke the first time.  Had that been from a sword?  There was no real way to know.  It could just as easily be from the field.  Danarius had said that he used to watch him from the window, when he had been a child.  Was it true?  He wanted so badly for it to be true, to _know_ that his master was telling him the truth.

                His past was such a mystery to him, and thus a constant source of misery.  If he could just _know_ …  But that was worthless.

 

                Danarius laughed to himself as he read over the report.  This one was of a more… personal nature.  He reread it, just to be certain he had not skipped anything in his amusement.  The script was in a hurried hand, as if written in the utmost of haste before it had been sealed and sent, but no less pleasant for all of that.

                _Mesere, as of 9:23 Dragon, your former slave by the given name of “Mieta --” has been deceased and buried for four years, as you knew.  Her daughter and your former slave, Varania --,  is a Circle mage, as in the last report.  She struggles financially.  Since Mieta’s passing, they have lost their house, and are now in an apartment.  They are struggling with debt.  The former slave Lura -- has sought service as a prostitute at a certain Madame Aurane’s house.  Most recently, they have sold the half-elven boy Shaislyn -- to the military, seemingly to pay off their debts.  Once paid, however, Varania lost her job as a tailor, and they fall steadily back into debt.  –M.J._

                He was delighted.  So, all that, and they are right back where they started.  They may as well have never left.  And desperate people were easier to manage.  If he ever should need another tether about Fenris’ neck, he knew three places to look.  The lad was near-desperate for knowledge of his past.  If he knew he had a sister, a nephew, a former lover, what would his pet do?

                Hadriana looked up from her own stack of papers.  “Magister?” she inquired.

                He considered, and lifted the piece of parchment.  “Fenris, take this to Hadriana.”  His slave obeyed, never having a clue that all the keys to his past were right there in his hand.  And it was exactly why his slaves were preferred illiterate.  He handed off the slip of parchment.  Hadriana scanned it.

                “What’s this about?” she started to say, then fell silent as Danarius’ eyes flicked toward Fenris, and back to her.  Her eyes went wide.  “Is this about… the family?”

                The talk amused Danarius, and he made a point not to look at Fenris again.  “Indeed.”  He inspected his nails.  “The prostitute used to be a slave at the House of Jade.  In freedom, she still whores herself.  And the sister sold her son into slavery after her mother died, it seems.  They were better off in slavery.”

                Hadriana laughed.  “Most elves are.”  She kind of smirked.  “Mages best serve man by ruling him, after all.”  But she did not look at Fenris.  She set the letter down, and went back to her work, as did Danarius.

                They had barely resumed work when the door burst open.  Danarius began to glare, and considered having Fenris teach the servant a lesson, but it wasn’t one of his servants.  It was a runner, and breathless.  “Come quickly,” he said, panting.  “It’s your niece—Lady Annalkylie—there’s been an accident.  _Hurry_.”

                The magister nearly knocked his chair over in his haste.  Hadriana was quick at his heels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You don't need to take the year of Mieta's death literally-it was just my best guess from the timeline.
> 
> Pieces slowly fall into place... I'm sure you can guess, at this point, what Kylie is planning and what this is ultimately leading up to...


	60. Conspiracy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Minrathous, Kylie is the victim of a conspiracy to overthrow the Magisterium. Hadriana assists with the investigation.

                Vanessa Aurelius sat through the Circle meeting, occasionally chiming in when it was necessary.  The city had only a couple higher-ranking mages—herself being one of them—so she had to pay more attention than she liked.  Most Senior Enchanters were none too eager to be on the war front, as it were, and when she volunteered, after she had served for a year in Seheron, the Archon had appointed her a magister, and she had not known how she could possibly refuse.  She had gone to Seheron to be away from everyone she knew, however, to try to do something more important with her life.

                She hated politics, and petty squabbles.  She really just wanted to protect her country, and its children.  _All of its children_.  She didn’t want this war.  She didn’t want anyone else to die for this, but the war was inevitable.  The Qunari were relentless in their assault, and it sickened her, what they did with their mages.  They took them when they were _children_ and stitched their mouths shut, castrated them, shackled them.  It was unbearable to think of.

                Now that she knew who to look for, she noticed Varania more.   She was quiet throughout all the gatherings, and sat apart from the others, she noticed.  It was unsurprising, as she was an elf from the alienage.  The only time elves ever got out of the alienage was when they were slaves, after all—or a magister.

                The issue at hand was the same as ever:  A need for more troops.  Mages made all the difference, but the only ones who had gone into the army willingly had already.  Others had already begun to look toward Varania; Vanessa had noticed.  It was entirely too likely that the young woman would end up abducted in the night and forced into the march against the Qunari.

                As the meeting disbanded, and everyone started to leave, Vanessa took a back alley and trotted to catch up to Varania.  The elf always was quick to bolt after these meetings, like a frightened doe.

                “Varania,” Vanessa called to her.

                The elf turned, startled.  She had the look of one about to flee.  “Mesere,” she answered nervously.  “What can I do for you?”

                Vanessa approached her.  “I… would speak with you,” she admitted.  For Shaislyn, if for no one else.  Vanessa knew that she disliked Varania.  Not because Varania was an elf, nor because she was Liberati, or cruel, or annoying, or any other thing.  Rather, she disliked her because of what she saw in Shaislyn.  Shai was a charming, sweet-natured boy that lived to please, but there were some things about him that she knew was from a broken childhood.  He always expected Vanessa to tell him “no”.  He always expected that he would not be allowed to do a thing.  That was saddening enough to the magister, but it only got worse from there.  Shai worked hard to please others, because he undoubtedly rarely had his own mother’s approval.  He had come to Vanessa starved for attention of any sort, and had been shocked when Vanessa praised the things he did, and later hungered for it.

                Vanessa knew it was unfair to judge the elven woman for her child.  She knew that Shai’s father was absent, to say the least, and suspected that it had not been a willing coupling to boot.  She also knew that Varania had been unreasonably young at the time.  Yet even so, it was unfair.

                “You’ve lost weight,” Vanessa told her frankly.

                Varania glanced away.  “I… find I’ve no appetite as of late.”

                She paused, but said nothing.  She knew better.  Since Shai had introduced them, Vanessa had become curious.  No mother would sell her child if she had a choice in the matter.  They were in poverty, like most elves.  Maybe even worse off than others.  “You could be abducted.  Forced into slavery, and sent north with the army.”

                Varania kept her expression blank, but Vanessa did not miss the way she twitched.  “I haven’t missed the looks the others give me,” she said curtly.  “They look at me like a hungry man eyes a steak.”

                _To put it bluntly._ “Your skills lie in entropy, yes?” Vanessa asked her, seemingly changing the subject yet again.  The elf gave a brusque nod.  “I think I can solve a few of your problems at once.”  A couple of months ago, Varania had earned the rank of Enchanter, and was well on her way to a Senior Enchanter position if she kept up the work, but there was little coin in it unless she found a way to enter politics.

                Varania glanced at her sidelong as the two started to walk.  “How’s that?”

                The magister kept an eye out for anything amiss on the streets.  Even here, there were assassins, after all.  The Qunari did so enjoy killing any magisters they could get a hold of.  “Volunteer.”

                Varania was taken aback.  “I’ll be killed.  I can’t _fight_.  I never have.  I—“

                Vanessa shook her head.  “We would teach you.  But I would station you at the fort.  I would keep you there, to defend it.  You could practice healing too.”

                Varania was silent for a long moment as she considered that.  “You already have mages at the fort.”

                “Slaves,” she answered.  “And myself.  I would send one of them into the field is all—to make room for you.”

                “So I should just volunteer myself into slavery?” Varania demanded, her fingers curling into angry fists.

                Vanessa shook her head.  “I’d pay you,” she said gently.  _For Shai’s sake.  He misses his family._   “You would get to see your son sometimes—I promise you that.  You would get some combat training, more training at healing as well.  Guaranteed pay.”

                Varania was silent for a long moment.  “I will… consider it.”

                Vanessa nodded once.  “Good.”  She paused, thinking of the half-elven child.  He was such a lonely boy, and sometimes she would catch him looking out at the city, at the alienage, and knew he was homesick.  “Shaislyn misses you.”

                The elf missed a step.  “I miss him too.”

                _You don’t deserve that child._   “Think on it,” the human said.  “Come to me at the fort if you decide you would like the position.”  She gave her farewell, and went on her way.

 

                _This was no accident_ , Fenris thought with a numb realization.  This was an assassination attempt, botched only because Annalkylie’s horse was high-spirited and she must constantly reign the animal in.

                The horse had been put out of its misery before they had arrived, but hadn’t been drug away yet.  Its corpse was already attracting flies.  Annalkylie herself could not as yet be moved.

                There was a crowd of people—onlookers, kept back by the city guard.  People knelt beside her, healers and two mages.  Danarius pushed his way through the crowd, and Fenris had to shove one person back who wasn’t quick enough to get out of the way.

                “Where were her guards?” his master hissed coldly at the first city guard to try to stop him. 

                The man quickly realized who he was speaking to, and bowed.  “They… they were slain, or injured, magister.”

                “Injured?” Danarius roared, outraged that they should merely be injured when his niece lay in such peril.  “Where are they?”

                The guard was clearly nervous.  “Th-they were not as badly injured as the Lady Annalkylie.  They were moved to a nearby clinic for treatme-“

                “Have they been questioned?”

                “Yes, of course—we have a detailed report of the incident—“

                “Good.  Fenris,” his master called with a cold calm.  The elf raised his head.  “There’s a clinic two streets down—that way.  Find her guards.  And kill them.”

                Fenris bowed low, and left in the direction his master had indicated, which meant he had to go by Annalkylie.  He risked a glance toward her.  A temporary break in the crowd let him glimpse her.  She was clearly still alive, and in a horrible sort of pain.  The horse had fallen in the melee, he had heard on the way there.  She had escaped being crushed by it, but the fall had shattered her right arm, and a sword through her stomach had nearly killed her.  She had also taken a crossbow bolt to the thigh.  If she weren’t a mage, she would have bled to death.  It was all she could do to keep herself alive long enough for help to arrive.

                It made him angry.  If any of the mages had any kindness to them, it was Annalkylie.  She had been nothing but courteous to him, to any slave.  Nothing but kind to the people around her.  She gave food to the poor.  Why would anyone want to kill her?  She was still just a child.

                He found the clinic, and though the nurse there tried to keep him away, he only shouldered past the small woman, and into the clinic.  Her guards were easy to tell by the livery.  “Why were you attacked?” he asked one of them, knowing they had already been questioned, but a part of him had to know.

                The man was not badly wounded, and seemed more than willing to talk about it, because he was clearly upset about it.  “’Death to the Magisterium,’” he echoed.  “That was what they said when they attacked.”  He shook his head.  “But m’lady is no magister—just a magister’s _niece_.”

                “She is the Archon’s son’s betrothed,” Fenris said simply.  And if they could not get to the Archon or those closest to him, his son’s bride to be was a close substitute and got the message across well enough.

                The man had tears in his eyes.  “Will Lady Annalkylie be all right?  Why would anyone want to kill her?”

                The first man died quickly and unexpectedly.  The second was suspicious by then, though a curtain separated them.  The third, though, was out of his bed by the time Fenris approached him, and tried to run.  Fenris killed him before he made it to the door.  He stepped nimbly over the body, and left to the sound of the shrieking nurses.

                By the time he returned, Annalkylie had passed the critical stage, and it seemed like the girl would live.  Fenris was relieved to hear it when they carried her away in a litter, unconscious but breathing.

                On the way back to the manor, Danarius looked to his slave.  “Fenris.  Do you know why I had you kill her guards?”

                Fenris paused, considering the answer.  “A proper bodyguard should die before harm comes to the one they are protecting,” he answered.

                Danarius stared at him for a long moment.  “If this group is bold enough to attack her, they could always attack me.  You remember that.”

                The elf nodded.

                Annalkylie had been brought to Danarius’ manor rather than to the home of the First Enchanter who she had been apprenticing under.  The magister assigned two guards to her door at all times, and a healer was always with her.

                The Circle mages, for a few days at least, all seemed quite content to stay within their homes all of a sudden, though all the same, another was attacked across the city.  The Senior Enchanter had lived, but had lost one of his hands in the process—which was no trifling matter for a mage.  However, despite the loss, one of the attackers were apprehended to be questioned.

 

                Danarius looked with a bland expression at the gathered men and women around him—magisters, all of them.  No one else was allowed in the council room while they debated.  Both the Archon and the Black Divine were present for this meeting, but they only rarely put in their input.

                “It is folly,” one of the magisters insisted.  “If they had any other conspirators, they would know about it, and if nothing else, magic would have proven what they know.”

                “Not necessarily,” another argued, with a quick glance toward Danarius.  “Memories can be plucked and erased.”

                “But not _given_.  If they acted, they acted alone.”

                “No.  The attackers weren’t even all from the same area.  Someone gathered them, and someone planted the idea in their mind.  A mage, most likely,” Jairus suggested.

                That idea was scoffed at.  “What mage would want to overthrow the magisters?  The cry was clearly ‘death to the Magisterium’.  Not a particular one—but all of us,” Danarius interjected.  No one liked hearing it out loud.  Trying to kill off a particular magister—that was nothing new to any of them.  Duels and backstabbing were key to the inner workings of the Circle of Magi in the Imperium.  The cry the attackers had made was against the entire Circle.  It seemed obvious that the mage behind the uprising was not one of the magisters.  Or was he?

                “An escaped slave, perhaps?” someone said.  “Or a foreigner?”

                “The Qunari, most likely,” Elden said suddenly.  The man was putting on more weight in recent years, Danarius noticed, though he had always been a rather large man.  “They employ humans and elves too—converts.”

                That was met with, while not exactly approval, it seemed to calm the room a bit.  Qunari threat was something they were familiar with.  An uprising in Minrathous against the magisters was nearly unheard of.  It was a _mage_ city—designed for the Circle.  Yet the whispers in the streets, and the most outspoken of the refuse spoke loudly to the public to take up arms against the magisters.  That was another topic of debate amidst the Circle though.

                “They’re called Viddathari,” Jairus offered, and shook his head.  “It makes sense, but this act hardly sounds like the Qunari.”

                “War tactics aren’t working, so they tried something different and failed,” a woman insisted.

                The subject went round and round for nearly an hour, perhaps more.  In the end, no one was really certain as to who was behind the conspiracy.  Nothing had been reached, and the Black Divine insisted that they move on to the next topic, as nothing was being broached that was new.  They only concluded that more research would be delved into the matter, and the Black Divine offered to dispatch a contingent of undercover guards in the city to find them, as well as employ the “usual means” which was something they were all familiar with.  They voted, and it was approved.

                The next topic was raised by the Archon.  “I trust you are all familiar with the commons on the streets trying to incite riots?” he questioned the magisters.  They grumbled their agreement, some complaints.

                “We should have them arrested, and beheaded,” Elden said.  This had happened already in certain quarters.  Most notably, in Qarinus, which is where Elden was from.  _Frightened men…_

                One of the rare elves on the Magisterium shot him a nasty glare.  He wasn’t the first elf to hold a seat amidst the magisters, and he would not be the last either.  “Because that always helps put _down_ riots,” Vyeth snapped.  “Do you want to make them all martyrs?”

                “Do you have a better idea?” he demanded.

                The Laetan elf blinked.  “I could come up with something that didn’t inspire _more_ people to the cause,” he said testily.  When the elf had reached Senior Enchanter, he had transferred to another Circle when the opportunity to be appointed a magister arose, and had fought tooth and nail for the position.  To someone like Danarius, who was bred, born, and raised Altus and simply grown into his father’s post, it Vyeth’s path seemed almost foreign.

                “I happened to notice that not a single one of the attackers had pointy ears,” Elden said snidely.

                The other rose from his seat in an angry rush.  There was no quicker way to anger an elf than racial slurs, and using them while they held court was simply… immature, in Danarius’ opinion at least.  “If you _dare_ think to accuse me—“

                Elden pointed at him.  “Listen here, elf—“

                The Archon slammed his fist down on the table, and the two fell silent.  “Anyone with eyes to see can see that humans outnumber elves.  The specie of the attacker is a simple game of numbers, nothing more.  Anyway, it means nothing.”  He paused, waiting to see if either would argue that.  The elf sat back down in his seat.  Elden, too, hesitated, and slunk back into his chair.  “But, no.  We can’t afford to kill all of them—that will make them martyrs for their cause, and do nothing to put down the riots.  However, we can’t leave them as is either.”

                Danarius considered.  “Offer a reward for information about the conspiracy—the two are clearly linked.  Ban the talk—that should at least decrease the angry crowds, but it will not stop it completely.  Those caught _preaching_ their delegation will be imprisoned, but fined instead of hung.”

                “Ten sovereigns will be enough, I should think,” the woman offered.  It was reasonable—not so outrageous a price that the commons would insist there was something more to it, but not so light as to risk it.  Slaves cost more, and anyway, the Imperium’s coffers had need of some swelling.

                The Archon nodded in agreement.  “And another reward for those inciting the rumors—that should make them stop.”  Rewards often led to neighbors turning on one another for little reason.  It would keep them from talking to one another, and keep them frightened.  Frightened men were easy to manipulate.  “I call the vote.”

                It was passed.

 

                Kylie had been upset to hear that all of her guards were dead.  They were good men, and it had taken her so long to find good men she wanted to guard her, the sort that would smuggle out her coded letters.  At least their secrets died with them, before anyone could truly begin to question them.

                It would take her just as long to replace those men.

                She had cried, certainly, over the loss of the men, but did it mean she was less than human if she wept more for her poor horse?  Wind had been her favourite riding horse for years, and replacing him would be nigh impossible, she felt.  The animal had also been her only true friend and companion since she had come to Minrathous.

                She was also scarred, though she would prefer more scars as to the men having died.  Many fatal wounds left scars even to the best healers.  The crossbow bolt had left a small circular, pale scar, and there were a few scars on her right arm where she had fallen and the bone had broken through the skin, but the worst of it was on her stomach.  The wound had been clean on the way in, but in the fighting, the man holding the sword had been wrested to the side and the blade had twisted while inside her—that had nearly been her undoing.  It was amazing that he had not severed her spine or ruptured anything more vital, but it had been a rapier, something more meant for stabbing than slicing.  If Kylie had woken paralyzed, she would not have wanted to wake.

                There was talk of postponing the wedding.  She needed to go subdue that talk, lest they actually did postpone it and ruin all of her plans—which was why she was in the litter, the silk curtains pulled to let in the sea breeze.

                The Archon’s palace was a grandiose building with sweeping gardens and a mosaic just outside.  She knew what the entire pattern was, but one had to stand on top of a high tower to see it, and at night when there were no people in place:  It was a dragon, one of the ancient Tevinter gods.  This particular dragon was Dumat, the Dragon of Silence.

                The litter brought her nearly to the doorsteps, and she was helped down from the litter.  Her wounds still ached, and would for a few more days still, but this needed to be done.  Her fiancé himself was there to greet her, having been informed of her arrival from the day before.  He took her arm, very gallantly, and they exchanged a few pleasantries while they walked, flanked by guards, to stand before his father.  It was an informal setting, very intimate, in a parlor room.  Tea was even served, along with little cakes.

                Kylie sipped her tea, and they spoke of the weather and a few other mundane things, before the young mage straightened, and set her cup down.  “As you well know, my future father-in-law, the court is presently very opposed to the wedding.  There has been talk of having the wedding in a more secure location, or simply postponing it, at least until my attackers are all caught and tried.”  She lifted her chin.  “But I say that if we are to officially postpone it, that is like saying that we will not find them in a year’s time.  True, it may take some time to root out all of the players in this conspiracy—for what else could it be?—but I have faith in our courts and in our guardsmen.”  She paused for breath.  “What sort of message does it send if we do take these so-called ‘precautions’?  That the Circle is frightened?”  She scoffed.  “No.  We are not frightened; we are magi.  And we will not be cowed, least of all by mundane commoners.  I say we progress as planned, in the location as planned.”  Finished, she picked up her teacup again.

                The Archon nodded in approval.  “Well said, my lady.  But what if we do not get to the root of this conspiracy?”

                She smiled winningly.  “Anyone who doubts we are capable of doing that before the wedding is not truly your supporter, are they?  Perhaps they, too, are part of the conspiracy?”

                The mage across from her gave a cunning smile.  “I will welcome you into my family, and into the rank of magister when you are ready.”  He looked to his son.  “Take notes from this one, and be grateful I’ve found you such a beautiful, intelligent wife.”

                He muttered some form of thanks, and the talk shifted over tea, until Kylie gently reminded her future family that she was not entirely recovered from her ordeal, and would like to retire.  Her fiancé again escorted her back to her litter, and helped her into it.  She gave him a dutiful kiss on the cheek, which he returned, just as dutifully.

                Good.  All of her plans would proceed as intended.

 

                Shaislyn finished the last of the labels on the bottles.  Vanessa had been teaching him about the art of brewing potions, which was one he particularly disliked.  There was so much that could go wrong, and the ingredients could be expensive.  He didn’t like doing it was the point, but a bit excited to be done with it for the day.

                “Mistress?  I’ve a question, if I may?” he inquired politely.

                She gave a sigh of strained tolerance.  “How am I to tell you mean _me_ when you just call me ‘Mistress’?” she demanded, but he smiled.

                “You’re the only one here,” he pointed out helpfully.

                She made a face.  “Fine.  What’s your question, Shaislyn?”

                His lips pressed into a thin line of thought.  He placed the last bottle on the shelf, and began cleaning up the table as he spoke.  He frowned.  “Have you looked at Jameson’s books?  The unlabeled one.”

                She considered, but only briefly.  “Yes—it was fascinating,” she commented.

                He nodded, a little absently.  “Yes, but what do you think about…  Do you think it’s possible?”  He tried to keep his voice neutral, but it sounded hopeful even to him.  He hoped it wasn’t too childish.

                But Vanessa, being Vanessa, only laughed gently.  “Wouldn’t it be amazing if it _were_?” she mused, and looked out the window, leaning against the frame.  “Wouldn’t it be amazing to shapeshift into a bird and fly away?”  She sighed wistfully and shook her head, stepping away from the window.  “But magic doesn’t work that way.”

                It had sounded plausible enough to Shaislyn.  He could see with magic, after all.  If magic could change that, why couldn’t it change his shape?  “Why not?”

                Vanessa frowned as she considered her answer.  “Magic…  Magic is like mathematics,” she said, running a finger down the spine of a large book.  “There are exact answers, a logical path to come to a logical conclusion, of which there is a definite right answer.  A gesture for ice will not summon fire, no matter your intentions.”  She shook her head.  “No—it’s all just fantasy.”

                Shaislyn glanced away, considering her words for a moment before he retorted, “But if your intentions were to turn into a bird…”

                She smiled back at him.  “But if my intentions were to transform a goat into a duck, do you suppose that would happen either?”  He started to argue, then frowned.  No, that wasn’t possible.  It didn’t work that way.  “Or if my intentions were to magic my clothes clean?”

                Shaislyn laughed that time.  “If only it were that easy!” he exclaimed.

                She nodded, and seemed to take on a more whimsical mood.  “Or magic a man’s face smooth, or hair to grow on his head.”  She seemed satisfied with the daydream. 

                The boy considered, frowning in thought.  “But someone had to come up with the spells and forms for fire and entropy and everything.”

                Vanessa frowned, clearly never having thought of this.  “What do you mean?”

                He struggled for a moment, uncertain of the best way to word his thoughts.  “Well…  Someone had to write them down.  Someone had to discovered what they meant, and what they did.  Like mathematics—people find new theories and formulas all the time.  Just because they’re new doesn’t mean they’re wrong.”  He frowned, wondering if what he had said was truly what he had meant to say.  “I mean, people didn’t just wake up one day and discover mathematics:  We had to develop a language first, and writing, and culture…  I mean, we didn’t just _know_ all there was about magic either.  Someone taught me, and someone taught you.  But what about _before_ then?  Before Tevinter, and before… anything?  We didn’t just always know spells; someone had to invent them.”

                “Dumat,” she answered plainly.  Shaislyn’s shoulders sagged in defeat.  He didn’t really believe in Dumat, or any of the Old Gods; they were just animals--fantastic and amazing animals—but animals nonetheless.  How could a dragon teach a human _anything_ , let alone magic?  One doesn’t really _learn_ magic anyway—one is born with it and must learn to focus and control it, but it doesn’t sprout from nothing.  “It’s a fine tale, but that’s all it is.  Have you noticed the style of the writing?  It could be a work of fiction.”

                The half-elf sighed, knowing that he had been on to something important, but that Vanessa had not understood him properly.  Shaislyn relented to the truth of her statement anyway.  All the unlabeled volume was, was theory and notes.  There was no formula or specific thing about the art of shapeshifting.  It was all very metaphysical and spiritual, more than anything.  Maybe Vanessa was right, and it was impossible.  Maybe it was childish of Shaislyn, but he wanted it to be true and not just fiction.

 

                Hadriana was in a position where she was part of the goings-on, but not of them.  It was a strange limbo of places to be.

                And, as her master had warned her, there were plenty of treacherous poor quite happy to turn in their neighbor for a bit of silver.  She was interested to note that Danarius turned out over half of them without either seizing their neighbor or giving them the money.  He had explained that many of them were poor and eager to collect the silver, so would give him names of innocents.

                Every claim had to be followed-up however, regardless.  Any of them could actually be true, no matter how innocent sounding.  Of course they could not simply report people because they suspected.  They had to have sufficient evidence of suspicious behaviour.

                Danarius had uncovered more affairs, though, than anything else.  It amused Hadriana that even the common folk, worked to the bone and living in filth, could waste their time on affairs or money on whores, but they did.  Or maybe that was one of the _reasons_ they were poor.

                But sometimes, they dredged up something else, something like this.  She rapped on the dirty door, and heard someone scramble to get to it.  It opened, but the person on the other side was so frightened that they nearly closed it.

                “I’m here to investigate the premises,” she declared.  She had been tempted to say “hovel”.  The door opened a bit wider, to allow her entrance, and the young girl—or maybe boy, the child was so filthy it could be either and she wouldn’t know—retreated a safe distance, bowing low and clumsily to her.  She scarcely noticed.  “There have been reports of many visitors at night to this house.”  Among other things.  The neighbors said they heard noises while the people who lived there were away.  So it could be they were hiding someone.

                A man inside, also filthy, bowed.  “Serrah, there are visitors, and names I could give you…  But they are only card players.  I do like cards and dice.”

                She regarded him with some disgust, and hoped he did not intend to come closer; she could smell him from where she stood.  “It is a wonder others can tolerate your presence for that long,” she scoffed.  “Guard, inspect the hovel, but don’t break anything.  Let’s not be rude.”

                Her guards filed past her and began opening and closing cabinets, hunting and searching.  The man’s equally filthy wife clutched his arm as if it were her lifeline.  She walked, and watched, and listened.  She recalled the little hollow in Jameson’s floor, and stomped her boot down on the boards.  With all the noise from the guards, her little stomp was unnoticed by everyone else, but she noticed the way the filthy child’s eyes flicked to the floor, even briefly.

                “Guard,” she said when they had finished.  “It is time we were leaving.”  The little filthy family seemed quite relieved.  She relished doing this.  “Pry apart this floor, first, and see what we will.”

                The family had gone utterly still, and she felt confident.  She had guessed right; she was certain of it.

                Her guards went to work immediately, prying and cutting a man-sized hole in the floor.  Two men went down, and Hadriana listened to a struggle and some yelling, and three came back up.  The third was bruised, and trembling.  The entire family stared in horror.  They were arrested promptly by Hadriana’s command.

                They complained, wept, and begged, but she paid them no mind.  The Magisterium would decide what was to be done with them once the true level of their crimes had been exposed.  Hadriana’s work, though, was complete.

                They were imprisoned only a few days before Hadriana was informed of the goings-on.  They had been harboring the man—the only attacker who had escaped.  Blood magic revealed little, though, which worried the Circle; evidence of memory tampering was plain, thus.  An investigation was being carried out presently, and she discovered the depth of the suspicion when both she and Danarius were questioned.  The conclusion was that it must be a mage behind the attack or at least of high rank in the conspirators, and that mage should have knowledge of memory tampering.

                It was a tense few days before the verdict was passed that both were innocent of these assumptions, an apology issued, and the suspicion fell to the others.

 


	61. False Justice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The conspiracy to overthrow the magisters is found out, to its anticlimax. Fenris contemplates how few good people there are in the world. In Seheron, Shaislyn comes to a Qunari encampment and Vanessa prepares for the wedding.

                Fenris watched from his master’s pavilion, the autumn sun beating down on the silk canvas overhead.  The day was sweltering for early fall:  Not a single cloud in the sky, and even the birds didn’t want to be out in it, or perhaps that was just because of the grave nature of the day.  The elf heard the cawing of a crow and amended that thought—the carrion birds were out, and waiting.  Yet even so, there was a crowd of people who had come to watch the goings-on.  It was not every day a magister was to be executed for treason, leaving only the one magister besides the Archon in the Minrathous Circle.

                The bodies of his fellow conspirators swayed in the gallows.  The wood creaked, and all was so silent that the elf could hear it even from a distance over the gathered people.  There was something about watching someone die that called for silence.  The crowd moved, but tried not to in the heat.  They shaded their eyes from the sun, and the youngest complained about being out in it, only to be hushed by their elders.  The wealthy had large shades held up by their slaves to keep out the sun, and it was much cooler under it. 

                A man read the magister’s crimes before the crowd in a droning voice from a long sheet of parchment.  Flies were already being attracted to the corpses.  One—barely out of childhood, twisted in a warm breeze.  The mouth was open and gasping in death, eyes bulging, tongue lolling.  It was a terribly indecent way to die.  Most of them had died instantly when the rope went taught—the sound of their necks breaking wasn’t something Fenris was like to forget any time soon—but the boy had managed to kick and flail for four minutes before he had stopped.  He had ejaculated, and feces had crept down his legs in death.  If Fenris had to choose his own method of execution, it would not be hanging.

                The elf’s eyes watched the headsman sharpening his axe.  At least it was being sharpened; maybe it would be a clean strike, and he would not have to hack at it.

                He scanned the crowd again, checking distance mostly, and for anyone who might be carrying a weapon.  Everything seemed to be in order, so he glanced back at the headsman’s block.  The punishment was being read out.  Estate and finances would go to his next of kin, as he would have no heirs capable of inheriting.  He had a son and daughter, both too young to have participated in the scheme, it was all agreed.  However, they could not have been entirely oblivious to them, and so punishment must be exacted; the pair had already been carted off, and would serve as serfs of a sort, in the military.  It had been deemed fitting that they serve their country for a dozen years each, and then would be redeemed.

                However, the magister had a wife too.  She was being held while he was marched to the block.  Jairus looked out over the crowd, and was given a few last words.  “I tried to help you—all of you,” he cried out loudly, using his final words to try to accomplish something.  It was a futile effort.  “Your sons and daughters are dying, your cousins slaves—and for what?  This doesn’t serve man.  No one benefits from this but the Circle!”

                He was quickly silenced with a kick in the back, forcing him to his knees.  His hands had been cut off, and he could not catch himself.  The dirty bandages were soaked with blood.  There were but two ways to truly cage a mage without the Rite of Tranquility—the first was the Qunari collars, and the second to cut off their hands.  Jairus’ hands had been cut off.

                As his neck was bared before the great axe, Fenris felt a horrible sense of nostalgia, and couldn’t place why.  Danarius had never taken him to a beheading before.  He had never seen anyone beheaded, had he? 

                The axe fell, and he thought of Jairus’ kindness to him, his promise to tell him what he “did in his free time”.  Picking him up off the floor, and putting him in his own bed.  He remembered Jairus’ sexual japes.  _It was all lies,_ he thought.  _His jokes and the cruelty he emitted.  That wasn’t him at all._   The axe cleaved neatly into the wood, and the sound raised the hair on the back of Fenris’ neck, though he could not say why.  The head fell into the basket with a dull thud.

                The body was carted away, and his weeping wife was bent over the block.  “We just tried to do good,” she wept--over and over again.  The axe fell again, and the stroke was clean.  The heads would be tarred and put in the square for all to see.

                Somehow, seeing the heads filled him with a sense of sadness.  Had Jairus been the only magister that was uncorrupt?  There had to be others.  If there is only one good man in a thousand, there were still many thousands in the world.

                Yet the world seemed a little darker for it.

 

                Shaislyn walked purposefully but footsore.  All he really had to do was walk, pretend to be truly blind again, and make a great deal of noise.  He had been at it for days.

                A month ago, Vanessa had hugged him goodbye and sent him off with the fresh troops.  Only one officer had known why he was there.  All others had thought him an errand boy of sorts, and while with them, he did not pretend to be blind, only as if he had strange eyes.  He spent some time with the army—a couple of weeks—before the officer brought him out of range of the army, after a raid on a village that was aiding the Fog Warriors—Seheron rebels who opposed the war in general, and would attack Qunari and Imperials alike.

                Slaves had been captured, the villages put to the torch, and Shaislyn walked away with his walking staff, in torn, old clothing he had brought for this purpose.  Just another refugee.

                In the confusion, getting away had been easy enough.  He had been told in a hushed whisper, to travel north and east, so he did.  He hadn’t expected it to take so _long_ though.

                He was tired.  He had thought it had been exhausting traveling with the army, but that had been nothing compared to this.  He was hungry, and frequently cold, and even with his magic sight, he could see only so far ahead of him with the thick, low-hanging and ever-present fogs of Seheron.  It was winter, but Seheron had mild enough winters, though he still feared the cold when he was out in the elements.

                What if he got sick or a bear ate him, and left his task unfinished?  Well, Vanessa would find another.  That made him kind of sad, though.  Would she really find him that easy to replace?

                He remembered all the times she had smiled, told him she was proud of him.  The way she had hugged him goodbye, and all the treats she had given him, the books.  She had promised him a real mage’s staff when he got back.  A fine yew wood, she had said, and real robes.  “So you better come back in one piece,” she had told him, her tone a false scolding.  He had smiled confidently and said that he would, and he would be fine.  She had also told him that he better not grow too much, or the robes wouldn’t fit—so he had best be back soon.

                She was supposed to be his master of sorts, but she had always said, “You can’t go calling me that.  The entire _military_ owns you, and if you insist on calling me ‘Mistress,’ it will only be confusing for everyone else.  So call me ‘Vanessa’.”

                She pretended to be harsh sometimes, but she was nothing of the sort.  She was warm and kind, and if he had been able to choose his parent, it would have been her.

                _Which is why I cannot fail_ , he reminded himself.

                So he plodded on, and when a voice hailed him, he stopped and remembered to act blind.  He turned his head toward the sound, but more his ear than his eyes, which was more habitual to him anyway—just a matter of not completing the learned movement of turning his whole head.  “Hail, child,” a voice said.  He turned toward it, and some of his fright was not feigned, though his heart pounded for a different reason.  The fear struck his heart instantly.  He was afraid of the giant Qunari, with their fierce eyes, their metallic skin, and their horns, for he had never seen such things.  He was afraid that they would know by looking at him that he was a mage, despite Vanessa’s assurance.

                “But Jameson knew,” he had protested.  But she had taken him to the Templars there, to other mages, and when he had his spell to give him sight activated, none could tell.  It just used up that much of his mana.

                He was afraid that the Qunari, with their stoic expressions and deep voices, would inherently know that he was there to spy on them.  He feared that the three scouts were simply escorting him back to the camp for questioning.  But he went with them, and tried to be brave about it.  He used the stick to poke at the ground like he had before.  Old habits were easy to fall into again, after all.

                The three Qunari all looked very much alike to Shaislyn, though their horns seemed to vary in size.  Two of them were the more common bronze-skinned with dark eyes and so alike they might have been brothers, but the third’s skin was more of a silvery shade and his eyes were a vivid violet.  Elves could have purplish eyes—shades of blue that looked purple, but his were _violet,_ like a flower.

                The going was slow, as he had to test his steps.  Eventually, the Qunari, with their long legs, spoke amongst themselves in their queer tongue.  He understood it all, he was almost surprised to hear, but feigned ignorance the way he feigned his inability to see, which was simple enough if he kept his silence.

                They discussed how slowly he moved.  One was in favor of leaving him and bringing back a beast of burden to carry him.  The second hit him in the shoulder for such a suggestion, and called him a beast of burden.  The meaning of the partial insult did not leave the first, however, and while he did protest, the third informed Shaislyn that the first would carry him.

                Shaislyn replied, “That’s… not necessary.  Don’t trouble yourselves—“  He stopped talking when the Qunari bent and seemed to mean for him to climb onto his back.  Shaislyn, again feigning blindness and knowing all too well how to, reached a tentative hand forward.  Would their skin be scaly to the touch?  Rough?  Would it be as cold as the metal it seemed to be?

                His hand settled on the Qunari’s broad shoulder, and the third explained what Shaislyn had to do.  The second took his staff, and the boy climbed onto the Qunari’s back, with some difficulty.

                His skin wasn’t scaly at all, or slimy, nor was it cold.  It felt normal, in fact—maybe a bit rough and weathered, even scarred in places, but normal overall.  It made Shaislyn feel relieved.

                He came to the easy conclusion that only the third Qunari spoke the common tongue when nearly everything they said was in the Qun.  They called Shaislyn a refugee, and he looked the part, he knew.  They spoke of nothing that Shaislyn was interested in, however, and he found himself sagging against the big Qunari’s back, his eyelids drooping.

                He must have fallen asleep, because when he woke, the three had brought him back to their camp.  He did not have to pretend to not notice the camp.  Even a Qunari encampment was not silent.  The horned-headed giants talked, and spoke, and he was astonished to hear some of them even laughing as the three scouts went among them.  He hadn’t thought they laughed.  But they practiced their crafts, and read their texts, and spoke amongst themselves.  They barely looked at him.  With the Imperial military, it had been orderly, but not always clean.  The one thing he noticed about this encampment was that it was pristine.  Each warrior was an example of perfect discipline.  There were regular streets, the privy pits were deep enough, and waste was disposed of in an orderly fashion.  He had grown accustomed to a certain amount of chaos in camp.  An organized chaos, but chaos nonetheless.  The change was strange to him, but not exactly unwelcome.

                The Qunari brought Shaislyn to the refugee camp—a more haphazard place behind the main force.  The Imperials had had camp followers—whores and vultures mostly.  The Qunari had no such thing, but they did have a certain amount of refugees.

                He looked out at the encampment.  It was a mass of teeming malevolence, a threat that loomed above all.  A religion that would tear every joy out of life and seek to make all its willing slaves. 

                Shaislyn stilled.  He wanted to go home more than anything—all the more reason to do what he had came for as soon as possible.  He was to listen and learn mostly, and find the recipe for the black powder if feasible.  Anything at all would be useful, but he knew the sorts of things he should be listening for.

                He would listen, and wait, and practice looking confused—he imagined he would be doing that quite often when he stole into the Qunari encampment to listen and learn, and spy.

 

                With the wedding coming up soon, Vanessa was indescribably busy.  There were only a few senior mages in Seheron right now, and the others were near-useless at event planning; it was up to her, which was frustrating because her real place was with the army.  She had thought to only dabble in the preparations, but it soon proved that she had to do far more than just oversee it.

                The damned thing consumed nearly all of her time.  Of course there was a particular budget she had, granted to her from both houses.  They would be sending particular things ahead of time, and she had to have new serving outfits made for the slaves—something attractive but not too so.  None should outshine the bride, which meant she had to be quite selective when she picked the slaves.  Only servants would wait on the Archon’s family and extended family, as they would be feasted on the dais.  So only servants were allowed onto the dais, and she had to make certain that that was clear.

                The servants all had to have outfits too, naturally not as revealing as the slaves, but attractive all the same.  All of it required money—money _not_ necessarily in the budget.  The budget of course covered food and entertainment, decorations, and the like, but it did not cover proper costumes.

                Her dress was already finished, naturally—so at least she did not have to worry about something as trivial as _that_.

                The wedding was in six months.  Shaislyn was due back in little over that, so the lucky brat would miss the wedding.  It had been agreed upon that he would sneak away during a battle, rejoin the Imperials, and make his way back to report—hopefully with the recipe, though she held little hope for that.  Still, it was worth a try.

                In spite of herself, she had grown fond of him.  She would like to think that her son would have grown up with half his courage and wit.  She had never met a boy so brave, or strong enough to do what he knew he needed to do.  In a manner, she admired that.

                It twisted in her gut to think that he was a slave, and that brave little boy had to risk his life for the army.  And when he got older, they would only send him into the field.  He wouldn’t come back, she knew.  The Qunari targeted mages in battle—everyone did.  If he came back, it would be in pieces.

                _I’ll buy him_ , she thought to herself.  _I have to._   Buying Shaislyn from the army would be expensive—more than the army had paid for him.  She was a good negotiator, and may be able to talk the price down, but not a lot.  Vanessa knew that she should just let it go.  She should not get attached to the half-elven mage-child, but she couldn’t help it.  He was sweet, and charming, and the age her son would have been.

                Slaves had never bothered her, exactly.  She was as accustomed to their existence and presence as air.  Shaislyn had not opened her eyes to the “evils” of slavery, as it were; Tevinter ran on slavery.  The entire economy and government infrastructure would collapse without it, like a flan in a cupboard.  That was the trouble—and she wished she could make the people who opposed it see that.  If slavery were to be abolished, it had to be done slowly and over a long period of time, and certainly not at once.  Perhaps, if they simply stopped abducting people first…  Stop selling freeborn slaves—that would be a start, if it were to happen at all.

                No, rather than being in opposition to slavery, she just had a soft spot in her heart for the boy.  She could adopt him.  He was a mage.  It had been done before, and all she need find were the proper papers.  First, she would free him once she bought him—he’d be Liberati at that point, but not for long after she began the adoption process.  She had no intention of sending him back to that ghetto with a mother who would sell him into slavery; she would certainly only do it again.

                But this wasn’t the time for daydreaming.

                Vanessa was in a shop, picking out cloth for the tablecloths and drapes, trying to decide if she wanted a matching carpet or if she should leave the floor bare.  She ultimately decided to leave it bare, but made a note to have it waxed and polished before the event.  Her reasoning, of course, was that the dancers might trip on a carpet.

                The colours she chose had to be fitting for both houses.  It was tricky business, and she could not leave it to her servants.

                “This one—how much do you have?” she said to the proprietor.

                “I can get enough to suit your needs,” he replied.

                Typical.  Her reed-thin lips pressed into an even thinner line.  She gave him her best disapproving scowl.  “My needs are a dozen windows—each over six and a half yards high.  The tables each just as long, though there is but one of them that I need this fabric for.  I need similar but lesser fabric for the others—and there are three dozen of those of lesser size.”

                The proprietor thought for only a moment.  “Consider it done.  I have a few seamstresses that can even get the job done for you—and they’ll do it well,” he offered.

                She shook her head.  “Measure and cut, and see that it is delivered to the keep.  How much is it?”

                He named a ridiculously high price, and she scoffed and talked him down to a more agreeable one.  Satisfied, she went to the next place of business on her list—the florist.  This one was more tricky, as the colours were more difficult to find and each flower of course had some ridiculous meaning that she had to abide by. 

                Irises, after all, were very _pretty_ but they _did_ represent death.  Carnations were long-lasting and she wouldn’t have to worry about them wilting in the heat, but then she ran into the same problem of course.  Roses were traditional and lovely, but altogether too common unless she could find a rare colour, and then, of course, each _colour_ of rose had a different meaning—it was all so infuriating.

                She stopped by a lovely purplish blossom.  “What flower is this?” she asked.

                “Viscaria,” the proprietor said with scarcely a glance.  “It means ‘come dance with me.’”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Fenris stood on he verge of remembering his father's death and lost it. Sad. Actually, no. Not sad. I think he's better off not remembering that.


	62. Deceit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varania is struggling with a flowering resentment for her brother while Fenris kindles a growing hatred. Hadriana finds her place in the world and makes something of herself. Shaislyn overhears something terrible is going to happen and feels he must stop it.

                Lura found Varania alone, sitting on a discarded box, looking out at the sea.  The gentle crash of the waves against the ships was soothing, the cry of the gulls a dull drone.  The sea seemed so eternal and unchanging.  She sat beside her on an equally shabby box, but did not speak.  The pair sat in silence for a while before Lura reached her hand toward the mage.

                “It gets better,” she promised her.

                How could she _say_ that?  Varania pulled away angrily.  Fresh, hot tears tracked down her face.  She wanted to speak.  She wanted to say a thousand things, a thousand different scathing remarks and hurtful comments, but she could not find her voice, and maybe that was for the best.  She wanted to lash out at someone—anyone.  Especially to anyone offering her any kind of kindness.

                Lura’s hand fell away, and she said nothing for an even longer period of time.  “I brought the potion—just in case.”

                Varania finally looked at her, and felt more tears threaten to spill.  Her eyes were puffy, raw, and swollen.  Her lips quivered from time to time, and her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.  She didn’t think she would ever be clean again.  She could not bring herself to speak, even so.  She did not trust her shaking hands to take the bottle, so she simply looked back at the sea.

                They had been about to lose their latest apartment—a tiny little rat shack, a single room they rented in what once had been a large house.  Their kitchen and privy pit were shared with the other renters, and the ceiling leaked when it rained.  Even so, it was the only home they had now, and with Varania’s work being unreliable, and Lura’s not being enough to support them, they were struggling as ever, and so late on their rent that the landlord had finally threatened to evict them.  Though he had been willing to wave their payment, for a different sort of price.

                “I’ll see to your needs if you see to mine,” he had said, looking at Varania.  Of course Lura had offered herself—of course she had.  Varania had even seen it.  But he had looked at her with disgust and called her a filthy whore, and let it be at that.

                There was nothing else they could have done.  They couldn’t come up with the money, after all.  It had been necessary, like selling Shaislyn had been necessary.  Maybe she should have taken the job at the fort, like Vanessa had offered to her.  Yet somehow, it terrified her.  The possibility of facing a battle scared her.  She was no warrior.  How could she do such a thing?  She wasn’t good enough at healing to be a healer either.  So what did that leave her with?  She had ultimately come to the uneasy conclusion that Vanessa had never been genuine with the offer.  She didn’t know that for certain; she had never spoken to her about it, but she didn’t trust the magister and she felt it just had to be a cruel trick somehow.  If life had taught her anything, it was that magisters could not be trusted.

                Varania felt another tear roll down her cheek.  How were there so many tears in the world?  An entire ocean of tears, she felt like she had cried in her life.  The waves rocked the ships, the wood creaked, and the ropes stretched.  Flags snapped in the wind.

                Lura looked out at the sea.  “The first time I laid with a man, I was twelve,” she confessed.  “Some pig of a man.  I thought he was vile, but I guess he wasn’t that ugly.”  She shrugged a shoulder, as if it were nothing.  “I cried the entire time.  I tried to say that I was just in pain, and it hurt… but that wasn’t nearly all of it.”

                Varania wanted to hit her.  She was being comforted by a _whore_.  That was all Lura was—a _whore_.  That was all she knew, was whoring.  Her only skill was sex, her only asset her beauty.  _Leto cared about her._   But she didn’t care about that, not at the moment.  Right now, Lura made her angry.  She was a whore.  How could she understand?  Even if she had understood _once_ , when she was _twelve_ and had lost her maidenhead, she had still been conditioned for it.  She had understood at a very young age what she would have to do, had been trained for it.  It wasn’t the same for Varania.

                She was a _mage_.  It wasn’t _fair_.

                Lura must have sensed her hurt, for she rose to her feet, and set the little blue vial beside her.  “If you ever need to talk, I’m here for you, Varania,” she said gently.

                The mage watched her go, glaring daggers at her.  How dare she?  How dare she act like this were nothing?  How dare she try to pretend that she understood?

                Varania crossed her arms over her upset stomach, and stared at the sea of tears.

                She had lost everything in her life.  _Everything_.  There was _nothing left_ to her.  Didn’t she see that?  Everything was gone.  Everything she had ever cherished or held dear, everything that had been important to her was gone—forever.

                Whatever life she may have had with her family before her mother and brother were captured was gone.  When Leto sealed his own fate in blood and magic, she had lost him.  Her only brother was gone forever.  She would never see him again, never talk to him again.  And a part of her hated him for it.  She was so lonely, so horribly lonely.  And all of this had happened because of _him_.

                Good intentions they may have been, but they weren’t enough.  It had never been enough.  Mother died, and Varania, though grown, had felt orphaned at her passing.  It was worse that Leto had not been there.  He didn’t even _know_.  He should have been there at her passing.  He should have _known_.  It wasn’t _fair_.  And if he hadn’t sent them away—if he had just lost or had the decency not to compete—they would be together.  He would have been able to take turns with her caring for their dying mother, holding her hand and talking to her as she passed on.  But he _hadn’t been there_.  Mieta’s last words had been for Leto.  Not to Varania, who had taken care of her, talked to her, held her hand; but for Leto, her firstborn, her precious damned son.  And not one whisper of a word to her mageborn daughter.

                Leto had instead sent them away.  To a “better place”.  This wasn’t better.

                Shaislyn was gone, and if she ever saw him again, it could only be chance encounters.  In time, she wouldn’t even recognize him, save for his eyes and his half-elven blood.  But he was gone too.  Leto had missed that boy’s life.  He had missed everything.  If they were still all slaves and together, she wouldn’t be so alone.  Shaislyn wouldn’t have been _sold off_.  That never would have been an issue.  Danarius rarely sold his household slaves, and Shai was a mage anyway.

                The more she thought about it, the more upset and hurt she became.  She slept on a damp floor, and spread her legs for a greasy man with clammy hands, and what of Leto?  She was eating the same sorts of thing she had eaten in slavery—bad, cheaply gained foods, and her clothes were more threadbare than the things she had worn as a slave.  Her life had been _better_ as a slave.

                Shai would be a slave either way, and at least then they would be together.  Maybe her mother wouldn’t have gotten sick like she had.  Maybe it was the foul conditions of the alienage with its mold and its open sewer, and the voyage took its toll to be certain.  Maybe everything would have been better.  Lura would still be a whore, after all.  And that was all she was now.

                Varania’s fingers clutched her arms, her nails biting into the flesh.  Thinking of Lura made her angry.  Lura claimed to love Leto.  She _claimed_ , quietly and confidingly, that she would always love Leto.  But if she did, why did she whore herself out like that?  True, she may not be able to be with him—even “one day”—but that didn’t mean she should spread her legs for any man with coin enough to get to it.  Varania’s only conclusion from that was that Lura didn’t really love him, and that she had to be lying.  If it were true, how could she do such things?  How could you love one person and give yourself to someone else?

                Lura disgusted her.

                She swallowed the concoction in the bottle, and threw the empty bottle into the sea, symbolically bottling her tears.  She could not cry forever.  She was a mage, and stronger than this.  She would have to go on.  She had been raped before, after all.  It was nothing more than that again, and this at least was to a purpose.  She wasn’t a whore, not like Lura.

                Her mouth twitched when she thought about all the times Lura had become sick with disease.  Varania was getting quite skilled at curing her of it.  Next time, she should let her stay sick for a long period of time; she would deserve it for what she did to her brother.

                Varania desperately missed her brother.  And desperately hated him too.

                She lived in poverty, sleeping with her landlord to keep from being thrown onto the street, having sold her son in to slavery, and lived with a whore.  Leto at least had guaranteed meals, clothes, a bed.  He even had sheets, if Danarius was still keeping him in the manor.  Varania and Lura had narrow, thin pallets.

                No matter how she looked at it, this bargain he had made for their freedom… had not been worth it.  If she had known, she would have begged her master to keep her instead.

                Shaislyn had been with the Qunari for weeks.  He was quick and nimble, and due to the language barrier, he could more easily feign ignorance—that and that he was a child.  Even so, he soon learned how to best go unnoticed.

                He had counted three moons waxing and waning since he had joined the Qunari.  Antaam moved but slowly, and so far, it was still considered unsafe for them to be carted off to another place away from the fighting, so there the refugees stayed, as a sort of camp follower.  The Qunari preached to them, and many accepted the Qun as Viddathari.  Shaislyn listened with the rest of the young children on the ways of the Qun, and the roles of their lives, and he could recite it with the best of them, but he did not believe in it.

                He couldn’t believe in it.  How could he believe that the will of the Qun was for him to live his life blind, mute, and leashed like an animal, for that was what they would do to him.  He had seen the Saarebas, to his terror.  The Qunari had only assumed, improperly, that he held a proper fear of mages and they had assured him that the Saarebas was collared and leashed for his protection and could not harm him.  He had ran away, and cried, and no one understood his real reasons.  That Qunari mage was collared, couldn’t even speak, his lips were sewn shut—what kind of life was that?

                There were some beliefs he liked however—waste nothing, all are equal.  There were many _good_ aspects of the Qun, but most of it left him feeling cold somehow.  The religion—no, the way of life—felt bloodless to him.

                That is to say, he believed in the Fade, in spirits and demons, but he had no evidence of the Maker.  He refused to believe in something he could not see, touch, and experience for himself.  He knew little of the gods of the Dalish elves, but he felt determined to learn more.  He felt no desire for religion really, but everyone else seemed pretty enthused about it, so perhaps there was something important about it.

                The camp was dark, and he tiptoed around the fires.  He had left his walking stick, and stole into the night in a patched cloak.  Tonight, it was raining softly, and it masked the sounds he made and he hid in the shifting mists.  The Qunari still frightened him a bit, but he was confident enough to believe he could evade them.  Who would ever suspect a child?

                He found the officer’s tents, and listened to them speak amongst themselves, in their queer, harsh tongue.  They were bold when they spoke, as if none would ever betray them, and though they often spoke softly and the tents were heavy, Shaislyn was half-elven, and his hearing had always been sharp.  They spoke of moving armies, and ships, but the words meant little to him without a glimpse of their maps, so he waited, and listened.  He held his breath, crouching between two crates as a big horned Qunari passed him by, seemingly without taking notice of him.  He breathed a little easier when the Qunari had gone.  The subject had also changed while he had been distracted.

                “ _Shall we trust this bas?”_ quarreled one of the officers.  There was no truly proper equivalent to the term “bas” in the King’s Speech—“ _bad person_ ”, basically.  Inflection meant everything, though, and that soldier spoke it with enough venom to translate to “ _bitch_ ”.  “ _It is a trap.”_

“ _To what end?”_ another argued right back.  “ _The woman will open the gate, and the light of their lighthouse will be put out for a quarter of an hour.  What would they gain from this?”_

                They argued back and forth, and Shaislyn listened, but without knowing precisely what they spoke of, he was only confused.  Open the gate to what?  What lighthouse?

                “ _Enough.  I have made my decision.  We attack the night of this joining of Saarebas,”_ a voice that could only be the Qunari leader said.

                Joining?  A… wedding?  Shaislyn’s blood ran cold.  A wedding of “Saarebas”?  A wedding of mages?  Two mage families.  He felt the blood drain from his face with his fear.  Someone had betrayed them—some woman.  And she was going to let them in to the city the night of the wedding.

                “ _This fruit is too sweet not to pluck,”_ he continued on.  “ _The_ Archon _will be there, and his family.  Other_ magisters _will be there too, and even their_ Black Divine _.  The woman has given us the key to the gate.”_ Some words were in Shaislyn’s native tongue and so heavily accented that he didn’t understand it at first—no proper equivalent to those terms either, Shaislyn supposed.

                His heart hammered in his chest.  He couldn’t…  He couldn’t let that happen.  He had to warn the Imperial army.  He had to warn the city of the betrayer, and the attack.  He had to.

                He wasn’t supposed to leave until the Imperial army attacked the Qunari forces, but he didn’t know when that could be.  There were minor skirmishes all the time between the two forces and pitched battles where they tried to retake towns, but nothing had attacked the main body thus far—nothing of the extent he had been told was his signal.  It could be weeks off.  This news couldn’t wait that long—they had to be warned immediately.  He only knew to go south, and hoped he could find it.  It could take him days—weeks—but he had to try.  He was the only one who could warn them.

                If Shaislyn didn’t try, hundreds of people were going to die.

 

                The testing was grueling.  Hadriana hated it, but she suspected that anyone who enjoyed such things was mad.  So far, she had been doing quite well, but ascending to the rank of magister would be the work of years yet.  She had to make it to Senior Enchanter first, after all!

                How Jairus had done it, with his treacherous ways, she would never know.  And to think—the Imperium had accepted him with open arms when he ran from Kirkwall!  Honestly—what had he been thinking?  Killing off a few magisters would do very little in truth.  There were many more wanting to take their place, and many more waiting to take theirs.

                The man had had several objectives in life—freeing slaves being one of them.  That was foolhardy at best, though—killing the magisters would not end it.  No, most of the slaves would turn around and be slave owners themselves given the opportunity.  In fact, it had happened in the past.  Slavery was a part of Tevinter’s, well, heritage and culture.  And changing that was not something easily done, and certainly not by killing a few men.

                She wondered if they had even broached the full depth of the conspiracy, or if it were something much more than any of that.  None of it really made too much sense to her.  Even if the scheme had succeeded, and a few magisters were dead, and the rest were frightened, what would that accomplish?  Hadriana had the feeling that she was missing pieces of the puzzle that were very likely simply not available to the public, and thus herself.

                A chilling thought struck her—or what if Magister Jairus had only been a scapegoat, something to settle the commons?  He had certainly played the part, but she was well accustomed to the fact that a man can be made to say anything if the proper means are used.  Namely, his children.

                The thought that the ringleader of this group of radicals was still alive disturbed her more than it ought to.  The group had obviously died down, after all, and maybe it really had been routed out completely.

                Too many things about it didn’t quite add up to her.

                She should just let the thought go, but she didn’t.  She had acquired her own spies of sorts, and let it be known that she desired such information.  It wasn’t long before she heard the whisperings amongst the Circle, and her thoughts were confirmed.  Jairus had been high-ranking in the conspiracy, but he was more than likely not the ringleader of the operation.

                But then… who was?

 

                Shaislyn was bone-weary, wet, and exhausted.  It had been drizzling steadily since that night, and while it obscured his tracks, it made the going miserable as ever.  He was hungry, and tired, and had slept little or not at all since he had gone three days ago.  But he could not stop.  He had to keep going.  He had to make it to the city.

                He hoped he was going in the right direction.  He knew he had to go south, but he wasn’t certain of how far west or east he should go, if at all.  He was afraid of missing the city entirely with one stupid error.  But even if he made it to the sea, how could he make it to the city?

                He hoped he came to the Imperial army first—that would make things easy.  He wanted a warm bed, hot food, a long bath.

                He found that he missed his mother, and Lura.  He even missed the alienage—it had been his home of sorts, after all.  He had known nothing else before he had come to the fort.  He’d like to go home—wherever that was—very much.

                He missed his little family greatly, actually.  Maybe Vanessa would let him see them again, just once, if he asked.  He even found himself missing Vanessa too, now that he thought about it.  And his bed of itchy straw at the fort, the way the wind groaned through the old stone.

                Shaislyn would like so much to lie down in a bed and rest.  He felt like his legs were made of lead, and barely knew how he could keep going, except that when he did, he thought of everyone he knew, and all the people that would die if he didn’t warn them in time.  He had to warn them.

                Master Taggart, Nora, Vellus, all the elves in the alienage, all the people at the fort, the mages at the Circle.  They were all going to die if he didn’t do something.  So he must do something.

                He knew that, and believed it fervently, but…  He stumbled, and fell, landing hard on his hands and knees, skinning his palm.  He was so tired.  It was so hard to maintain the spell.  So… very hard.

                His world went black suddenly, and he couldn’t turn it back on.  He was too tired to maintain it any longer.  Too tired…

                But he knew the way to go.  He pushed himself to his feet.  He had acquired a walking stick out of necessity a while back, and used it to find his way.  He had always been blind.  Losing his sight suddenly was not so detrimental to him as it would be to another, so he pressed onward despite that, though he may move only slowly.  He wasn’t moving too quickly before either though.

 

                Varania had finally managed to get another job—a real one, not all the side work she would do and the occasional healing.  Lura had helped her; one of her regular customers—one of the ones at the pub, not the brothel—was looking for another tailor.  Lura managed to put in a good word for her, and there it was.

                Varania had, of course, continued to sew, so her skills had not gone dull while she did her odd jobs, and went to work immediately.  She had ultimately decided that Vanessa had only been mocking her somehow with her offer.  No magister would really be so helpful to an elf.

                The work did not pay as much as her mother’s job had.  It was another small shop with a few other girls, and each did a particular job on each garment.  One woman measured, did fittings, and patterned, another did most of the cutting of fabrics and some sewing, another balanced the books but also assisted with any odd jobs, and Varania and two other girls did the sewing.  The owner bought most of the fabric selection and any other thing.

                She worked hard, but she still felt like this was no fitting place for a mage all the same.  Surely she could do better?  But she knew she couldn’t, not really.  She had been trying to do better, and it was all the same.  She was stuck in a gutter and there seemed to be no clear way out. 

                At least in slavery, she would have been useful for her gift, not for her sewing skills.

 

                Hadriana shouldn’t have, but over the past few weeks, she had been digging, and searching.  She had looked, and listened, and spoke only little, and she had learned things she had been better off not knowing.

                She knew who the lead conspirator was.  But it frightened her to think about it.  It terrified her, in fact.  She could barely sleep at night, for how terrifying a prospect it was.  She felt like the man had to know that she knew.  Her life was in danger the longer she went on without saying a word, but now she didn’t know who to trust.  She didn’t know who she _could_ trust.

                _All the signs point to him._   She looked down at the book.  A little ledger.  It had cost her dearly, getting that ledger.  It was an old accounts ledger that had been in a storage, but it was all she needed to prove everything she needed.  She clutched it close to her chest, and trembled.

                Who could she turn to?  Who could she trust?

                She didn’t even know if she trusted Danarius with this, not if _this man_ was involved.

                How many others could be conspirators?  Who could she go to?  The only option seemed to be to go before the Circle, and tell all of them, at once, including the accused.

                It was her only option, so she waited in the entry hall for her name to be called, her throat dry and her face pale.

                Finally, they called her name, and she all but jumped when they did, rising from the hard wooden bench.  She walked woodenly into the room, and she scanned it briefly.  Her master seemed surprised to see her there.

                She had the ledger, and a satchel of other evidence.  She would need it all for what she had to do.  “The…  The conspiracy a few months ago did not end with the death of Magister Jairus, as we had thought,” she began.  The other mages stirred, but listened.  She had to tell them everything, so she did.  She told them of how it didn’t feel right to her, of how things seemed to be missing.  She spoke of all of these things, and did her best not to stutter or say something silly.  When she had their full attention, she presented her evidence to the Archon himself.  “This ledger,” she said, her tongue darting out to wet her dry lips.  “Receipts.  Transactions—everything.”  She flipped it open, and she knew her hand was trembling when she pointed to it, but she tried to keep her eyes on the ledger.  “Some of the men that attacked the magisters _were_ slaves.”  She swallowed hard.  They had not been able to find them in the records because they had not been taxed by the Chantry, because…  “They were property of the Chantry.”

                There was an uproar at first, and Hadriana tried not to listen to it.  She knew what they would say, and what they would do.  The Black Divine especially.  She cringed, and stood still while the mages began to quarrel.  But the Archon was calm, and he looked on with interest as she presented the rest of her evidence—a scroll of names and another, more incriminating, copy of a tally from a merchant—how many slaves they had at port, and how many he had brought to market.  The numbers did not match up.

                The Archon had Hadriana excused, and gave her an escort home.  Danarius sent his own escort, though—one he trusted more.  Fenris, namely.

                Hadriana rode in the carriage, still trembling from the ordeal, but it had to be done.  The Black Divine… had conspired to kill the magisters.  He had enlisted Jairus, because Jairus had been easily swayed with his distaste for slavery and desire for equality.  He had fed the magister pretty lies, and gained an ally.  No one would suspect the Black Divine of such corruption.

                She did not leave the house for several days to come, and Danarius did not leave either, though he had frequent visitors, even at odd hours.  But Fenris was not guarding his master right now.  No, rather, Danarius had ordered him to guard her.  She would have ordinarily resented this, but right now, she felt better with a bodyguard, all things considered. 

                Though the truth was that she still disliked having him about, and in her fear-edged boredom, she did her utmost to make him miserable, because she was miserable.  She wondered what sorts of things she would have to do to him before he flat-out refused to come near her anymore.  Just how obedient was he to Danarius, anyway?  Interesting, considering that she could deny him various meals, and make him do a variety of menial and even degrading tasks, and he did nothing about it.  Even most slaves drew a line somewhere, she had found.  He seemed to have no real breaking point that she could find however, and she did try.  She let him starve, made him stay awake for days, sent him to work, and any number of other tasks, yet he never said one word about it.  Matter of fact, the knife-eared bastard barely blinked.

                Half a week later, Danarius was called to court again.  The bells tolled, and she nearly wept in her relief:  The Black Divine was dead, and a new one had been chosen.

                Danarius came to Hadriana and praised her, and gave her a letter from the Archon himself.  It was in his own hand, and wrote that he was reviewing her for an early promotion.  After the wedding, if the testing went well, she would be a magister—years ahead of time.

                It had been a bold, frightening move.  She had been so scared that she would be slandered, hurt, killed.  But… a magister—she?  He had been impressed with her, and Danarius, who she looked to like a father of sorts, was immensely proud of her.  Everyone was, suddenly.

                She had gone from the simple country mage, “butcher girl”, picked up from the gutter by happenstance, to almost a hero amongst the ranks of magi.  When she went to the Circle, even the magisters wanted to greet her.  The Archon and his son both kissed her hand very gallantly.  She met the new Black Divine, and he thanked her for her work, and said that he looked forward to working with her in the future.  And she had smirked at that Altus boy who had given her the cruel nickname, and he had to be courtly and kind, and thank her for her work.

                She could barely believe how well everything had worked out.  She had taken the biggest chance of her life, and…  This had all turned out so well.  They had made her a Senior Enchanter almost immediately, giving her a new set of robes for the position and a staff, and she had accepted them with great pride.

                Danarius gave her the entire story when everything had settled down.  The information she had found had been incriminating, but when they conducted a thorough search of the Black Divine’s suites, they discovered other things amiss—he didn’t give her details as to that, and only said that certain records were missing entirely, or the books were off, and other such details.  Ultimately, when put not to the question but to blood magic and mind reading, it was discovered that many of the slaves belonging to the Chantry had some minor information, though most of the acolytes and initiates alike were free of any guilt.

                Most, but not all.  Those found guilty were tried and hung, as appropriate.

                If she hadn’t gone digging… who knows what could have happened?  The ones behind the assaults had been unskilled, surely, but many of these past assassination attempts on a variety of magisters were suspected to be the true work of the Black Divine, and some of those had even succeeded.

                She shuddered to think of the mayhem that might have happened if she had chosen to stay quiet, and was always happy to think that she had not.

                Everything had been for the best and the speakers that had been rousing the public to occasional rioting silenced, a sort of uneasy peace settled over the city.  Hadriana was glad of it.  Minrathous had been in a quiet turmoil for years, and now it seemed almost calm in comparison.  Oh, the Magisterium still dueled and squabbled, and in the outskirts, there were minor rebellions of slaves, easily put down, and darkspawn in as many places, but for the most part, she felt a certain peace she had not felt before here, like everyone could relax—just a little bit more.

 

                Shaislyn turned when the Qunari called to him.  They were too far for him to hear their words properly in the wind, but his frightened mind thought their words were commands to  halt.

                _They know_ , he thought in terror.  They knew he had been spying, and knew what he intended to do.  Their weapons gleamed in the sunlight, and he thought, _They’re coming to kill me, so I can’t warn them._

                He broke and ran, abandoning the walking stick.  They called to him again, and now he heard them as the wind changed.  They wanted him to stop.  They were commanding him to stop, in both their tongue and the Trade tongue.  Well he wasn’t going to.  Why would he stop—so they could kill him?  He wasn’t going to stop, not for anything.

                He was so close—he knew it.  He had seen the gulls earlier this morning, and knew the ocean could not be far.  He was so close—he _knew_ it.  If he just ran fast enough, they would fall well behind him, and he could be there.  He could warn everyone, and save everyone.

                But he was a frightened, exhausted child, and they were grown men and warriors, and they caught up to him easily enough.  They were unarmed as they ran toward him, but in Shaislyn’s terrified state, that meant little.  They were big enough to crush him, he felt.  Maybe they had some special way of dealing with Tevinter informants.

                _They know_.  They knew he was a spy and had been lying to them.  Maybe they had always known, and had just watched him.  Maybe they had been stalking him and waiting for him to tire so they could kill him without a struggle.

                To a child, it made more than enough sense to be true.  To a terrified child, it was like gospel.

                _You kill spies.  They’re going to kill me.  I don’t want to die.  I don’t want to die!_

                “No!” he screamed as one of them caught his arm.  His spell of sight winked out in his exhaustion, but his mana could fuel other spells now.  His fist curled into a ball.  Fire—one of the simplest of spells--engulfed the Qunari.  He let go of Shaislyn almost immediately, and the boy tried to run, but was blind, and stumbled, and fell.  He lashed out blindly, and tried to listen, but they seemed to be everywhere.  In his panic, he attacked in every direction, all around him, until he collapsed to his knees, panting and light-headed.

                He had not eaten properly since camp, and that had been days—maybe over a week—ago.  He had not slept for more than a few hours at a time since then either, and not well.  He may have been starting to grow sick, but he usually attributed the dizziness to how tired he was.

                Everything felt so dim.  The world seemed so quiet.

 

                Hadriana was clearly unhappy—that much was plain from her demeanor, but she was quite verbal about her complaints as well.  “I’m practically a hero,” she protested.  “What right do you have?”

                Danarius barely glanced at her.  “The right of your master,” he replied.  “And my decision stands.”

                She stamped her foot in anger.  Her heel struck against the hardwood floor.  “I’m undergoing testing to become a magister.  I’ll _be_ a magister this time next year!”

                He was unmoved.  “But you aren’t _now_ ,” he reminded her.

                Her blue eyes blazed with fury.  “It’s the event of the _century_ and you’re not allowing me to go!”

                She had done nothing but complain about this for days.  The answer was always the same, but she kept at it anyway.  “No.  My affairs in Minrathous still need to be run in my absence, and it’s dangerous besides,” he said with the patience of a saint.  “If you’ve nothing further, you are wasting my time, Hadriana.”

                “But—“

                “Fenris, see my apprentice out,” Danarius said with a disregarding flick of the wrist in her general direction.

                Her hands balled into fists at her side, her back straight with indignation.  The slight of being called an apprentice, when she was in fact a Senior Enchanter, did not go unnoticed.  Fenris moved toward her, but she glared at him, turned on her heel, and stalked from the room, slamming it on her way out.  Danarius watched her go, and sighed.  Every day it was the same plea.  She really wanted to go to the wedding, and she would not be content to stay.  She had somehow gotten it in her head that because a magister or two was bringing their apprentice that she should be going as well—particularly as such an “important” apprentice.  But that was precisely why he didn’t want to bring her.

                The Archon, the new Black Divine, himself, a number of other magisters, many powerful families—all would be gathered, right on the war front.  It was just too dangerous to allow her to come.  His decision stood.  The ship would leave in less than two weeks, and Hadriana would _not_ be on it.

                Of course she still complained about it, loudly, and by the week’s end, he had expressly forbidden her from talking about it.  Oh, but how the young woman would fume!  Her blue eyes would glower, her nose twitched, her lips curved into a sneer.  Any time the event was mentioned, her lips would press into a thin line, and her brow drew down in a venomous glare.  Ah, if looks could kill…

 

                Fenris went to bed hungry for the umpteenth time in the past month.  Hadriana was unhappy, and so she devoted her attention to making all the servants, slaves, and himself in particular, miserable.  She knew he hated fish, and told him he could either eat that or starve.  It wasn’t so much strength of will or stubbornness so much as disgust.

                Anytime something smelled bad, it seemed to smell like fish.  He hated the smell of the docks, of the fishing galleys, he hated the smell of the fish cooking.  There was just something about fish he genuinely disliked.  Why would anyone eat something that smelled so bad?  Or looked like that for that matter, with their bulging eyes and gaping mouths.  The boy at the gallows had looked like a fish when he was hung, Fenris thought, all bulging eyes and a gaping mouth.

                It was her favorite trick, though, for starving him.  If his master questioned her, she could ascertain that he was being fed, and then he was just reprimanded for being a picky eater.

                _I’m not_ , he thought with a sigh.  He’d eat nearly anything—except _fish_.  At least the _cat_ liked it.

                It wasn’t the same cat as from Vinewood Manor.  This one was bigger, and where the other had been grey, this one was white as his hair, with blue eyes.  She had started coming in to his room seeking warmth on a chilly night little over a year ago, in the late fall.  He had let her sleep on his bed, and she had kept coming back since then.

                Fenris had long since decided that the life of a cat was something he envied—they went where they pleased when they pleased, were found useful, and most people liked them.  Also, no one really owned a cat the way they could own a slave.  A cat belonged to someone because the cat allowed it, and would simply leave if they were unhappy.

                The cat was happily curled up into a little white ball on his bed now, for that matter.  The more he tried to scoot away from her warm little body, the more she insisted on sleeping practically on top of him.  Or under him, worming part of herself under his chest, which was annoying but he never quite had the heart to shoo her away—not when she was the only companion he had.  He liked the horses, but he never got to spend the time with them he would have liked, and truth be told, he was certain he liked dogs better than cats, but all Danarius had were hounds, and they were kept outside anyway.

                Annalkylie had had a dog once, when she had visited.  She always had animals—her hunting hawks and horses and the like.  But her dog was a well-mannered wolf dog she called Lily, and the dog had growled at and tried to bite Hadriana, and Fenris found himself liking the dog since then.  Annalkylie had commented that she really wanted a mabari hound, but Danarius had flatly refused, as had the rest of her family.

                Marriage… didn’t suit Annalkylie.  Try as he might, he couldn’t imagine her with child or any such thing.  He knew she had hated the idea originally, but had seemed to accept her fate as time went on.

                Yet he found himself thinking of that day on the shore, where she had commented that they could destroy her phylactery, and she would become an apostate, and he…  She had meant to free him from slavery.  He didn’t understand that.  He didn’t know what it would mean to be free.

                Annoyed, Fenris sat up, rubbing at his eyes.  He hooked some of his long hair behind his ear without thought, and stretched.  He was unable to sleep.  He went to his chest of drawers, and rummaged about through them until he found the tunic Danarius never had him wear.  The shade was off, he had said, and Fenris had known that before he even put it on.  Elves were sensitive to colours, after all, and the tunic had not been quite the right shade of green.  A new one had been made, of course, but he still had this one.  And, wrapped up inside it were the two small figures of the halla and the wolf.  He sat on the edge of the bed, and ran his fingers over the smooth wood.

                He wondered what they had been doing there.  Who had put them there, and forgotten about them?  They had been covered in dust at first, and he had needed to clean them, so they had obviously been there a long time.  He wondered if it had been a child, playing some game, and had just lost them.  But for a slave, such things would be treasured.  No, that didn’t seem likely.

                It was a puzzle, and every time he looked at the two figures, he felt like he was that much closer to solving it, but he never did.  Nothing made sense.  Why would they have been there?

                 When the door opened, he straightened, and slipped both figures into one hand, keeping it at his side away from the door.  The cat on the bed jumped, and settled.  Fenris bowed his head when he saw who it was.

                “Good.  You’re awake,” his master said, shutting the door.  “I can’t sleep either.”  Fenris felt his master’s gaze linger on him, and deep down, he knew what was going to happen.  He rose to his feet, turning to face Danarius.  Behind his back, he clasped his hands, and switched the two figures to his other hand.  He went back to his knees, just a little too close to the bed to ordinarily be comfortable, but perfectly enough to place the two figures under the skirt of the bed as discreetly as possible.  “Get rid of the damned cat.”

                Fenris had forgotten about the cat.  He rose, and lifted the little creature tenderly from the bed, regretting disturbing her peaceful slumber.  She complained at first, but then rested against his warm body, quite content.

                The elf started to walk around the mage to deposit the cat in the hall, but Danarius stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.  “No,” he said instead.  “Kill it.”

                He froze.  _What?_   It was just an animal…  “Master…”

                “Exactly.  Consider what you just said,” Danarius instructed him, a dangerous note to his voice.

                Fenris looked down at the cat.  Why would he do this?  Why…?  Perhaps, if he were to drop it off of the balcony just right, he could pretend he had failed.  Danarius would punish him, but…  He pretended to glance around the room, as if uncertain of how to kill the cat, then started to move to the balcony.

                Danarius’ fist wrenched into his slave’s hair, hauling him backward.  “You stupid knife-eared wretch,” he hissed.  “Use that power I gave you.”

                Fenris looked down at the cat.  It was so trusting.  It had slept with him most nights over the past year.  But his master had given him an order.

                The cat died quickly, and had been so trusting of him that she had not even been alarmed, except for the scarcest few seconds.  Patches of white fur clung to the blood on his hand.  It had splattered up to his elbow, and he cradled the dead animal in his regret, blood and fur clinging to his chest.  Danarius told him to throw it off the balcony, so he did.  He watched the tiny white body disappear over the edge, hit a rooftop, and slither into the darkness below.  Blood dripped from his hand.

                He was so entranced by the quiet horror that he jumped when Danarius shoved him against the balcony, bending him over the side of it.  He grimaced at what he felt was happening, his grip on the rail tight enough to hurt his hands.

                His master had been drinking.  He could smell it on his breath, but really, he only did this when he had been drinking.

                His teeth bit into his lip as his master’s hands ran down his back, along his spine and the lyrium that traced it, and to the place of his ultimate design.  But he only moved his fingers against it, taunting him with what he could do to him.  He applied pressure, but only enough to taunt.  Danarius could do anything to him.  Anything—and there was nothing Fenris could ever hope to do about it.  It was just the way the world was.

                His hand fell away, then caressed his thighs, running back up his sides.  “You were lovely without the lyrium too, but this…”  Danarius caressed his back, ran his hands down the elf’s arms, and didn’t seem to care about the blood.  _He wouldn’t._   Everywhere he touched, the lyrium flared to life for an instant, reacting to his master’s touch obediently, waiting to be used.  Even his body knew he was a slave.

                His hands traced the lyrium up to his collar bone, up his neck, to his mouth.  His lips parted, taking the fingers into his mouth without a whisper of a command.  He sucked, and licked, and did everything that was expected of him, and his master ran his fingers through his pale hair.  He was not regretful when Danarius removed his fingers from his mouth, but grimaced all the same, and for a different reason.  The damp fingers pushed between his legs, and wasted little time.

                As he worked inside him, he grimaced, and flinched, but did not cry out or weep.  He could endure.  This wasn’t the first time.  He was certain it wouldn’t be the last.  But the morning always came afterwards.  All he had to do was wait.

                He tried not to think about it as it happened.  He tried to think of something else—anything else.  He thought about the dead cat, and wasn’t so certain that was any better.  If he looked hard enough, he could see its tiny, broken body lying on the stone below.  If Fenris acted quickly, he could throw himself down after it, and die.  He could end this right now.  He could propel himself over the balcony.

                That the idea was so attractive was cause for a fear of its own, and he suddenly desperately wanted away from the balcony.

                Fortunately, it was the moment his master was of like mind, for he moved his hands away, and shoved Fenris toward the door.  He went back inside numbly, and awaited further instruction, which was to wash off the blood.  He did so slowly, while his master undressed himself.  Feeling dead inside, he climbed onto the bed, and waited.  Better the bed than the floor, or the table, or something more abrasive.  He tried to be practical, and logical when he could be.

                He tried to think of something else—anything but the mage thrusting deep inside him—but he couldn’t quite seem to.  He couldn’t even make himself go far away, and try not to experience it.  Instead, he tried to count, and soon he was counting the seconds, and that seemed to help.  But just as quickly, he found himself counting each thrust into him, instead of the time.  That made it worse, and he tried to go back to just a rhythmic counting:  Mechanical, unfeeling.  But the thrusts were too much in time and he couldn’t…

                At 228, he shoved Fenris further down, until he was laying prone on the bed, on his stomach.  He moved his face to the side, to try to better breathe.  It was not allowed, so much as tolerated, and his master’s fingers held onto his hair.  Less than a hundred more, and he moved him again, back onto his knees, but with his face down.

                He hated it.  It hurt, and felt alien, and he didn’t want this.  He dared not voice those thoughts, but imagined that the way he grimaced and gasped, it was clear anyway.  If his master had ordered him to stop, he would have done his best to try.  He yelped with a particular movement, eyes squeezing shut.  One of his hands clamped over his mouth, trying to stifle the whine he felt rising in his throat.  He didn’t want to offend the magister, no matter how much he hated it.

                He cringed when his master’s hand reached around him, and cupped his manhood in his hand.  He ran his fingers over it, and whispered, “I was the one who had you circumcised.”  He tugged against it, gently at first, and then his hand wrapped around him firmly, decidedly.  “I could have had you castrated, my pet, so be grateful.”

                His hand was dexterous, and teased and manipulated him until he couldn’t help the blood flow, and he was panting, and heard his master laughing.  Even the thrusting inside him was starting to feel good.  Or maybe he was just going mad.  That seemed likely too.  All things considered, that seemed pretty likely, actually, when he thought about it seriously.  Wouldn’t it be so much easier to just lose his mind?

                He thought, _It doesn’t change anything_.  _I don’t care what he does to me.  It doesn’t_ matter _; I’m still his slave._   A tiny voice insisted, _It’s still rape_.

                No.  No…  He was his slave.  A piece of property, meant to be used in whatever way his master saw fit.  He just wished his master had gone to a damned whorehouse instead.  At least the whore was good at pretending to like it.  Surely that would be better?  A whore who knew the art of sex, who could better please him anyway, had to be a better choice.

                He almost wanted to say so, but he didn’t.  He held his tongue, as he was accustomed to doing.  Speak when spoken to and only when required.

                He was only doing as required.  His master apparently wanted him to enjoy it a bit, so he did.  He could think of it that way.  It hurt a little less that way.

                Fenris started to come with a cry, half of pleasure and half of despair, and his master kissed his neck for it, whispering for him to do it again.  He didn’t, and the fist around his erection tightened enough to choke it off.  He couldn’t have mimicked the cry if he wanted to, though, and that was all there was to it.  It had been heartfelt, and everything he had been feeling.  He couldn’t hope to try.  Anything else would be false, and he could not lie to his master.

                But Danarius was drunk enough not to particularly care if he hadn’t obeyed him just then.  He only continued working to get himself off, even as he gripped so hard the elf was in pain from it, and after only a short while, he was squirming, needing to release desperately, and his grip was so tight that it hurt, and even so he didn’t wilt.  His hand fell away from his mouth, fingers twisting into the sheets.

                _I’m so used to pain,_ he thought miserably.  His master shoved him down flat, pumped into him a few more times, and slipped out of him, spilling his seed on his back, over the lyrium markings, but his hand had left him, and the elf wanted to cry when he came onto the sheets.  But some part of him had died—what felt like a long time ago—and his eyes didn’t even water.

                Danarius cupped his cheek, almost affectionately.  It only added insult to injury, really.  He called him beautiful, and left him laying there, covered in semen, alone in the dark.  He swallowed hard, and licked his dry lips.  A tear rolled down his cheek, and he was a bit surprised to find it there.

                He picked up the two carved wooden figures he had carefully hidden under the bed, wrapped them up again, and put them back.  It was comforting to touch them, to wonder at them for a moment.

                He washed off, his mind in a numb haze, and fell back onto the bed, curling up onto a dry spot on the sheets—a dry spot covered in white cat hair.  He didn’t ache right now—not much—but he would in the morning, he knew.  He’d ache for days after, and likely be sick from it.  A small, tiny part of him hated Danarius for it, even as the larger, rational part of him insisted that it was wrong to do so.  But he kindled that tiny bit of hatred, and found a dark sort of comfort in it.

                _You can’t hate him; he’s your master.  You are nothing; he’s everything.  You cannot hate him.  Whatever he does to you, it’s within his right.  That’s all._

                But the tiny voice inside him cried out, as if in pain, _It’s not true!_

                And he had no argument for that.

                His last waking thoughts were of a freckled, red-headed girl he didn’t know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fenris' thought process in that last segment was more important than what was actually going on: He is going from an aloof detachment to slowly learning what it means to hate. Worse, he has no other experiences to reign in his hatred--like love, kindness, compassion, or friendship. Those are the things we use to fight against our own hatred. It's like Fenris is facing a battle unarmed.
> 
> Unfortunately, Varania is going through a similar transition, and all of her anger and resentment is for Leto, her happy memories and positive emotions instead being eclipsed by the bad ones.


	63. The Sea of Tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris is nearly seduced by the call of the sea and his own suicide and Shaislyn is in grave peril.

                Shaislyn sat in the cage with his legs against his chest, hugging them tightly to himself.  His eyes were raw, and he supposed that he had been crying again, for all the things he couldn’t do—and failed to do.  Outside, the world went by.  Qunari, horses, a few scattered elves and even humans—but mostly the horned giants.  Before this misadventure, he had never seen them so closely before.

Things could have turned out so differently.

                A spy, they had said.  No one would suspect a child, they had said.

                It was frightening for him, but they had turned him out of the sanctity of the Imperial city.  He had played the part of a runaway, a survivor of a burned village.  He had come to the Antaam hungry, wet, and exhausted.

                They had fed him, bathed him, and a refugee who spoke the Trade tongue asked him why he had come.  He had been frightened, but gave the refugee the lie his masters had told him to say.  “Mama took me and ran after Papa… sold us,” he said, doing his best to sound frightened, wide-eyed and innocent.  The first part wasn’t so difficult; it was the rest.  He swallowed.  He had come up with the lie some weeks prior.  “I couldn’t keep up with Mama.  When the dogs were after us, she got scared and left me, but I fell in water…  I…  I’m…”  And he pretended to struggle, and only stared at the human with eyes he knew were so pale a blue as to almost be white.

                “Blind, child.  I see that,” he had said, not unkindly.

                He was nearly fluent in Qunlat, learning as quickly as only a child can.  But, like he pretended not to see, he, too, pretended not to understand.  He did his best to not react when they spoke to one another, in their strange tongue, of what to do with a blind refugee.  But the general agreement was that they could not abandon him.  Fortunately, there were other refugees who spoke the Trade tongue more fluently, and so he had been passed to them.

                But no one really had time for a blind child who could never be of use with a bow, axe, or sword.  The other children were set aside to learn, such as reading, writing, and arithmetic, and since he was blind, no one even mentioned that he should attend; what would be the point?  He had heard that he would eventually be sent to a semi-permanent camp in north Seheron, and perhaps ultimately to Par Vallen, if it came down to it.  He heard the few other children whispering about him.  They could really just pick something to mock him about, really—there were so many things, and he had heard them all, and had heard them all his life.

                That had been before, though.

                His hands balled into fists of frustration, then loosened.  It wasn’t worth the effort.

                He had done as his Imperial masters had told him to do; he had listened, and watched, and snuck about the camp as he had been trained to do.  When someone found him, he only pretended to be lost.  It was amazing how much leeway they would give to a blind child to be lost, or so he had thought.

                It may have roused no suspicion at first, but perhaps they noticed how often he became lost in the sprawling encampment.  Maybe he had reacted wrong when he heard their plans, though—and perhaps he was wrong to assume they knew so much.

                _Attack at the wedding._

                _I have to warn them_ , he had thought with a cold certainty.  They had told him to stay, and be “taken back” in battle.  But the battle could not wait.  They were going to attack the city.  He knew which city.  There was only one that a royal wedding would be at.  His mother was there, too.  He couldn’t bear to think of the city under siege, or burning.

                He just had to escape and tell them.  He had tried, but the scouts had caught him.  At first, they had apparently mistaken him for a refugee, he knew that from listening to them talk—suspicions having been raised about him only after someone had recognized him when they brought him back.  Their suspicions were confirmed when he had been caught.  He shouldn’t have attacked them.  He wished, now, that he had not jumped to such a hasty conclusion, for they had not thought him a mage at least, no matter what else they may have known or not known.  He had left under the cover of night, and even managed to avoid the sentries by timing it _just right,_ and his spell of seeing was invaluable at night, where the dark did not affect his vision the same way as with people who were not blind.  He had skirted the army and disappeared into the dense evening fog, and was making his way—feverishly—back to the Tevinter forces.  That was when the scouts had found him.

                He had killed someone that day, he reflected.  Strangely, he felt nothing.  He had been scared and terrified, and he was only sorry that he had not killed all of them.  Sorry that he did not have the ability to kill all of them—not just the scouts, but their entire race.

                Now, he sat awaiting judgment, in his cage.  He didn’t know what he could say to convince them that they were wrong.  But they were right.  So very, very right.  He also knew that there was a slender possibility that they really had no idea he was a spy, and that they were only caging and collaring him because he was a mage.

                And still the army marched southward, to the city.  And there was nothing that Shaislyn could do about it.

                At night, he sat in the cage.  By day, he was bound at the wrist and led like a common criminal.  The debate, from what little he had managed to hear, was on what to do with him.  Many suspected that he was an informant and a spy, from what he had guessed, but they had not exactly questioned him as of yet.  Too much else to do, he assumed.  That he was a “Saarebas” complicated the matter a bit.  If asked why he had run, he intended to say that he had ran because he was afraid of what they did to mages.  It was true—oh, so painfully true.  He felt like it would be believable too.

                He had to think of how he had ended up in this cage every day.  He had to, or he would forget.  He would forget everything.  It felt like he had spent his life shackled.  He had been caged and bound for so long.  It seemed like that was all there was, but he had to think and remember that it had not always been like this.  It _hadn’t_.

                He had had a family once, he needed to remember.  He needed to remember Varania, Lura, Jameson, Vanessa, his grandmother.  He needed to remember them all, before he began to believe he had spent his entire life in this cage.  He needed to remember how he had come here, so he replayed the events in his mind every day, and tried to remember what it was like to see, but every day the memory of sight seemed more and more ludicrous to him.

                The cage was bad enough, but to suddenly have his world go dark again…  It was almost too much to bear.  How could he return to a nameless black, knowing all he was missing in the world?  It would be less cruel had he never known.

                The cage had been something hastily constructed, but like everything the Qunari did, it was expertly done even so.  It wasn’t quite high enough for him to stand, and not quite long enough to stretch out completely.  He was kept in the cage nearly all the time.  He had a “handler” of sorts—what the Qunari called _Arvaarad._   He was a relatively young Qunari, who seemed to resent his half-elven charge.

                What was the point in the position, after all, when that mage was a child and blind?  So of course Arvaarad resented him.  He brought him out less often than he really needed to relieve himself, and only under supervision—which was horrible.  He brought him food too, but struck him if he tried to speak.  Not hard—just hard enough to sting a little, and he gave up after a while.  He never gave him enough water though.

                He had learned to respond when the Qunari called him “Saarebas.”  Despite that, he tried always to remember that it wasn’t his name, no matter how much they tried to ingrain it into him that it was.

                Every time he had to respond, he would think, _Shaislyn.  My name is Shaislyn.  Mother called me “Shai”._

                They had been marching lately, moving in to position, and he knew why.  They were going to attack the city.  It made him weep, to think about all those people dead at the cruel hand of these monsters.       

                He could not even cry out his anguish.  He could not speak, for his words only came out a garbled mess.  They had not only taken his life, his sight, his name, and his gift:  They had taken his voice too.  Was he even a person any longer?

                What made a person?  Was it their ability to communicate?  Their ability to create and build and interact with the world?  Was it language?  The ability to believe in something as intangible as a god—was it their faith?  They had taken what it meant to be a person away from the child, and he believed he would never have that again.

                The little sparrow that had been visiting him over the past couple of weeks landed in the grass beside his cage.  He reached into his pocket, making soothing noises at it.  Noises were all he had left, after all.  He pulled out the crumbs from his pocket—something he saved for the little bird—and tossed them gently in its direction.  He listened to it peck at the crumbs, chirping appreciably.  He wished he could fly like the bird could.  It could fit through the bars of this cage, and just fly into the sky.

                He lifted his head when he heard someone approach.  The pattern of the steps suggested that it was Arvaarad, and someone else.  Their footsteps frightened his sparrow friend away in a flutter of wings.  Keys jangled, and the cage door opened.  The young Qunari grabbed him roughly by the arm, hauling him to his feet.

                They did not lead him, so much as drag him, to wherever they were taking him.

                _Am I finally being questioned?_

                But what would be the point in that?  They must know he was a spy, and an informant.  They must also know that he had not reached the Tevinters in time.  So why bother?

                He knew there was no use in resisting.  He had only tried to run once, and quickly learned his lesson.  Fact of the matter, he could do very little with the collar around his neck that Arvaarad did not wish for him to do.

                He tried to memorize the path they took, if nothing else, memorizing the steps, the turns, creating a map of sorts in his mind.  He did not know what he could use it for, but he tried to remember it all the same.

                A tent flap was opened, and he was brought inside.  The air in here was different, and someone else waited.  He could tell by the presence and their footfalls that all three were Qunari.  Shaislyn was brought to a pole in the middle of the room, and shackled with his back against the pole.  One of the Qunari held on to his shoulders.

                “Saarebas, you must be still,” he said in the common tongue, perhaps still not guessing that he spoke theirs as well.  Be still?  Be still for what?

                A hand touched his lips, and something cold and sharp pressed against the corner of his mouth.

 

                “The castle needs more staff for the wedding feast,” Lura chimed one evening.

                Varania barely glanced up.  “They’re only accepting blondes—with blue eyes,” she reminded her, her voice flat.

                Lura’s honey eyes sparkled.  “Not in the kitchen,” she said proudly.  “I won’t even have to prance about half-naked and glistening.”

                Varania almost laughed.  Almost—because Leto had been one of those servers at one point.  She wondered if, had things turned out differently, if she ever would have been one—and cringed at the thought.  “It pays well?”

                Lura grinned.  “I can get you a job too—I know the head cook,” she added.  “Client of mine.  Said he’d give me a job for the evening—or two if you catch my meaning.”

                The mage certainly caught her meaning, but saw no humor in whoring.  She didn’t know how Lura could make light of it, and it vaguely disgusted her that she did.  “I don’t want to know about your _clients_.”

                Lura rolled her eyes.  “I _meant_ that I can get you a job there _too_.  Look—it pays well, and it’s just the one night.  Having a mage on hand for kitchen accidents isn’t a bad idea either, so I may even get some extra coin out of him for that.  What do you say?”

                Varania hesitated, but nodded.  “I could help,” she offered.  “I’m not a good cook though.”

                Lura waved her off.  “They have cooks.  What they _don’t_ have enough of are people to run errands, wash the dishes, make everything look pretty—whatever.”

                “I thought they had slaves for that,” Varania said darkly.  The Imperium had slaves for everything.

                The whore barely blinked.  “They’re doing more menial things.”

                The mage crossed her arms.  “What’s more menial than washing a plate?”

                Lura laughed.  She had a pleasant laugh, a light in her eyes when she did it.  “Washing a floor, tending the guest rooms.  Let’s not forget all the horses…”  She counted off her list on her fingers.

                Varania sighed.  “All right.  Sign me up,” she muttered.

                Lura grinned.  “You won’t regret it.  I hear it’ll be the talk of the century.”

                At that, the mage laughed.  “I believe that _dragons_ were supposed to be the talk of the Dragon Age,” she mused.

                The other laughed along with her, but said good-naturedly, “Oh, no.  I believe that Her Perfection will change the record to read the _Wedding_ Age.”

                “That sounds boring in comparison,” she bantered right back.  Despite all the banter, though, they both really needed the money.  Situations only kept getting worse.  There had been a temporary reprieve when Varania had secured the other job, but her boss there had let her go as well.  Not because she couldn’t keep up this time, but rather because she had a cousin from Tevinter coming to live with them, and she needed a job.  Family came first, and Varania lost her job.  She had been doing odd jobs and healings since then.  This job would help tremendously, even if only for a little while.

                Still, there would be magisters there.  Perhaps she could even manage to…  No, that was impossible.

 

                No amount of water, wine, or otherwise ever really helped, Fenris reflected, swallowing the last of it.  Maybe it was all in his mind, but he tasted it long after it was over.  Danarius stared at him a moment longer, and then told him to get out.

                He did not need to be told twice; he left immediately, and found the brandy Danarius had given him to help him sleep, and drank a bit of that to get rid of the taste.  He stashed the flask again, but found himself too restless to go to sleep even so.  He stole out of the cabin, and walked along the dark hallway, listening to the moaning of the ship.  There was something so nostalgic about being in the hold.  Something he could not place.

                He wandered up on deck.  This late at night, only a handful of the sailors were up to man it, and all the passengers were in bed, if not asleep.

                The elf leaned against the railing, looking down at the dark waves.  The ocean seemed so timeless, like if he fell in, he would fall forever, swallowed up into an abyss of water, cradled in the mother ocean for an eternity.  It seemed almost comforting.  The waves looked soft and inviting, and the waters of the Ventosus Straights warm and calm.  As if, if he were to fall into it, it would reach out and accept him in an eternally loving embrace like nothing else in the world ever had—or would, for that matter.  The sea would take him in, wrap him in itself and pull him to its secret depths.  It would take him far, far away from his life, and this world, to a place he couldn’t feel or even know pain, suffering, or sorrow.   Or regret.  It would wipe it all away, baptizing him in its calm and its beauty, giving him an everlasting peace, a promise of a world without pain.  It would wash away every sin, every tear, every heartache.  All the loneliness and isolation, it would cleanse.  It would make him pure and whole and he would never again wonder who he had been or who he could have been.

                The waves crashed against the ship, little whispers begging him to topple over the rail, to be carried into the water, weightless as it pulled him under.  The dark, dark blue of the nighttime sky was seductive, the water shimmering in the starlight, the moons reflected off its distant waters, as if, if he could travel far enough, he could touch its reflection.  He could swim into the moons’ mirror, fall into the water forever, as eternal as the sea and the moons.

                The realization that he wanted to die did not shock or surprise him.  He wanted to fall asleep and never wake.  He wanted to plunge into that dark abyss below the surface of the sea, and continue to fall into it for an eternity.

                It would be so easy to fall in.  His master may even be able to say that his favourite pet had simply slipped and drowned—all an accident of sorts.

                One hand gripped the rail, and one hand touched the leather collar at his throat.  It was tooled and embroidered leather of high quality, but it was still a collar… the sort of which one would use to leash a dog.  It was just one more reason he would rather die.

                “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” a voice asked him.  He turned, his hand dropping away from his throat.  Annalkylie smiled back at him, then looked out at the ocean.  “They wouldn’t let me bring my hawks,” she complained.  Then she winked.  “But my handmaiden brought my falcon.  By the time they found him, it was too late.”

                He said nothing, but she strode up beside him, and looked up at the stars over the water.  “I could look at this for hours,” she said softly.  “It’s hard to believe, sometimes, that there’s so much suffering and pain in the world, when it’s this beautiful.”

                He looked down, back at the water.  He didn’t know if he was glad she had come, or hated her for coming when she did.  She would stop him if he tried to jump now.  Oh, he may be able to make it, but she would do everything she could to “save” him.  She would probably even  be good enough to lie for him and say he had slipped when the sailors fished him out of the sea.  But at the same time… he really did fear death.  Life had a certainty to it that death did not.  He didn’t want to throw it away on something he didn’t know, not truly.  Even if it were the most beautiful thing he could ever imagine.

                She squinted off at the distance.  “They say we’ll be able to see Seheron this time tomorrow.”

                He looked northward, his heart feeling heavy.  Seheron…

                Danarius had stood on the deck of the ship as it set sail, and stared toward Seheron.  He had glanced at his slave, and said, “You were brought here on a slave ship from Seheron, Fenris.  Your accent is gone, though.”

                Had he been a slave in Seheron too?  Or simply captive?  How old had he been?  He wished he knew.

                Annalkylie was staring at him.  He blinked when he realized that she had been for some time.  “Thinking about something?” she asked him curiously.

                He glanced away, back toward the water.  “No, my lady,” he said, the lie coming easily to his lips.  In fact, he barely thought about it as a lie.

                She frowned.  “You know…”  She looked around the deck, and took a step closer to him.  “I... found the records.”  Fenris didn’t know what she meant.  “I mean—I was studying, and I found one of the notes my uncle wrote…  It’s about…”  She hesitated.  “It’s about the Ritual, with the…”  She gestured at him with one hand.  He raised an eyebrow inquiringly.  “The lyrium, I mean—tattoos… things.  Whatever.”  She sighed.  “What I’m saying is, I found the notes.  I haven’t had the time to read it all, but…  What I read.  I thought you needed to know that—“

                “Lady Annalkylie!” a voice scolded.  The young mage flinched, and turned, a sheepish grin spreading across her face.  A stern-looking servant marched up to her.  “Young lady, you will catch your death of cold out in this.  Back to bed immediately.”

                “But I need—“

                “No,” she said, in a tone that brooked no argument.  “To bed.  Now.”

                Annalkylie looked helplessly back at Fenris.  “You need to know—“

                “Bed,” the woman interrupted.  “Now.”

                The girl sighed, and mouthed, _Later_.  She shrugged at him and trailed after the servant, who scolded her all the way back to her cabin.

                Fenris wondered what she had intended to say.  Would it even matter?  It was just about the Ritual.  He already knew all he cared to learn about _that_ , frankly, so he wasn’t even certain that he cared to know whatever she thought was so important.

 

                Danarius had politely requested a private dinner with his niece.  He had even banished Fenris to “somewhere else” and didn’t particularly care what the elf was up to—not right now anyway.

                The two mages talked of mundane things, and discussed the art of their gift for several minutes as well, but toward the end of the meal, the magister changed the subject to the real reason for the shared meal—things he normally preferred to take alone.

                “I wanted to talk to you about my will,” he said, and removed a document from the desk.  “This is a copy.”  He placed it on the table.

                She did not look at it.  Rather, she refused to, keeping her blue eyes on him.  “Uncle, you’re not that old,” she pretended to scold him.

                The magister lifted his glass, taking a sip of it.  “Old enough,” he chided her.  “It’s time I start thinking of what I want to do with the estate and my assets.”  He glanced at her.  “I’ve no heirs, as you know.”  He stared into the contents of his glass, swirling the liquid around slowly in the cup as he thought aloud.  “You are obviously well taken care of, and Agasius will, of course, inherit your family estate from my brother, and I will give him Vinewood as well.  But what of the estate in Minrathous?”  He looked at her.

                She raised one delicately arched eyebrow.  “You will not give it to Hadriana?”

                He scoffed at the idea.  “And deprive her of earning her way through the world?  Perish the thought—she’d never have it.  No, she _wants_ to earn everything she receives in the world.  Giving her the estate would imply, to her, that she could not have achieved such a thing on her own.”

                Annalkylie nodded, as if she approved of this manner of thinking.  “I agree,” she said reasonably.  “And the businesses?  What of those?”

                “ _Those_ I will give to Hadriana, as a gift of her service.  Nothing more,” he considered.  The girl might even take that as an affront, but really it was an honor—a trust, as it were.  “If you don’t want the manor…  Well, I’m quite certain your future husband will be able to provide you with anything you might require.  Get rid of it, if you don’t want it, but it’s yours.”  He set the glass down, and looked at her seriously.  “But there’s one thing you must keep.”

                She frowned, quite curious.  “Oh?  What could that be?”

                He laced his fingers together.  “Fenris,” he answered, voice soft, as if speaking his name too loudly would summon him.

                Annalkylie straightened.  “What?”

                He looked at her.  “What am I to do with the lad when I die?  Do you think Agasius or my brother would want him—or sell him to the military?”  He let the question hang in the air for a moment.  The silence was enough of an answer.  “I cannot hope for more from Hadriana—though knowing her, it will be the Proving until he dies.  I don’t want my prized possession to die like that.”  He made a face, his contempt for the idea showing plainly.  “Without an heir of my own that leaves… you.”

                She only blinked, and was silent as she processed this.  “He’s your life’s work,” she said with slow realization.

                He gave a single, curt nod.  “Yes.  And I’m trusting you with him.  Of course, I will give you all the documents I have kept regarding Fenris, and the Ritual.”

                She stared down at her empty plate, and wished she had some food to occupy her, and stall her reply.  Fenris and the Ritual were his _legacy._   “This is all very… sudden.”

                “I apologize.”

                She shook her head.  “No.  It’s… fine.  Just… unexpected.  Yes, I see where I am the best candidate.”  She flashed a winning smile.  “Of course I’ll take excellent care of your lyrium-imbrued elf.”

                He chuckled.  “I am pleased to hear of it.”  Though she still did not so much as glance at the will, he felt leaving it out was no longer necessary, so he returned it to the drawer, and locked it.  He would burn it later—just in case.  The only copies he really needed were in Minrathous.

 

                Annalkylie tried to find a moment to talk to Fenris privately, but never managed to catch him alone again.  She saw him plenty of times, but it wasn’t like she—a highborn lady—could really pull aside a slave for a private chat.

                _He deserves to know_ , she thought sadly.  She would want to know.

                But she couldn’t manage to talk to him.  She never caught him on deck again during the few times she managed to escape her cabin without some servant yelling at her to get back inside.  She despised being told what to do.

                So, she spent much of the voyage in her small cabin, alone with a few books and her handmaiden for company.  She wished she could have at least brought Lily, her wolf dog.  But, truly, the sea was no place for a dog.  One small joy was feeding her falcon, though.  Danarius had decreed, with some smoldering, that if she were cheeky enough to bring the bird, she could feed it and tend to it herself, rather than wasting anyone else’s time.

                Truly, though, she did not mind this.  She cleaned up its droppings and fed the creature scraps of meat.  It gave her time away from others, to think about her life and where it was going.

                She had no regrets, she decided.  Oh, there were things in her life she would change if given the chance, but true regret?  No.  Everything was as she would have it, she supposed.  But sometimes she wished she had been born an apostate—some witch out in a forest.

                Kylie looked across the sea, but not toward Seheron, as was her ordinary custom, but out at the other ships in the fleet, the ones escorting them, and the other ship that held her husband-to-be and his family.  Her mother and father, and her siblings were with her on this ship, and she did spend some time with her sisters.  She played the harp, and Caleigh sang.  Cristabelle was on a third ship, one more for guests, as she opted to be with her husband and child—else she would have likely played her flute.

                Kylie still hated embroidery, but that was politely glazed over, as she had taken up the harp and dancing instead.  Everyone else seemed to appreciate her musical skills, but what thrilled Kylie the most was the sound of the crashing waves, the occasional shriek of her falcon.

                She studied the ships for a moment, and then looked out past them, back toward the mainland, at a particular spot along the coast, just outside Minrathous.  They would be in Seheron by nightfall, perhaps sooner, as they had been favoured with good weather and fair winds.  She couldn’t hope to see it from here, but she knew that, by nightfall, there would be a fire on the horizon.


	64. Duty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two magisters are at odds, and Fenris tries to cope with his nightmares. Varania worries about seeing Danarius at the wedding.

The whore trailed her fingers down his chest, her lashes fluttering.  Her breasts heaved when he caressed her slender waist.  She climbed atop him, and they embraced.  She moved against him, pushing him into her.

                When it was done, he rolled her off of him, leaning over her, watching the sweat trickle between her breasts.  She smiled lustily up at him.  “I’ve never lain with a magister before,” she breathed.

                He scowled.  “I never mentioned that I was a magister,” he complained.

                She laughed, her arms wrapping around his neck.  “I’ve heard about you,” said the dark-skinned Rivaini beauty.

                “Oh?” he inquired, suddenly quite curious.

                Her smile showed a bit of her perfectly white teeth.  “Oh, yes,” she said in her breathy voice.  “Only one magister has a slave like that.”

                “Fenris,” he mused.  His pet stood at the door, vigilant, and probably doing his best to hear absolutely nothing of what was going on just on the other side of the door.

                She squirmed under him, running one of her long legs against his hip.  “Do his tattoos cover all of him?  Or just his arms and neck?” she wondered.  “I saw a bit on his feet too.”

                His lips found her neck, and for a while neither spoke as the conversation became distracted by his mouth and roving hands.  He leaned back, away from her, and traced a pattern on her breast.  “Every bit of him,” he said.  “Watch.”  A light touch of magic, and he traced the design perfectly, from memory, onto her breast, in a thin crust of ice that made her nipples hard, and her breathing quicken.  It was perfect in its detail, but melting quickly.  She looked at it, then frowned.

                “Even his penis?” she wondered, before she leaned forward, and took the magister in her mouth.

                “Yes,” he gasped, his fingers burying in her thick, dark hair. 

                Her mouth left a trail of kisses up to his neck.  “That sounds exciting.  I’d like to see that,” she mused, drawing him back down on top of her, her legs wrapping dexterously around him.

                He considered, and then smiled.  “Would you, my dear?  I could bring him in.  Have him strip for you.”

                She giggled at that.  It was a very womanly sound—not girlish at all.  “Mmm.  Does he really glow?”

                “If I command it,” he said.  Her hand positioned him, then he stopped, and smirked.  “He’d make a fine… toy.  He’s really quite lovely.”

                She grinned wickedly at that idea.

 

                Fenris had been at the door for the better part of the night, and had absolutely no desire to be there.  He watched the other clients come and go.  He watched the whores pass by in the night.  Still his master was preoccupied with the exotic whore.

                Though, he was not unaccustomed to this.  Danarius was no stranger to whorehouses, and Fenris, unfortunately, was no stranger to standing guard outside the door, listening to it and trying not to with all his might.

                Most of the more expensive places might have thicker walls, yes, but the doors were not so thick, and it was the door he had to stand beside.

                It would be bad enough if he hadn’t ever been under the man.  It was worse, though, for it, because he knew what it all _meant_ with a cold, dead certainty.

                It had been sort of quiet for a while, though, so maybe they had stopped?  Somehow he doubted it.  A brief reprieve, maybe, was all.  But the door opened, and he at first thought that perhaps it really was time to go, but it was the dark-haired Rivaini whore who came out.

                She was naked, and stared at him like she was going to eat him.  “Come inside—your master wants you,” she said, and laughed as if it were a joke.

                Oh, if only she knew.  Or… maybe she did.

                Danarius was lounging on the bed, naked and sweaty.  Fenris tried not to look directly at either of them.  The whore shut the door, and climbed onto the bed with his master, curling up around him rather than beside him, her hands trailing down his chest, slowly going lower.  Danarius was staring at Fenris, though.

                “My pet,” Danarius purred.  The elf didn’t like that tone of his voice.  Nothing good ever happened when he spoke like that.  “Take off your clothes.”

                _Why am I not surprised?_   He obeyed, making no effort to stall.  He peeled off his clothing awkwardly, and if any effort was put into the command, he only made it as unattractive as possible.  He stared downwards, peeling off the tunic.  He dropped it beside him carelessly, and twitched, just a little.  He didn’t want to do this.  He could feel them both watching, their eyes roved over him as certainly as hands as he stepped out of his trousers, kicking them beside the tunic.  The room was warm, but he crossed his arms as if it were cold.  He wanted to hide, his eyes fixed on the design on the carpet, the blues and yellows swirling under his feet like water.

                “Wow,” the whore said, staring at him in a dim light.  She looked at the magister.  “I want to see him glow.”

                “Fenris.”

                He did not looked up, but summoned his rage.  It wasn’t difficult.  In fact, it came easily to his call.  The room lit up with the lyrium.  The whore cried out in a mixture of fear and delight.  He was sorely tempted to just drop through the floor and escape this—claim it was an accident.  He didn’t think Danarius would believe him though.

                “Is… is it all right to touch him?” she asked him.  “Can anyone… get that close to him?”

                Danarius laughed.  “My sweet, he’s quite tame.  The lyrium, though, is still up for debate.”

                Fenris flinched slightly.  _Tame_.  Something about it made his stomach clench.  His eyes traced the pattern on the carpet.  The blues and yellows faded to green closer to the bed.  Was that an elephant amidst the whorls and twists? 

                The whore timidly moved up to him, and touched his arm. 

                Yes, it was an elephant.  The blues were waves, crashing around it as if the magnificent beast had risen from the surf and the sand, its long tusks bedecked with tassels and chains, the animal fitted for parade.

                Then, more bold, her hand pressed against his chest, tracing the glowing tattoos.  He looked up instead, away from her.  The drapes were not as interesting as the carpet, he noticed.  They were a green and gold paisley print.  The blue and gold bed drew the entire design together.  It was nicer, he reflected, than having every single piece of fabric match.  It looked more… 

                She traced the marks down, down to…  He cringed, and she bent, licking along the lyrium daringly, all the way down between his legs.  She traced the lyrium there, and then took him in her mouth.  Fenris’ eyes slid closed.

                _Less_ , he amended.  _It looked less perfect._ It was okay if something in here was askew, or broken, or if they bed were messy, because it did not rely on a cruel perfection to be visually appealing.  Danarius called him perfect, but when he looked in a mirror, all he ever saw were all his flaws, the brokenness, how nothing seemed right.  Nothing ever felt right.

                If he had bothered to look, he would have seen her mouth glowing, the lyrium even shining through the wet cavern.  He heard Danarius chuckle, and he gasped, then swallowed hard.  He wanted nothing more than to shove her away, but did not wish to incur his master’s ill will.

                The whore, satisfied, moved away from him, running her hands back up the lyrium.  The light abruptly flickered out.  She laughed, one of her hands encircling his swollen cock.

                “Magister, can I play with him?” she asked excitedly.

                The man considered.  “Yes, sweetling.”  She laughed with delight.

                “Come,” she told him, and led him to the bed.  He walked as if in a dream—some haunted nightmare really.  She shoved him down, and laid him on his back.

                “Master… don’t…” he heard himself plead, closing his eyes.  “I don’t want…”  He didn’t know why he tried.  He had never intended to beg like that.  He had never done that before.

                It came as a shock when Danarius put his hand against the whore’s shoulder, stopping her from climbing on top of him.  “It seems my pet prefers men,” the magister told her.

                The whore laughed, and Fenris looked away.  That wasn’t it, but he didn’t care.  Let them think that.  Let them think anything—anything that would free him from this room, this bed.  That woman!

 

                The whore pouted, looking back at his pet.  “He’s so pretty—you’re right,” she sighed.  “Fine.  Send him out.”  She crossed her arms indignantly.  “I’m not good enough for him.”

                Danarius laughed.  “You just don’t have a cock.”  The whore chuckled, leaning over Fenris, her breasts mashed against his chest.  The elf flinched as if it burned, his eyes sliding closed.  He was so… miserable and despaired that the magister felt, oddly, moved to pity.  “Get off of him, sweetling,” he said gently.

                The whore shifted, but did not completely get off of the elf.  “He doesn’t like _me_ ,” she drawled.  “But _you_ have a cock.”  Her eyebrows lifted in mock innocence.

                He watched Fenris’ face contort—just for a moment, into something akin to horror before it faded into a melancholy expression.  He did want to take him.  He wanted to push him on to his knees and have the whore oil him and prepare him with her fingers and mouth, and then he wanted to slide his member into him—slowly.  Inch by inch, appreciating how tight he would be, and how good it would feel.  He really didn’t take him that often, if at all—perhaps six times in ten years.  He had no doubt Fenris remembered each time vividly though, from the way he flinched and cringed.

                Danarius suffered no illusions that consent meant willingness.  It was more that his slave was only that:  His slave.

                Yet… Fenris was in such obvious pain from this.  His suffering was plain to see, even to the most uncaring.  He felt—Fenris could deal with Danarius, but the whore was something else.

                “Get off of him,” he said, a little bit firmer this time.

                She grinned wickedly, sitting up, but her hand was still on the elf’s defined stomach.  “I have some oil…  Let’s play with him.”  She smiled lustily.  “I’ll touch you while you fuck him.”

                Tempting.  The stupid whore had no idea just how tempting, but he had already made up his mind.  If he pushed too hard against Fenris’ oh-so-paper-thin sanity, the man would break.  Lately, the magister knew he had been pushing a little too hard.  “Leave my pet alone, darling.  Let him go, and come to me.”

                The whore was reluctant, and also didn’t seem to see what he was saying.  She moved so that her back was on Fenris.  “Then fuck me on him,” she said, spreading her legs.  Then she grinned, moving, bowing her head between the elf’s legs.  “He didn’t mind my mouth so much.”

                Danarius saw Fenris flinch as she drew him into her mouth.  Watched the elf grimace, as if in some kind of horrible pain.  The magister’s patience was at an end.

                He gripped the whore’s hair, though she was accustomed to rough play, and was not alarmed.  She should have been.  The magister ripped her off of his slave, dragging her from the bed.  He shoved her to the floor roughly.  “I told you not to touch him.  Three times, I told you to leave him be.”

                She was afraid now.  Her legs curled up against her chest.  She stared at him with wide, frightened eyes.  “I… I thought…  He was your slave, and…”

                “He is,” Danarius snapped.  “And nothing happens to him without my blessing.  He didn’t want you—wasn’t that clear?”

                She was genuinely alarmed.  “I…” she stammered.

                His fingers curled into fists.  “I told you to stop.  _Fenris_ wanted you to stop.  But you didn’t.”

                “Master,” the elf interjected, his voice gentle, even soothing.  He had been so angry that he hadn’t realized how his power was building, his magic wanting to react to his mood.  He glanced back at his pet, naked in the bed, and beautiful, and his anger was forgotten.  The elf looked at him, sage alien eyes wide.  “Please…  Don’t hurt her.”  He was always begging him not to hurt people, usually children, but sometimes women.  Leto had done the same thing.  He had a weakness for children.

                Danarius stared at his slave for a long moment.  “Aren’t you angry that she touched you?”

                The elf’s eyes flicked downward.  “No.  It’s… all she knows.”

                Maker, he was beautiful.  “Get out, whore.  My pet saved your life,” Danarius snapped at her.  She yelped, snatched a thin robe from a peg on the wall, and was gone in an instant, the door slamming shut behind her.  Danarius went back to the bed, where Fenris still sat.  The elf looked up at him hesitantly, not quite at his face.  The mage touched his pet’s cheek, gently guiding his face to look up at him.  He smiled—and it felt good actually, genuine.  “You owe me the rest of the night, though.  I already paid her.”

 

                _It’s easier,_ Fenris thought, his heart heavy, _if I can get off._

                It wasn’t—not really, but it hurt less when he told himself that.  If he could moan and come, he could tell himself he wanted it.  It made it easier to bear.  Danarius never hurt him at least, not when he took him to bed.

                _I should be honored he even wants me.  He’s a magister; I’m just his slave, his pet._

                _It could be worse_ , he told himself.  _It isn’t that bad._

                He thought of the slave girl he had witnessed being raped before an audience.  He thought about Perya.  Danarius had always been gentle about it.  It didn’t leave him feeling less broken and used, but at least…  _At least he doesn’t hurt me._

                Danarius could make him orgasm with a touch of his hand, magic manipulating him.  _He could just rape me._   It wasn’t inconsiderate.  He didn’t treat him wholly like a whore, or wholly like an orifice either.  Whatever his master wanted him for, he had no right to complain.

                So why did it hurt so much?

 

                Lysander watched the gate, while the others crept inside.  He waited until the last of them had gone, and then he hauled the body away from the main gate, obscuring it in the bushes.

                His father’s sword felt heavy against his back.  He hadn’t been the one to kill the Templar—that was Jason’s work—but it felt like it had been himself.  It might as well have been himself.

                Lysander had been training to be a knight—someone good and just.  Now here he was, skulking in darkness.  What they were doing was treasonous.  True, the magisters may thank them privately, but outwardly… it was treason.

                But it had paid well—really well in fact.  He wouldn’t have done it at all, but it paid so well.  He wouldn’t want to do anything to help the magisters—not after what they had done to his father.  Killed him, seized the business, all their assets… everything.  The magister had thrown he and his sisters out with nothing but the clothes on their backs—and the sword.

                That had been years ago, and it had been a hard life since then.  He had taken every job he could get.  He had a strong back, and had stacked crates at the docks.  He had swept floors, scoured pots, done everything he could to feed and clothe the girls.  It had never quite been enough.  He couldn’t get a real job.  He sometimes got some work as a scribe, but if anyone learned who his father had been, how he had been publicly disgraced, well…  No one wanted to employ him after that.

                So he had changed his last name to Minas.  Common enough—no one even thought anything of it.  If they inquired as to his background, he made up how he had come from a poor family.  If they inquired as to the fancy sword, he only said that it had belonged to his father—some token of a wealthy man’s favor, long lost upon the child now wielding it.

                He had killed people, since coming to the streets.  The first time, a common thug had tried to kidnap one of the girls—either rape her or sell her, or both.  Lysander had been so angry that he had killed him.  After that, the other came easier.  The mercenary work, that is.

                He was hired to put down slave riots, mostly.  There was no glory in putting down desperate men.  It was grim, unsatisfying work.  The army would pay him more, but where would that leave the girls?  Sometimes, he would help kill darkspawn, and that was more satisfying than the other.  At least that was justifiable, and Tevinter always had darkspawn outbreaks like no other country in the surface world—the Anderfells aside.

                He did his best to keep them clean, too.  The oldest—now fourteen—had quietly suggested working at a brothel.  He had taken his sister in his arms and made her promise never to mention that again.  No matter how bad things seemed, they could never get that desperate.

                After all, they were better off than they had been.  Once, they had been in a box in a gutter.  Now, they at least had a roof over their heads.  True, it was a leaky one, with rats, but it was a home of sorts.

                Lysander moved back to the gate, his worn, dirty leathers creaking.  He waited, staring downwards, listening to the clash of swords from within, knowing the signal fire would not be reached in time.  That particular Templar had been paid off, and he was the only one allowed to leave unscathed.  In short order, his comrades in arms, and the Templar, hurried from the building.  Lysander joined them, and they began to run across the field, to their waiting mounts.

                They did not make it before the bomb exploded.  It was a work of lyrium, but a good one, crafted by dwarves.  The building exploded, but that was nothing but a cover-up.  The real damage had already been done.

                All those phylacteries… shattered.

                They met a dwarven woman two miles south of there, and she paid them the rest of the dues—individually, before she left them with her guards.  The men parted ways.  It was good practice to forget one another’s names after such an event.  The Templar had already gone, in fact.

                Each went off separately, even if many were headed back to Minrathous.

                Lysander himself made it back to the city on his rented horse by the afternoon the next day.  He returned the animal, and argued with the merchant on whether or not there had been a tear in the saddle before he had left.  There had, but the man was so loud that a guard was roused, and Lysander paid the man quickly before a scene was made.

                He grumbled to himself, and trudged home, exhausted and hungry.  No one paid him much heed.

                After this, he should be able to pay off the moneylender the rest of his current debt, and get the girls something new to wear.  Or, close to new anyway.  Maybe some meat—that would be nice.

                He walked by the _Mermaid’s Kiss_ and felt himself shiver.  The brazen women in the windows above called out to the men on the streets, and even to him.  There were men too, of course.  He would never admit it—to anyone, least of all his sisters—but he had sold himself there.  The proprietor—Serrah Chaisty—had been telling him for an entire year beforehand that he had a man that would pay for him.  _Three whole sovereigns,_ he had said.

                Lysander stared down at the cobblestone, and didn’t look up.

                Well, Issie had gotten sick, and he could barely afford food, let alone medicine or a mage to heal her.  Chaisty had only had to smile knowingly when Lysander finally swallowed his pride and came to him.  He hadn’t been lying, though, and the man certainly did come two days later.  Lysander had been desperate to keep Issie well, but she just seemed to keep getting worse.  Chaisty had given Lysander a bed for the night.

                It had been terrifying.  Worse than terrifying, and when he cried, the man had licked the tears off his face before he pushed his head into the pillows.  It had muffled his cries of pain.  Chaisty had found him in the alley in the morning… vomiting.  The man had the audacity to laugh when he handed him the money, saying he was taking some of it for the rent of the room, some more for ruining the sheets.  When he took a whole sovereign, Lysander felt cheated, but too sick, and too unable to do anything about it to stop it.

                It had taken nearly all of the money to heal Issie.  Lysander certainly didn’t regret healing her, but he shivered every time he walked by the _Mermaid_.  Similarly to how Chaisty smiled knowingly every time Lysander stumbled out of one of his rooms, and went to the back alley to vomit.  Desperation drove him to it, and a desire to do better by the girls.  What else could he do?  He couldn’t always find work, but Chaisty always seemed to have a client interested in a young man with blonde hair, who had a reputation for crying a lot in bed.

                But the purse at his side had a nice weight to it.  This was his big break.  With this…  It wasn’t exactly a way out, but it was a good start.  If he could get in good with the mercenary guild and pay his dues, he could find work more regularly—better paying jobs too.

                No matter what horrors he had been through, or committed, the things he had done he was ashamed of, when little Issie flew at him as he stepped through the door, and Matilda rushed to embrace him, everything in the world seemed right.  He looked at Issie and insisted that she had gotten taller and prettier since he had seen her last—a few days ago.  She giggled, and blushed, and he was happy to be alive.

 

                “You’re late,” Madame Aurane told her as Lura rushed in.  She panted, trying to catch her breath.

                “The gate at the alienage was closed,” Lura said.  She swiped her brow.  “I had to scale the wall—don’t talk to me about being late.”

                Aurane regarded her the same way she might regard a mouse who had dared to enter her establishment.  “Go wash yourself off.  Your appointment is in fifteen minutes.”

                “Appointment?” Lura asked, a bit surprised.

                Aurane’s facial expression did not change.  “Yes.  You were asked for, specifically, by name.”

                Lura frowned.  “Oh.”  Then she hurried to the bathing room.  The water was tepid, and the soap scented.  She scrubbed down quickly and brushed her hair.  She donned the low-cut gown that hugged her waist and hips and strode up to her room.  She made sure that everything was in order, and then realized that she had not thought to ask who it was that had requested her.  She walked back down the stairs, reasoning that she still had some time.  She asked Aurane, and she showed her the ledger.  Lura looked at the name.  “Oh,” she said, and wondered how angry Aurane would be if Lura were to walk out the door.

                “He’ll pay two sovereigns for the night, and you’re taking Allison’s room,” Aurane said.  She looked at her, waiting to see what her part-time whore would do.  Lura only stared, so the human said, “Lura, you will perform or you will not come back again—do you hear me?  It’s your job, your duty.”

                Lura nodded once.  “Oh,” she said again, and turned away, and went back to the room.  She waited, but not long.  He came to her, and she pretended not to know him.  She knew that he knew her, but it was better if she pretended.  Even when he laughed and called her by name, even when he commented on how he had bedded her before.  She let it all wash over her like water—wet, but it would dry, and she would be no worse off for it.  He said he had paid enough for her to do things, things that she would rather not do, but she did them.  There wasn’t much other choice for her, not really.  And Madame Aurane would not allow complaint from customers, not unless they hurt one of her whores.  Some things hurt, but nothing that was lasting, save the emotional damage, and when she thought about it, there wasn’t too much about her that was worth preserving.  Leto had made a sacrifice to get her away from this, and what had she done?  She would be ashamed if he knew.

                As he was finally dressing, she asked him, “Is Leto alive?”

                Danarius looked back at her, his gaze lingering more on her breasts than on her face.  “No,” he told her, voice bland.  “He’s gone—he didn’t last through the Ritual.”

                She stared at him, her eyes wide and unbelieving.  “But…  I’ve heard that you…  That you have a bodyguard that’s…”

                “Another slave.  Someone else survived the Ritual.  Not Leto.”

                “Oh,” she said, her eyes flicking to the floor.  And she suddenly didn’t care about anything that had just transpired.  Not even the things he had said to her.  She found that she didn’t care about much of anything, in fact.  He had paid for the entire evening, but it had only been a few hours.  As he was leaving, he dropped two gold coins into her lap.  She stared at them as if from far away, and scarcely heard the door shut.  She sat for a long time, but did not cry.

                Her heart was broken, and she felt numb.  Too numb to think for the longest time, and when her mind was finally forming thoughts and whole sentences again, she could only think, _Leto is dead._

                And she sat for a while longer, and finally a tear rolled down her cheek, then another, and she was laying on the tangled sheets and crying, her grief racked through her like a thing alive, and she knew she would never love again.  She didn’t think she could ever even dream again.

 

                _He was sitting on a slated rooftop._   _The stars were out, and_ _the person beside him excitedly pointed at a shooting star, which he just barely missed enough to know that she had seen it._

_“Make a wish,” he heard himself say in a voice that was not quite his own._

_The redheaded girl had smiled, and closed her eyes, and wished, then opened them again, all smiles.  “How many stars are out there?”_

_“I don’t know—millions?”_

_She scooted closer to him, and snuggled up to his warmth.  He felt a sort of protectiveness of her, and she a childlike adoration for him.  “Can we count them?”_

_“But there’s millions of them,” he protested, but she begged and badgered, and he relented.  They leaned back on the roof, and counted.  As the numbers ascended, the scenery around him began to change, and suddenly he realized he was dreaming.  Fenris looked at the girl, and moved instinctively away from her.  He wanted to ask, Who are you?  But he did not need to—the girl was staring at him in shocked horror too, as if she did not know who he was either._

_The lyrium was glowing, and when he looked up, the stars were not stars, but tiny dots of lyrium.  The girl ran away from him—farther and farther away into the night, and he called out to her, but she did not even turn around.  He was alone, and there was nothing but the glowing lyrium.  He heard an infant crying, and tried to look for it, but did not see it.  He heard other sounds—terrifying sounds of hacking limbs and bloody, curdled cries.  Something touched his arm, then fell away as he jumped.  The things in the darkness were all around him, and he could not see them, not even for the light of the lyrium._

_They touched him occasionally, before they fell away with a hacking, bloody sound.  Then he heard someone say his name, and he turned and looked, but saw no one.  He ran, but could not escape the dark world of lyrium and the things in the dark.  They were everywhere, and it went on forever…  Someone called his name again…_

                Fenris’ eyes opened with a startled gasp.  The light from the lyrium was casting shadows on the wall, and he could not calm enough to control it.  Someone touched his arm, and he jumped, and looked up at Danarius.  His master must have come back from the whorehouse recently; he was still dressed and smelled like sex.  Fenris had only wondered why he had been insistent to leave his bodyguard behind.

                “The servants would not go near you,” he explained, running a finger along the brightly glowing lyrium.  Fenris’ heart pounded, eyes wide from the nightmare.  He swallowed, and the light dulled, then he remembered the things in the dark, and it just brightened again.

                Danarius rubbed his thumb along Fenris’ cheekbone, and cupped his face.  “They’re just dreams,” he told him. 

                Fenris was not entirely certain he believed him.  It had felt…  Nothing had ever felt so real.  He also had not had this many problems controlling the lyrium since the Ritual.  It was almost embarrassing really.  “Yes, Master,” he whispered, but the lyrium only dimmed again, then flared.

                Danarius sighed, and sat down beside him.  A few minutes later, a little patient coaxing and calming, and Fenris was laying down with his head against Danarius’ leg, and the magister was idly running his finger along the lyrium on his slave’s arm, his other hand in his hair.  The lyrium had dimmed considerably, and it would always glow, but Fenris was still not exactly calm.  He felt like if he were to sleep again, he would only dream the same dream again.  He wondered if the infant crying in the dream was going through the same torment he had been—the things he could not see brushing against him.

                “Feeling better?” his master inquired.

                Fenris was silent a long moment.  “No,” he admitted.

                “I know a sleeping spell.  You wouldn’t dream.”

                To tell the truth,  Fenris had been having nightmares since they had first docked a couple of days ago.  Sleep did not come easily to him here, and he wanted to be gone from this place as soon as possible.  “I wouldn’t?”

                “No.”

                Fenris accepted this idea with perfect trust, and the magister cast the spell, and watched his pet relax, and fall asleep.  Rochelle had, upon learning the spell was possible, told him to study it, because it might be useful for future children.  Using it now had been… difficult.  His child would be a little older than Fenris now, if it had lived.  That was a rattling thought.

                He moved the elf back onto the cushions, and looked down at him in the gloom of the room.  His apprentice was trained, his wife was dead, his child dead, but he still had his legacy lying on the bed.  That was something—more than some people had even.  Then why did it still leave him feeling empty?

 

                Vanessa looked at the magister across from her.  She despised all of these politics and backstabbing words, daggers cloaked in every sentence.  She would rather speak frankly than read between the lines.  It was exactly why, if she ever went back to the mainland, she would resign.

                “Have you taken an apprentice?” he asked, very casually it would seem.

                She forced a pleasant smile.  “I haven’t the time,” she said honestly.  “Too much work with the military, you see.”

                Danarius nodded thoughtfully.  “You take your duties very seriously, it would seem.”

                “And some do not take them seriously enough.”  Her fingers knitted together.  “We need more men, and more ships.  Not slaves; I want trained soldiers and sailors.”  She had gone to each magister who had come individually.  Some had offered to placate her with money, others offered slaves, some even offered weapons, but it was not what they needed.  “We need supplies.  We need tradesmen:  Blacksmiths, bow makers, fletchers, and furriers.  I need more destriers.”

                “I’m breeding destriers,” he said amiably.  “Though training them is very difficult, and they are very expensive.”  He straightened.  “Still, how many do you need?”  He knew the war effort was important at least.  Some of the southern, more inland magisters were so far detached from it that they infuriated her.

                They talked business, and prices.  He invested in ships, but what she had gone after Danarius for were the war horses and supplies.  They spoke for a time about that, before Vanessa moved on to the next subject.  “I need to feed the men too.  And I flatly refuse to feed the slaves in-field on gruel and rice.  I need something more sustaining for them too.  Everyone needs to keep their morale and their strength up, the slaves especially if we keep sending them to dangerous areas.  They too easily defect when we treat them poorly.”

                Danarius nodded thoughtfully.  Some magisters had argued with her on that point.  At least he was reasonable.  But she had been banking on him being reasonable.  “My brother grows wheat, rice, and barley.  Perhaps I can speak to him.”

                Vanessa sighed, but nodded.  “What we really need is more meat—cows and pigs.”

                The magister shrugged.  “I’m afraid I disposed of my family’s sheep some couple dozen years ago, but I, perhaps, could come across some cattle.”  He frowned.  “But I want something.”

                “You always do,” she sighed, and gestured him on.  “What can I do for you?”

                He was silent for a moment.  “There’s a boy—about eight years old—a slave.  Owned by the army,” he began.  Vanessa frowned.  “He’s half-elven, and blind.”

                _Shaislyn,_ she thought.  He had come from Minrathous.  Was Danarius his mother’s master?  “What of him?”

                He smiled pleasantly.  “It would be very convenient for me if he were to be marched north and die in battle.”

                Vanessa’s eyes widened in shock.  Why?  He was just a child…  Then she looked at the man.  The curly hair, the pale blue eyes, even some of the features.  “I see,” she said.  “You’re the boy’s sire, aren’t you.”

                Danarius stared at her, daring her to continue.  But she already knew where it was headed.  He had no heir to speak of with his lady wife dead so long ago, magic bleeding out of his bloodlines.  And Shaislyn, being his son, was a political scandal.  Why, then, hadn’t he killed the boy a long time ago?

                She sat back in her chair.  “You could have had him killed at any time when he was in the alienage.  Why didn’t you?”

                “I used to think I might have need of him in the future, but I am quite certain now that it would be better if he died.”

                She didn’t know what he meant exactly by that, but it angered her nonetheless.  “No.”

                He raised an eyebrow.  “Very well.  Is he at the fort?”

                Her eyes narrowed dangerously.  “No.  I won’t tell you where he is, and when he gets back, it is none of your business.”  She rose to her feet.  “I’m adopting him.  I will abolish all records of his bloodlines, and for all sakes and purposes, he will be my son.  Will this be sufficient to getting rid of him?”

                He looked annoyed.  “No.”  They were both silent, the magisters staring at one another, testing the other.  “But I don’t need your permission to have him killed, Vanessa.  It would just be simpler.”  He rose from the chair.  “I’ll see about the destriers and the grain.  You consider your decision.  The same accidents that could befall a half-trained slave could just as easily befall a magister.  So be careful.”

                Vanessa was seething by the time he left.  He had tried to buy Shaislyn’s life with a few head of cattle.  Well, when he got back, she was adopting him, and that would be the end of it.  She would have to be careful for a while, but perhaps an accident could just as easily befall Danarius.

 

                Varania paced back and forth.  “I heard the guards talking,” she said.  “On my way back from the Circle, I mean.”

                Lura looked up.  She was up to her elbows in soapy water, scrubbing their chipped plates and pots.  “About what?”

                Varania stopped walking abruptly.  “They’re going to close off the alienage the night of the wedding,” she said, rounding on Lura as if it were her fault.

                The brunette blinked, and went back to scrubbing.  “We’ll be at the castle all night, I imagine.  They’ll open them again in the morning—I’m sure.”

                The mage bit her lip worriedly.  “We shouldn’t go,” she said, wringing her hands nervously.

                “It’ll be fine,” Lura told her again.  “Look—I’ve climbed that gate before, and I can get you over it too.”

                Somehow, Varania wasn’t surprised.  It wasn’t the gate closing all night that worried her, though.  “You remember the bride’s family name?” she said, seemingly changing the subject.

                Lura frowned.  “No—I hate politics.  What’s it matter?”

                Varania threw up her hands.  “How can you _miss_ that?  It’s _Danarius_.”

                Lura dropped the wet rag back into the soapy water, then looked down and busied herself again.  “It doesn’t mean anything.  We’ll be in the kitchen,” she pointed out.

                Varania crossed her arms, and couldn’t think of anything else to say.  “I…  If he’s there, I can’t go.”  Memories of the rape still haunted her, years later.  It had left her with child, and she had been so young…  How could anyone do that to someone else?

                Lura looked up.  “We really need the money from this, Varania.”

                The mage shook her head stubbornly.  “I know, but…  But…”

                The brunette looked up, her eyes full of compassion.  Lura was angry with her for it.  How could she know?  How could she know what it was like?  “I’m sorry… But we need this.”

                She shivered, and looked down.  They did really need it.  They would lose out on it for her selfishness.  She knew she wouldn’t even see the man, but…  “I…”

                Lura considered.  “He may not even be there.  But if he is, do you think he’ll have Leto with him?”  Her voice was a bit hollow-sounding when she spoke, but Varania attributed this to how tired she looked.

                Varania’s head shot up, her eyes full of hope.  “Do you think…?”

                She smiled encouragingly.  “See?  A silver lining—maybe we’ll both get to see him.  But only if we go.”

                She resumed her pacing, but was quiet as she thought.  Lura continued to wash the dishes.  It had been years.  What would be the odds the magister would even recognize her?  Varania was just another elf, after all.  Leto though…  The chance to see him again would be…  She stopped.  “All right.  I’ll go—if you’re sure.”

                Lura grinned, though it looked a little forced.  “Sure I am.”


	65. Confidence and Cowardice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seheron will fall.

                The ceremony had dragged on for ages, the bride fighting back yawns, and hiding her boredom in a plastered smile.  Her gown was the finest Orlesian silk, from the outermost layer, to the lining, to the threads it was stitched with.  She imagined the poor seamstresses stitching each piece together, bit by bit, having to guess at how much a young girl would grow, leaving the seams with much allowance _just in case_.  The last-minute adjustments to see that as much of her flowering bosom as possible would show under the plunging neckline, that her slender waist was given every accent from the corset. 

                Tangled grape vines edged along  the hem of the gown, little precious gemstones stitched in place of the grapes on the appliqué, gleaming so brightly they shone even when she stood still.  The train of the dress was long and flowing, the grape vines flowing up the back of it, the wolf, her family crest, rising from the vines.  It made her think of the slaves tending those grape vines, bent under the weight of their toil.  The grape vine design fringed her sleeves and neckline, but gemstones were much too heavy for a lady’s delicate wrists and so freshwater pearls of like colours were substituted.  She wore a gold and diamond circlet, its perfect twin about her throat, a single stone of black jet at the forefront, as was appropriate to the Imperial Chantry.

                Annalkylie’s dress alone was worth more money than many ever saw in their lives.

                Everyone was dressed for the occasion, of course, and quite a lovely array of peacocks they made—though they had nothing on Orlais, Annalkylie was more than certain.  The ceremony, she was equally certain, was very beautiful for those who cared about such things.  It was full of grandeur, decoration, and beauty—little expense having been spared to give the illusion of no expense having been spared.  There were fragrant flowers in gold vases, garlands and silk drapings, the air was perfumed with burning oils instead of incense and it mingled well with the fine spread of delicacies.  The food was prepared as beautifully as the clothing, looking so lovely and artfully prepared she was almost reluctant to sample any of it for fear of destroying the edible art.

                The servants were dressed finely and in matching colours, the wine flowed, and music played.  The slaves were covered in an expensive gold dusting so that when any light fell on them, they would glisten as if they were living statues.  Sapphires were pinned in their hair and worn at their throats, gold jewelry adorned their arms, a chain loose about the waist.  What was the point in owning another person if one could not decorate them like any other piece of furniture?

                Not everyone was wed by the Black Divine himself, and not everyone was wed before a court of magi either.  Of course it was a glorious thing, but the young mage barely noticed it beyond the fluttering in her chest.

                Anyone who noticed her nervousness would only attribute it to a maiden bride on the eve of her wedding night, of course.  Everyone wanted to compliment her, dance with her, talk to her.  Gifts had been given, and now they had moved on to the feasting and entertainment.

                She sat with her lord husband.  He was very gallant, and charming, and was all in all a perfect spectacle in his fine robes—something befitting a mage of his rank on this most notable of days.  Kylie participated in the talk, the laughter, but she drank only very little, and kept good track of the time.

                There were so many things that could go wrong, so many minor details.  Had she been careful enough?  Had she selected the men carefully enough?  Could any of them betray her?  Would they?  What would she do if they did?  Had the phylacteries all been destroyed?

                The third course was served, and she told her lady-in-waiting that she needed to go to the privy.  Naturally, she helped her, and it took longer than she liked to actually leave the hall.  So many people saw her getting up as an opportunity to speak with her and congratulate her, after all.  Many of them had been in their cups, and their words were slurred, and more friendly than may have been usual for them, and so she found it difficult on more than one occasion to excuse herself.  But, she finally made it out, and they hurried—so much time was wasted after all.

                They did not go to the privy, but rather, to an empty guest room.  Kylie’s lady-in-waiting was not only such, but a bodyguard—and a body double.  Kylie had found her herself, and their likeness was so similar that they may have been twins, although they had no relation of course.  All that Evadne needed to do was not speak, which was precisely why Kylie had been withdrawn throughout most of the ceremony, only smiling and nodding as much as she could, speaking as little as possible.  Anyone watching her would only assume she was just a nervous bride.

                But it wouldn’t be long now.

                Evadne helped Kylie out of the dress, and let down her hair.  The only difference between the two girls—except upon close inspection—was that Evadne’s hair was straight to Kylie’s curls, which was why she had opted to put her hair in a net of pearls and disguise it.  Similarly, Evadne had pinned her hair into a bun at the top of her head.

                Next Evadne stripped out of her more practical, but suitable, gown and helped Kylie into it.  Kylie struggled lacing Evadne into the big wedding dress, but with her guidance, they had it on.  After the ceremony, a couple of servants had bustled it, else, it would be difficult to move in the room with such an exaggerated train.  Next, they put the mage’s jewelry on Evadne.  Kylie’s bejeweled shoes were a little too small on Evadne, but Evadne had insisted she could endure.  Last, a touch up of the paints and rouge on Evadne, and Kylie washed off her own.  They fixed one another’s hair, and snuck back into the hall, Evadne taking Kylie’s place at the table.

                The feasting continued, and Kylie was terrified that someone would notice.  What would she say if they did?  What would she do?  She could laugh, and giggle, and say it was a joke.  It would be a thing of poor taste, but a joke nonetheless.  She couldn’t very well tell them the truth, after all.

 

                The guests themselves had been drinking for a few hours, but Fenris was completely sober, and did not miss the very long amount of time that Annalkylie had been gone, or how she had looked up continuously at the light in the skylight.  She may just be counting the hours until she would have to bed down with her new husband, but he wondered.

                It was a bodyguard’s job to notice, after all—even little things like that.  Something seemed different about her when she returned, but he could not quite say what.

                There was dancing, and revelry—something like a controlled madness in the servant quarters he had passed through but briefly.  They, too, were treated to casks of ale and mead, breads, cheeses, and he smelled fish too.  He supposed it was to be expected in a port city.

                The current course was roast peacock, served with an olive stuffing and roasted asparagus.  The birds had been roasted slowly over an open flame and seasoned to perfection, then were painstakingly re-feathered, garnished on a bed of green and purple grapes, and brought out on rolling tables.  Re-feathering them, to Fenris, seemed like a horrifying waste of time, when they would only be plucked again to eat.  But how was one to know it was peacock if it wasn’t presented as such?  How indeed.  Fenris imagined that the kitchens could feed them goose, and dress it up like a peacock, and very few here would know the difference—particularly after all the wine and spirits that had gone around.

                At least he didn’t see any atrocities committed—yet.  With so many magisters gathered from all across the Imperium, it was really only a matter of time.  He found some modicum of comfort in that, while his master may be… cruel… his _family_ , Annalkylie’s family, were none of them mages save herself, and seemed, for the most part, a decent sort at least.  He had never seen them murder children anyway.  The Archon and his family, though… he had nothing but a creeping feeling from them.

                A minstrel took up his harp, and sang—a song composed about the beauty of the bride primarily.  If he had known Annalkylie at all, beauty was a poor choice to impress her.  It wasn’t that Annalkylie wasn’t pretty—she was—it was that it never mattered to her.

                Fenris had heard her speaking to an older servant once.  The older woman had told her, “You look beautiful, my lady.”

                Annalkylie had not smiled.  “Beauty touches us and is gone too quickly.  I would rather have wisdom, and truth,” she added the last part as an afterthought.  It was practical, but it was a sad kind of practicality she had.  She had received nothing in life she had truly wanted, and what she had thought she wanted had become a viper in her hand.

                He imagined that a life at court would change her, and not for the best.  Still, if it didn’t change her… maybe she could change it.  He really believed that if all the magisters and mages alike were corrupt, she _wasn’t_.  She was the best of them.  She could change the way things were.  She had a kind heart—he knew it.  Annalkylie helped the poor.  The concept of slavery seemed to upset her.  If there really were human mages like that… maybe there was some hope for them, especially if she were in the position of power she was getting through her marriage.

 

                Lura hurried back and forth in the kitchen, bringing things, getting rid of other things.  The kitchen was so noisy and busy that she didn’t notice the sound of the war horns until she saw some of the others stop.

                Then she heard it.

                All was silent for a long moment, and when the horn stopped its cry, and everyone realized that it was the sound of attack, all broke into chaos.

                The servants immediately abandoned their posts.  Some went one way, others a different way.

                Lura was too short to see Varania.  Where had she gone?  The girl was a mage, and even so, she dared not lose her here.  She wouldn’t forgive herself if something happened to Leto’s little sister.  Varania was all she had left of the man she had loved.

                “Varania!” she cried, but over the din and confusion, no one could have hoped to hear her.

                There was a booming crack, and she turned to look.  An enormous black kettle had been knocked over, and it had split up its side.  Its boiling contents spread across the floor, but it looked to have quenched the fire for the most part.

                A sudden press of bodies forced her to either move or be run over.  She chose to move.  She attempted to break away from the horde of bodies, but found it impossible, and she just seemed to keep getting shoved along.  Her cries and objection sounded on deaf ears, and then she was pushed through a doorway by the wave of bodies, and everyone broke away.  Most ran, in every direction.  Others followed someone else, and still others seemed lost on what to do.

                Order was attempted to be maintained—a steward trying to bark out orders to return to the kitchen, or to be orderly and civil.  No one paid him much heed, though.

                Lura did not see Varania.  Her heart skipped a beat, and she pressed her way back inside when the crowd had thinned.

                “Varania!” she called to a mostly empty kitchen.  There was no answer, and she tried again as she searched.  She hesitated, and went out into the hall.  People rushed by her.  A dwarf nearly knocked her over, and she stayed close to the wall.  Guardsmen rushed past her, and didn’t even seem to notice her.

                She pushed open a door, and found herself in the great hall.  Moments ago, people had been feasting, and reveling.  Now it stood empty.  Well, not entirely empty.  She looked on, her lips frowning in disapproval.  An elven servant was plucking the utensils from the table.  They had all been gold and silver.

                He looked at her.  “You got a problem?” he snapped.

                She shook her head, and left the room quickly, before he decided to become violent.  This is why people were suspicious of elves.  It was why they thought them all cheats, thieves, and liars.  But she supposed… anyone in poverty, if desperate enough, would lie and cheat and steal.  Their reasons might even be good, but it was still thievery.

                Where had Varania gone?

                Well, no matter where she had gone, Lura needed to find somewhere safe to stay until the Qunari—that was what the attackers were, she was certain—could be beaten back… or until the Imperials fell.

                Either way, she had best find somewhere safe.

 

                All around Varania was chaos, and she tried not to be swept up in it, but still the sense of urgency and desire to run was contagious.  She tried to flee, but knew not where exactly.  Someone snatched her arm suddenly, whirling her to face them.  “You,” he snapped.  “You’re a mage.”

                “Y-yes—“

                “Then come with me,” he said, and gave her no choice in the matter.  He had simply drug her forward, and she had no choice but to keep up.  He met up with his fellows, and the guards hurried.

                “What’s going on?” she asked them.

                One of them looked at her.  “We’re under attack,” the woman answered her flatly.  “Isn’t it obvious?”

                “Is it… the Qunari?” she asked.

                “Who else?” a man demanded.  Varania fell silent.  The Qunari.  And they were all but kidnapping Varania to help fight them.  How could she tell them that she didn’t know how to fight?  Would they even listen?

                She had to try.  “I don’t know how to fight,” she protested.  “I never have!”

                “The gate is open as we speak.  Fight or not, do you think you’ll live?” the man holding her arm shot back.

                Varania wanted to protest.  She wanted to insist that she would only get in the way, that she would make things _worse_ , but how?  The gates were open—not broken, but open.  The Qunari would be in the city already.  How could this have happened?

                When she was outside, she was thrown on a horse, behind a soldier.  She saw the magisters fleeing, and thought she saw…

                “Leto!” she screamed, hand outreached, but he didn’t hear her.  In fact, he was already gone.  She wanted to cry.  So close…  They had been so close, and she had barely managed to glimpse him.  She knew it was him, from the bottom of her soul, she knew it was her brother, even though he was older and his hair was different.  And the soldier spurred his horse in the opposite direction.  The gates—he was taking her to the gates.  The magisters—and Leto—had gone to the docks in the opposite direction.

                _Those bastards,_ she thought, bitter tears tracking down her cheeks. _They’re fleeing on their ships, and leaving the rest of us to die._

                The horse thundered down the cobblestone, and it was all the young woman could do to hold on.  There was so much confusion that she could barely understand what was happening.  People were running.  Screaming.

                Then she saw it.  Ahead, the city was burning.  Most of the city’s mages were in the field, with the army.  An army that had either perished without word, or else simply would not make it in time.  Either way, it didn’t make a difference to her if they couldn’t help.

                The soldier pulled up his horse.  It wasn’t the gate.  She peered past the soldier, and her heart hammered, eyes widening.  The city was on fire.  The huge city gates stood open, and the Qunari horde poured in.  The street had been blockaded with carts, wagons, and rubble, but it was temporary.  Archers fired from rooftops.  Ordinary citizens ran past the soldiers, fleeing, but to where?  Desperate guards and soldiers alike were trying to hold back the horde, but even Varania could see it was hopeless.  She saw a man fall from a rooftop, an arrow jutting out of his chest.  He hit the ground hard, but over the din all around her, she did not hear his skull crack.

                She stared at the body, and was so transfixed that she did not realize the soldier was trying to help her down until he simply grabbed her and hauled her off his mount.  She was half-drug to the haphazardly constructed wall in the street.

                “A staff!  The mage needs a staff!” the soldier cried.

                A woman rode up, reigning in her horse.  At first, Varania assumed that the rider must be another soldier in civilian garb, but her eyes arched in surprise when she saw that it was Vanessa.  The magister had taken a blade and sliced open her expensive gown she had worn to the wedding, to give her legs room of movement to mount the horse.  Her feet were in stockings in the stirrups, and perhaps she had also walked out of her restricting shoes.  The woman nodded to Varania, and tossed her a staff.  Varania caught it, and recognized it for Vanessa’s own.

                “Where’s Shaislyn!?” Varania cried.

                The magister looked on her with pity, and shook her head sadly, before she wheeled the horse away.

                Dead?  Already?  No…  No, how could that be?  The city had not fallen yet.  So surely…

                But she had no time to think about her lost son; she was being ushered up the steps onto a rooftop, and there was not a moment to lose.  She looked back over her shoulder and saw the magister.  She did not flee with the other magisters.  Rather, she had stayed behind.  She had stayed to command her troops, to lead them, to fight.

                She had stayed behind to die with them, when she could have fled with the magisters, and lived.  Varania found herself respecting her for that, and hating the magisters who had fled.  They could have helped.  All those mages would have made a difference.

                But the horde was fast approaching.  Varania wanted to run.  She wanted to throw down the staff, and run like a coward, begging passage on a ship.  She was a mage.  There was no reason—none!—that they would not take her.  If they were taking anyone, it would be a mage.  Surely.

                But she had been summoned here to help, and seeing Vanessa standing tall on her horse, her power shimmering around her hand, and waiting, she did not.

                “Hold!” the magister screamed.  The Qunari came to the blockade, and they began to scale over it.  Arrows were drawn to the archer’s cheeks.  “Hold!”  The horde came closer.  Horned giants, malicious and fearsome.  Blood already stained their weapons.  Innocent blood—they had been murdering everyone in their path, anyone who showed the slightest resistance.  “Now!”

                Arrows were loosed.  Many hit, but many didn’t.  Flame erupted from the magister’s hands, and she raised both her hands above her head, and summoned the firestorm.  The fire rained down over the horde, breaking apart the wagons.  Fiery splinters assaulted the giants, and the entire blockade burst into flame.  Men screamed, and died.

                Varania was frozen in place, watching it happen and found she could do nothing.  She had never seen anything like this before in her life.  She had never been so close to a Qunari.  She had never seen battle before.

                But she knew the Tevinters were too few to hold.  No one was watching her.  She dropped the staff, and to her it sounded so loud that surely everyone had heard her, but no one even turned to look as she fled back down the steps.

                _I’m such a coward_ , she thought, as she pressed her back against a wall, and slipped down an alley.  She walked at first, then ran.  The sounds of battle raged on behind her.

 

                Vanessa spurred her horse about, kicking the animal forward.  “To me!” she screamed above the mayhem.  “To me!”

                Her men broke, and came to her.  Some had horses, but most did not.  “Get me a sword,” she instructed.  Someone handed her one.  She raised it high.  “For the Imperium!”  And she charged forward, her men in a tight fist behind her.  They broke through the Qunari lines, had a brief squabble, and then she broke and ran, her men following her in a tight cluster, into an alley.  To delay the giants, she had left them a gift of blood magic and demons.  They navigated the close streets.  Few of the Qun followed after them, and those they killed.  They went after the Qunari, hounding them doggedly.  They lost men, but the guerrilla tactics they used were effective.

                Being a magister, she had certain knowledge that the commoners would not.  Namely, the whereabouts of the Imperial army.  With a growing sense of dread, she realized that they had been tricked:  The Antaam had pretended to go north, and sent enough men, traveling in a wide loop, to give the illusion that that was what they were doing, while the rest of their army traveled to the city.  The Imperials had gone after the diversion, and she knew that none of their scouting parties had ever returned.  She could have just as easily attributed it to the Fog Warriors, but now she wondered.  It had not been her decision alone that had caused the Imperials to trail the diversion and attack them instead, but she had influenced it.

                They rushed through the horde, and disappeared into another alley, only to reappear later.  They used the only advantage they had:  Knowledge of the terrain.  They would not last forever, though.  Her men knew that, and she knew that too.

                All she could do was try to stall them and keep as many as she could from reaching the docks, which was where most of the citizens had fled.  The docks, now, were their only hope.  For any survivors, it would be forced indoctrination and a sort of mental slavery through what the Qunari referred to as “reeducation”.

                Many of her fellows had forgotten, but the magisters were leaders, and the Imperial citizens their followers.  A leader’s first and foremost responsibility was to the people, not to themselves.  She would try to buy as much time as she could before she, too, was cut down, for the people to escape.

                She knew that many, though by no means all, of the citizens hated and spurned her for being a mage and a magister, especially in war-torn Seheron where everyone was tired of the fighting.  She knew that with all her heart, but even still, she wanted them to live.  She wanted them to have the life that was denied her:  A loving family, children.

                A life without Circle politics and demons.

 

                Iden rounded on Danarius like a viper.  “Where’s my daughter?” he hissed.

                The magister looked at his brother.  “Why would I know?” he countered.

                His wife’s fingernails were digging into Iden’s arm.  It had to be painful, but the man hardly seemed to notice it.  “She was there when the horns blew,” she insisted.  “Then she… wasn’t.”

                “I thought she had escaped,” Agasius said.  “I thought she was with us!”

                Danarius glanced at the ships.  “She might already be on board.  I’m sure she’s with the Archon,” he said decidedly.

                “Did you see that?” Caleigh countered.

                The magister admitted, “No.  But she would have had guards.  I’m sure she simply arrived before us, and is already on board.”

                His family seemed unconvinced, but there was nothing anyone could do about it.  They looked about the docks for her.  Citizens were flowing into the docks.  Stampeding really, but the soldiers kept them orderly enough.  Those who were too panicked were killed—there was nothing else for it really.

                “It’s time,” the boat captain yelled, rushing up to the gathered magisters and their families.

                They began to move forward, onto the boat.  The man pointed at Fenris.  Danarius froze.  “The elf stays,” he said.

                Danarius stared at him, unbelieving what he had heard.  “Get him on a different ship, then, but he goes,” the magister insisted.

                The captain shook his head.  “There’s no room,” he insisted right back.  “He’s a slave.  He stays.”  The man moved on, leaving no more room for argument.

                The magister glowered, but could do nothing.  Rank meant nothing right now.  Power meant nothing.  They were all running, and being a citizen and being a slave meant all the difference.  The magister turned back toward Fenris, conscious of the others flowing into the ship past him.  “You stay alive,” he told him.  Fenris blinked at him.  Blood was splattered on his clothes, on his face.  They had not made it to the gates unmolested.  “I will return to collect you as soon as I am able.  _Stay alive_.”

                It was all he could do, so he turned and left his prized possession standing at the docks, and being slowly pressed back into the crowd.

                The boat filled quickly enough, and the captain set sail immediately.  Danarius stood on deck, gripping the railing so tight his hands hurt, staring at the dock.  The city burned, and he could smell the pitch.  He could hear people screaming and dying.  He heard stone crumbling, and sounds that could only be magic, but he was staring at his prized possession.  He watched Fenris, standing alone in the crowd, and watched his pet drifting farther and farther away from him.

                What if the elf were slain in battle?  Worse, what if the Qunari took him?

                That captain was going to pay.  Better still, he was going to die.  Slowly, and painfully, but not until they were safely back in Minrathous.

 

                At his back, he could feel the heat of the flames from the burning city.  People were dying, and crying out in anguish.  All the boats had set sail, leaving the rest to the mercy of a merciless people.

                Fenris watched the boats disappear.  He felt abandoned again, but this was so much worse than any time before it.  He felt like he was being left here to die.

                He needed to leave.  He felt that very strongly.  He needed to get away from the docks.  The Qunari would come here when they noticed that most of the survivors were here.

                The elf wondered where he could go to hide, to escape the horde’s notice.  When he thought about it seriously, it seemed obvious.  He would go to a place they would not check.  Somewhere they had already been and were not likely to return.

                He did not know this city well, else he may have taken back roads and alleys whenever he could.  Rather, he carved a path in blood to the city wall.  He had fought a Qunari before.  He was confident enough, and rightfully so.  The fires toward the gate had mostly died.  Beyond, he heard the fighting continue.

                He imagined it would stop soon.  The Tevinters were too few, after all.  It was hopeless.

                He heard a woman cry out a name, and paid it no heed.  Maybe she mourned a lost lover, or a child.  So many people had died already.  So many more would be dead by morning.

                He heard someone run toward him.  He turned, ready to fight, but it was just an elven woman.  Maybe a servant, but he did not think a slave.  She was out of breath, and her long brown hair was in tatters.  Hope reflected in her wet honey eyes.  “I…  Maker, I thought…”  She gasped, as if in disbelief, and then made a small noise of pain as she slid to the ground.  The Qunari, blade still slick with the woman’s blood, turned his blade toward Fenris.

                Fenris moved forward, around the woman.  There was a brief flurry of swords, a bright glow of lyrium, and the Qunari lay dead in moments, the skirmish ended.  He looked back at the woman.  She would die out here, alone in the street with no one to mourn her.  He knelt beside her, one hand still on his sword.   Was she even still alive?  Yes, he saw.  Her breath came ragged and was fading quickly, but she still drew breath—for the moment.

                He looked down at her, gently wiping her hair from her face, the only modicum of comfort he knew to provide.  He had no words to give her, no reassurances; he was no priest or holy knight.  He was just a slave.  She was so pale.  They always looked so pale when they bled out like this.  She even smiled—or tried to, her eyes still hopeful and even serene.  When was the last time someone had ever looked at Fenris like that?  He didn’t know.  Was she delirious?  Did she even see him, or was she already that far gone?  Was it some lost loved one she truly smiled for, someone she would be reunited with after she had breathed her last breath?  “Leto…” she breathed, blood trickling from her once cherry lips.  Maybe it was the name of someone she knew, or half a name for that matter.  It could even be a place for all he knew.  Maybe she was delirious.  When Fenris died… he had no one he could smile like that for.  No name that would trickle from his lips like blood.  In that moment, he felt more alone than he ever had.

                Distantly, he heard shouting, the clash of steel.  He heard the pounding of hooves, the screams of the dying.  He heard pottery smashing and saw a building catch fire in the night, the smoke rising to meet the sky.  Glass shattered, and he heard an infant scream.  A shiver ran up his spine.

                _An infant wailing.  Someone shouting.  Blinding pain.  Oblivion._

                He could not stay here, that much was clear.  He checked her pulse again, and found that the young woman had passed on.  Gently, he closed her soft brown eyes, for the last time, and moved on.  It was the most he could do for her.

                His ultimate goal was to make it out of the gate, and away from the sacked city.  It seemed the safest route.

                He never made it that far, though.  A party of Qunari found him.  They had apparently thought it would be short work to dispose of one elf, but Fenris wasn’t just an elf.  For that matter, he wasn’t just a soldier, or just a slave, or just a bodyguard.  Sweat dripped from his brow, soaking his hair, as he swung his sword.  The most important thing to remember, Master Taggart had said, was to breathe evenly.  _Think before you swing._

                The swords clashed.

                _One mistake could kill you_.

                They had been lessons well-learned.  He controlled his breathing, and thus the way he moved.  Fluid, like water, cutting through the air—and flesh and bone.

                _You won’t always have time to change your angle of attack; the weapon is too heavy.  Before you do anything, think.  Before you swing, think.  Before you cut, think.  Before you step, think.  Will you survive if you do this?  Will your master survive?_

                Taggart had told him that, with his choice of weaponry, he would not be able to defend well or often.  But he had said that it was good that he was an elf—and back then, it had made Fenris secretly happy to hear it, because everyone else had seen it as a downside.  He had said that elves were lithe and dexterous, and that would be his only defense against attacks.

                “You’re strong, but you’re not big enough for heavy armor,” he had told him.  They had even tried it; Fenris just couldn’t move in it.  He was utterly useless in heavy armor.  “So you must learn to dodge.”  He had added that last part with a malicious grin, and spent the next several weeks hitting Fenris with a heavy oak stick, and yelling at him when he couldn’t dodge in time, even though he had been carrying a lead weight that weighed as much as he did.

                And Fenris remembered that lesson too when the second Qunari joined the fray, brandishing two blades.  The quick rogues were the most dangerous to him, for he could not do the dance of blades long with them, and they were nimble and could run circles around him if he let them.

                And another warrior joined, and he kept an eye on both of them, falling to defense even when he knew it was exactly the wrong thing to do.  He needed to attack.  A good attack was as good as a defense, in the right circumstance.

                He suddenly changed tactics and pressed forward with a violent swing.  The blade missed the rogue, but shattered one of the daggers, and seemed to have hurt his hand.  The lighter Qunari temporarily disabled, he turned to the other, striking out with the pommel of the sword.  He struck, but the blow glanced off the horns, as the brute turned his head at the last possible moment.  It still staggered the Qunari backwards, and he sensed more than saw the rogue behind him again.  He dashed quickly to the side, and the other missed.  The elf struck, and this time cleaved the Qunari’s arm off at the joint, and then spun to face the other.

                He was glowing, he realized, and the others were running to stop him now.  Would they see him as a mage’s pet—something to be stopped at all costs?  It didn’t matter.

                He fought, and remembered his lessons.  He remembered the lectures, the riding lessons, and the steps he had learned in the dance of swords and blood.  He fought with an easy grace, and felt more at peace than he had ever felt in his life.

                He felt the most at peace with a weapon in his hands.  Just that small amount of control was enough to calm him, despite the chaos of battle all around him.  He was confident.  At this, he was the one in control.  He was the one who wielded the power of life or death.  Not the magisters, not his master.  Just him.

                He fought, and pushed them back, and killed some of them, and for a moment, it seemed like he would kill them all and continue on his way.  He even saw that happening:  All the Qunari attacking him (or was it the other way around now?) would die, and he would continue on, toward the gate.  He would run free from the city and its death and flames, and he didn’t know what after that and it didn’t even matter.

                Cut.  Swing.  Attack.  He pressed forward, stepped back.  He dodged and parried, and cut.  His life narrowed down to one pristine—maybe even holy—moment.

                Saarebas rounded the corner.  He was unconcerned.  He could kill mages, even Qunari mages.  Especially Qunari mages, who were strictly untrained and undisciplined in magic.  He was strong, and confident, and an expert swordsman.  His master had commanded him to survive, and he would.  He felt like he was invincible—like he could destroy the entire army.

                He backed up, under an awning, using the wall so that they could no longer keep trying to stab him in the back.  The mage harried him with every step, and he had to counter attacks from the two other surviving Qunari as well.  Then the ground began to shake.  Saarebas stood tall, his arms raised and Fenris realized it was the mage’s work.

                He was confused for a moment, but then the awning crumbled.  He saw it happen, but could not break away, or hope to escape it.  He could only watch it fall.

                The awning was not a contraption of cloth and wooden beams.  Rather, this one was mostly wood, and had been attached to a stone building.  When it fell, it had fallen and taken a good portion of the wall with it.  The Qunari started to back away when the stone cracked.  Fenris made to run, but too late.

                The awning crashed down, and buried him under it.

 

                A contingent of soldiers from the city had broken away.  Rather than defend the city, they had fled it.  Very promising men, that.  It seemed like at the last moment, they had a change of heart, and attacked the Qunari encampment instead.  Sort of spiteful, Shaislyn thought.  Or perhaps things were really that hopeless in the city.

                He listened to the goings-on from his cage, and was quietly pleased with all the mayhem going on.  Let them die.  Let them _all_ die.

                He hated the Qunari.  He hated them passionately, and with all his being.  He hated their religion, and their ways.  He hated all of them.

                His lips were dry, and cracked and out of habit, he tried to lick them to wet them, but the stitching got in the way.  That horrible stitching.

                He could eat only very little, and only certain foods, and in tiny bites.  They had given him enough room in the stitching to open his mouth enough to eat, but nothing more.  What was even the point?  He didn’t need to open his mouth that wide to talk, so this just seemed cruel to him.

                He had cried and wailed, and tried to scream, but though he could produce the sound, with how limited his jaw movements were, the motion was difficult.  All the same, he had done it for days.  Now he just cried, and lamented his inability to remove the stitching.  He had tried dozens of times.  Each time, Arvaarad had beaten him, and it only ingrained his hatred further.

                They had dictated the Qun to him, and he had no doubt that he faced more horrors in the time to come.  They would convert him, given time, or something worse.  The only reason they had failed to castrate him had been good timing.

                He had kicked, and fought as best he could, and they had just managed to get his pants off when the encampment had fallen under attack by someone he assumed must be the Imperials, or maybe the Fog Warriors.  He had been hopeful then, but the Qunari had won out, but they had never bothered to try to castrate him again.  There was too much else to do, he supposed, to worry about whether or not they had cut off a child’s organs.

                The stitches, though, were something else.

                Arvaarad watched over his charge, making sure none tried to free the “evil mage” locked in a cage.  Shaislyn hoped the Qunari died, and perhaps someone out there heard his prayers, for the attack was brought to them.

                The Qunari barely had time to raise his sword before an arrow took him in the throat.  The big horned-headed ox fell back onto the cage, and slithered to the ground.  The Imperials thundered past on their horses, not even seeing Shaislyn.

                The child knelt, and reached desperately for Arvaarad’s belt.  The key to the cage was on his belt.  Or, better still, the control rod.

                He searched for it blindly, and realized, with a sinking horror, that the Qunari’s waist was barely out of his reach.  He tried, and strained, but could not reach his waist.  Not even for the dagger, to cut out the stitches.

                His eyes watered.  All this…  He had been so close, and now…?  He leaned his head against the bars.  He would really live the rest of his life like this?  He couldn’t bear it.  It was awful beyond his worst nightmares.  He would rather die.

                He tried to pull the Qunari forward, but he was too heavy.  Shaislyn couldn’t get the proper leverage, could not drag him further.  He was just too _heavy_.  A tear rolled down his cheek at his own hopelessness.  He couldn’t even help himself.  He was blind and knew what it was to see, and muted, and had no magic.  He might as well be dead.  He would rather be dead than live like this.  Nothing was worse than this.  Nothing.

                He reached out again, more in desperation than anything else.  His fingertips touched something.  Carefully, he ran his fingers across it, the tips barely touching it.  He gasped.  It was the control rod.

                Shaislyn strained with all his might, but still could not quite reach it.  If he just had a stick, or something to roll it closer.  Frustrated, he pulled his arm back, thinking.  What could he do?  He didn’t have anything like that.

                But Arvaarad did.  The arrow in his neck.  The arrow had caused the man to make a gurgling sound when he died.  Shaislyn wasn’t _certain_ if it were in his neck, or the Qunari had just made a noise, but he reached forward to check all the same.  It also didn’t mean the arrow hadn’t just sailed through him either, for that matter.

                Shaisyln’s hand brushed against the arrow shaft.  The arrow had pierced right above the brute’s clavicle, and gone right through his neck.  He wondered if it would be easier to push it through the rest of the way, or draw it out.  With his other hand, he checked to see if it had gone all the way through.  He found the arrowhead at the other side—a work of steel he guessed, through the sticky blood.  There was a bit of something else on it too, and he decided not to think about it right now.

                The arrow was barbed, and he had to think for a moment on what that meant, before he remembered.  He needed to push it out the rest of the way, or the hooked end would only get stuck on the Qunari’s insides.  He grimaced, and pushed.  It was harder than he had thought.  There was muscle in the neck, and bone, and none of that took too kindly to wood being shoved through it.  Shaislyn grunted with the effort, but got the arrow free.

                It was bloody, and gross to hold, but he held it like it were something precious.  _This arrow is going to free me_ , he thought with reverence.

                He found the rod again, and used the hooked end of the arrow to tap against it, find the other side of it.  He rolled it forward.  It twisted to the side, and his heart skipped a beat.  He couldn’t roll it if it turned.  He moved the arrow to the side farther away from him, and pushed it down.  It flipped again.  He cursed, though it sounded like gibberish aloud.  He was slowly getting used to that, though.

                Painstakingly slowly, he got the rod close enough to grasp it.  He snatched it up, and, desperate, realized he didn’t know how it worked.

                He dropped the arrow, and felt along the rod for any signs of a mechanism to make it work.  It was a decorated thing, but he found no special levers, knobs, nothing of the sort.

                The disappointment flooded him, and was nearly too much to bear.  What use was this thing if he didn’t know how to use it?  What good was anything?

                He just wanted this collar _off_.  He wanted to see again, to speak again.  He wanted to be free.

                Something clicked, and he touched the collar.  It slid, and fell into his hand.  He clutched it for a moment, disbelieving.  He wanted to dance, to sing.  He wanted to laugh, but the stitching on his mouth made it clear that this was disapproved of.  His stomach churned as it occurred to him—that was all it was.  The collars kept their magic in check, kept them from speaking.  But the stitching… the stitching was to take away their laughter and expressions.

                Shaislyn wanted to weep all over again, and he knew he would, but not now.

                He activated his vision again, and it felt good to be able to see.  Now, how to get out of this cage?  He had his magic back, but he couldn’t use it to escape the cage.  No matter how he saw it, he needed those keys.  But how?

                He glanced back at the bloodied arrow, and wondered if he could get to the key with that.  But, no.  The ring was attached to the Qunari’s belt.  He would need it closer to get to it.

                Then… what could he do?

                He tried to pull the Qunari closer, but he could not get the leverage, and he was only a child; the body was too heavy and the task proved all but impossible.

                He looked up at the sky.  Sunrise was coming.  The sky was dim yet, but gray with early morning.  He was hungry, and found himself sighing.  The Qunari would come back, collar him again.  Nothing would change.

                The sparrow fluttered down and landed on the cage.

                He stared up at it, seeing it for the first time.  “Stupid bird,” he said, shaking his head, almost surprised to hear real words this time.  It didn’t hurt as much any more when he spoke, with the stitching.  It felt strange was all.  Hearing his voice, speaking real words, made him feel kind of giddy.  “Don’t you know people died here?  Don’t you know it’s a battlefield?”  The silly creature didn’t have the sense to fly away, he realized.  He gave it a couple of breadcrumbs through the bars, as he normally did.  It had come to the point where it ate out of his hands now.  He was heartened that it came to him at least once a day.  The little bird was his only friend and companion throughout all of this, and that it had traveled with them made him happy.

                It ate the crumbs, and looked down at him.  “I wish I could fly,” he muttered as the little creature fluttered down into the cage with him to peck at the crumbs he had dropped.  When it finished, it looked at him again, chirped, and flew through the bars.

                He watched it sail away, not a worry in the world.

                Shaislyn’s fingers gripped the bars, and his eyes slid closed.  He still saw everything around him, though, the way only he could.  The Qunari would be here soon.  They would collar him.  Castrate him.  Ship him to off to somewhere for indoctrination or Tranquility, if they even did that.

                If he could be a sparrow, he could fly away.  He could slip through the bars, and be gone long before they got here, and no one would be the wiser.

                His gift of sight shut off in his despair.  He didn’t want to watch the horde make its way back to the encampment.  He didn’t want to watch his doom approach.  Tears dripped down his cheeks.

                Shaislyn was trapped, and he was never going to be free.  He was “Saarebas” and he was going to be that forever.

                He wished and prayed with all his might that he could be like that sparrow, and fit through the bars and fly away.

                He imagined what it was like to be so free, to be small enough to go wherever he wished.  He imagined what it was like to have wings.  He could fly away from everything, if he had wings—from this cage, from the Qunari, from everything.  He thought about the sparrow, how it was coloured, and how the creature behaved.  He thought of how it chirped, and sang songs in the morning.  He thought of the way it moved, and was frightened away by Arvaarad.

                He wanted to be like that sparrow.  He would trade lives with it straight across.

                He crossed his arms tight, and wished with all his being.

                Wishes did not come true, not without hard work.  Magic did not grant wishes.  But magic can do wondrous things, all the same.

                His gift enveloped him, and he was comforted by it.  His magic, his gift, and some would call it his curse.  It was his connection to the Fade, and what made him who he was.  It was beautiful, and had never been something he had feared or hated.  He welcomed it with open arms, accepting it for what it was and who he was, what his magic had made him.  It coursed through him and over him.  It was soothing, and divine.  For a mage well in tune with their gift, using it was like the Maker himself touching their heart.  It was a religious experience—something divine, holy.  It was not ugly, or a taint.  It was nothing that could ever be vile, or corrupt.  It was beauty in every essence of the word, and Shaislyn accepted it, and loved it with every fiber of his being.  He would give up his gift for nothing.  He would never want to change who he was, or what he was:  A mage.

                Shaislyn had not been given a good life.  He had been dealt a rotten hand from the start, and knew it.  A product of rape, a half-bred child.  He had been born blind, and a mage.  Yet he felt harmony, and confidence.  He was a bastard child, and why did that matter to anyone?  He was a half-breed, and what was so great about being purely elven or purely human?  He was blind, but hadn’t he proved that he didn’t need to see, only that it was nice to do so?  He was a mage.  Above anything else in his life, he was a mage, and fiercely proud of it.  Magic… was beautiful, and he was proud to be one of the few to wield it.

                When his eyes opened, he knew what he had done.  The thrill of it was exciting.  He opened his eyes, and for the first time in his life, he saw through his own eyes.  He looked up at the sky, and found that he knew how to fly.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Confidence and cowardice: Fenris finds his confidence, and Shaislyn accepts who he is (which is also a kind of confidence). Alternately, Varania is a bit of a coward. And, I think, so is Kylie in this scenario.
> 
> And god damn it, Vanessa is amazing in this chapter.
> 
> One more thing: I did promise that Lura's end would come. Did I deliver or what?


	66. Survivors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varania is uncertain about her future. Fenris gradually learns what freedom is about.

            In the dark, the refugees cowered in the back of the hold.  Toward the front, soldiers, guards, and sailors guarded the supplies in long, dull but rotating shifts.  Rations were cut short to feed everyone, and everyone was hungry and thirsty.  To prevent theft, they had needed guards.  No thieves could be tolerated, no matter how small a thing, for they ran for their lives across the sea.

            Varania was one such refugee.  She sat in the dark with the rest of them, amidst everyone’s collective stink of unwashed bodies and the odor of seasickness.  Babies cried, mothers wept, fathers would sometimes bicker.  Earlier that day, a group of men had angrily went to the sailors, demanding more food for their families.  None could be provided, however, and it broke out into a fight.  Varania was nearby, and, being a mage, quickly put the instigators to a deep slumber, for which she was thanked profusely.  Being a mage also meant that she was moved closer to the exit and thus the food, for in the event that the ship were attacked again, she could be brought up quickly.

            People had already died on the crossing, succumbing to seasickness or thrown overboard for theft.  She prayed that she was not one of the collective, nameless bodies tossed into the sea, even though she felt as though she may deserve said death.  But she had been so frightened—she didn’t want to die.  She was no heroic warrior, to stand against the Qunari.  Nor was she as courageous as Vanessa to brave the odds and fight.  How could she, when she did not know how? 

            Even to her, it sounded like an excuse to her own cowardice.  But, she found some solace in that the magisters had turned and fled as well.  If they would not stand and fight, who could blame her for running?

            There were other ships with this one.  Every ship in the harbor, for that matter, that had made it past the Qunari lines.  The Qunari ships had spouted fire that night.  The mages had answered with their own fire, and lightning.  Varania had even been one of them.  She wasn’t very good at it, but she was still there.  It was the only way she—an elf with no coin—had gotten on the ship to begin with, so she had to, but even so, it was different than being in the midst of that battle.

            She thought of Vanessa, gallantly fighting against all the odds, leading her men into battle, and dying with valor.  It was beautiful, and sad.  She wondered if the magister would be remembered that way.  She hoped so.  She had never known Vanessa very well, but she hoped the woman would be remembered as dying to protect the people of the city.

            _I have no home_ , Varania thought sullenly.  The only home she had known since childhood was the hut in Danarius’ slave quarters.  She had begun to think of the alienage as home, of sorts.  But now that was gone too.  What would she do?  More accurately, what _could_ she do?

            Shaislyn was dead.  Everyone she knew was dead.

            She looked upwards.  No.  Leto was still alive, somewhere.  Or was he?  He could have died protecting his master that night.  So many people had died—soldiers, guards, civilians.  A bodyguard could easily die protecting his master, and why would her brother be fortunate enough to escape such a fate?

            No matter what, Varania did not hold much hope for Leto being alive.  Even if he were, what did it matter?  She sighed to herself.  It didn’t.  She had never felt so alone.

            She wondered if Lura had made it out in time.  She wondered if she had managed to wile her way onto a boat—any boat.  She wondered if she had escaped the city, or was being marched with the Qunari to endure their indoctrination.

            Not all the ships that had escaped had survived the night.  Many had not, but they had at least beaten the Qunari back—for the moment if nothing else.  But the giants could come back at any time, with their ships and their own magic.

            It was terrifying, and worse still to be locked in the hold, told not to wander.  She found herself wishing that she had been wise enough to steal something from the castle as it had burned.  Or from a shop—or something.  Anything.  Now she had nothing, because of her stupid sensibilities.  She had been unwilling to break law and do what she knew was wrong, and now she was paying for it:  No money, just the clothes on her back—stained with soot, blood, and sweat--and they would be filthy by the end of the voyage.  At least she had her magic.  If nothing else in the world, she always had her magic.

            She was hopeful that perhaps Minrathous would be better.  Perhaps she could find a better use for her magic in Minrathous or Qarinus.  She was getting better at healing, so maybe she could even find work in a clinic.  Or maybe, if she worked hard enough, she could even find a mage to apprentice under.

            Her home was destroyed.  She was truly alone now.  Yet, even so, hope remained.  So many people had died that night, but she wasn’t one of them.  She lived, so there was hope.  She felt like her mother had said that once, a long time ago—or maybe it had been someone else.  Maybe Leto, or even Ginger?

            No matter who said it, there was truth to it, and in this troubled time, it gave her comfort.

 

            Shaislyn’s first instincts had been to fly to the alienage, and look for Lura and his mother, but he couldn’t find them.  For that matter, he couldn’t find anyone, and flew back to look at Antaam after he had rested.  It moved slowly, as ever, and many were dead, but not enough to cripple them.  The survivors of the city marched with them, guarded by the Qunari soldiers.  As a bird, most faces looked alike to him, but he could pick out the elves at least.  There was a surprising amount of them.  Former slaves, he realized, as well as most every elf from the alienage.

            The Qunari had freed them, and even to an animal, they seemed oddly joyful of it.  Some were just understanding what their liberation meant.  Others had known all along.  They were fearful, and scared, but overall, Shaislyn sensed hope.  The humans were less joyful and more resentful.  Shaislyn noticed they were kept separated, likely to avoid trouble on the march more than anything.

            He would not find his mother here.  And if he did, he had no intention of rejoining her.  If she was there, there was nothing he could do for her.  He could barely help himself, after all.  And if Lura were there, well—they would treat her well.

            He flew back to the city.  A sparrow’s wings were not made for great journeys, but they flew vast distances all the time despite that.  Besides, flying was joyous and liberating, and a part of him wanted it never to end.

            But he was content; he could do this again.  He would, in fact, but he could not abandon the world for the life of a bird—not yet.

            So he went to the fort, and landed in the kitchens.  He skittered on the floor, and thought about what it meant to be himself.  His magic swallowed him, and he shed the form of the bird like clothing.

            His mouth was stitched shut still.  Icy dread welled in his stomach, and he activated his spell of sight.  Fighting down the panic, he opened drawers until he found a small kitchen knife.  He parted his lips as much as the stitching would allow, and carefully cut the thick thread.  He cut all the stitching, and set the knife down.  He pulled the threads out, flinching as they went through the holes.  He trembled, and silently, he wept with relief and elation.  His hands covered his mouth, where the heavy thread had been.  He grinned, and suddenly started to laugh, for joy.  He opened his mouth wide with a grin, simply because he could, and laughed loudly, because he could.

            He was free— _Free!_   He let out a great cry of joy, and found himself running—barely able to contain himself.

            It felt good to run.  He spun in the hallway, danced up the steps.  He pissed in a private privy, and secretly rejoiced that no one was watching him for signs of conversing with demons while he did it.  He was hungry, but too ecstatic with freedom to eat.

            He was free of the Qunari, and he laughed.  No one could ever cage him again.  No one in the world could cage a shapeshifter.  That was what he was.  It was what he had been meant to be.  He was no conjuror, no healer, no elemental summoner nor entropy master.  Those were not his talents, nor his art.  He felt, _this was_.

            Shaislyn let out another “whoop” of joy, bounding into what had been his classroom, of sorts.  He stopped suddenly, unsure of why he had come here.  A part of him had been half-expecting to find Vanessa.  The room was filled with the ghosts of his memories of her, and he thought, _I’ll never see her again._

            He walked to the desk, his fingertips running over the worn oak, touched the old bookcase, looked out the window over the yard.

            _I’m not a slave any more_ , he thought with cold certainty.  How could he be, when the city had fallen?  _Vanessa is probably dead._

That thought troubled him.  He hoped she had died as she had lived, like Jameson had.

            He whispered a quick prayer for her soul, and for Master Taggart too.  Even the boys that had made fun of him and called him names, he prayed for.  Then he knelt on the floor, and prayed for his mother.  He prayed for Lura, and the uncle he didn’t know.  He prayed for the father he didn’t know, and all the people who had died.  _If they must die, let them die as they lived._

            When he finished, he found that his eyes were wet, and he finally allowed himself to cry for all he had been through, and all he had lost.

 

            Zekiel had been the only elf in this particular sect of Fog Warriors for years now, and had become quite accustomed to it.  In fact, he barely noticed, and the Qunari, unlike humankind, were not accustomed to pointing out with frequency one’s heritage.  He always found it quite odd that all a human could seem to do was point at him and say, “Say, do you know you’re an elf?”  “Really?  I never would have known!”  They always acted so huffy when he actually said that too.  What had they been expecting him to say?

            “ _They sure do leave a mess, don’t they?”_ he inquired of his friend, Ashaad.  Ashaad could have chosen a different name after he left the Qun, but had not, curiously, and always refused to comment on it.

            “ _They are Antaam.  Of course they leave a mess,”_ he said with all the distaste he held for the Qun.

            “ _Maybe we will find something of use though.  Look!”_   He pointed ahead.  Rather than dash forward, he walked.  There was no hurry here.  “ _It’s a sword, I think.”_

            Zekiel spoke the Qunari tongue primarily.  It took conscious effort to speak in the Trade tongue for him.  His mother, a woman he scarcely remembered, had first taught him how to speak the King’s Speech, but his command of the tongue was loose after so many years of disuse.

            Ashaad had more interest in the blade than did Zekiel, and the elf knew he would.  If it weren’t broken, it could be worth pulling from the wreckage.  They could only see the hilt, and a bit of the blade from where they stood, but from the pommel, it was an expensive blade.  Zekiel knelt down beside it.  “ _Help me move this rubbish_ ,” he said.  The pair tried to pull the blade free, but it was caught on something under the rubbish.  The two pushed the stone blocks off, and found a heavy wooden awning.  It was cracked, and looked like it had been smoldering at one point, but had never fully taken flame.  Ashaad lifted it back, and made a noise of interest.

            “Zekiel _,”_ he called, inclining his head toward the underside of the awning.

            “Hmm?” the elf inquired, wandering to the other side.  He observed the body minutely.  It was covered in soot and ash, and mostly buried under rubble.  “ _Dead elf.  Leave him.”_

            Ashaad scowled.  “ _I think he’s alive.”_

Zekiel helped Ashaad lift the awning away, dragging the rubbish a short distance, then went back to what he was certain was a corpse.  He knelt beside it.  Well, for a corpse, it had pretty hair.  Or, rather, _had_ pretty hair at one point; it was pretty badly singed and blackened at the tips.  He put his finger to the corpse’s throat.  “ _See?  Dead as…  Wait.”_   He stilled, and leaned down, listening with all his might.  “ _He’s breathing_.”

            Ashaad grunted with affirmation, and inspected the sword.  The blade was well-crafted, and just broad enough that it had protected the elf from the brunt of the rubble when the wall collapsed on top of him.  He seemed to be hurt though, all the same.  But alive.

            “ _Help me move him_ ,” Zekiel said.

            Ashaad grunted.  “ _You mean, carry him—without your assistance.  You take the sword, then.  I wouldn’t want to wake without my blade.”_

The elf surveyed the damages on the white-haired elf.  He poked at him, and the elf reacted just enough that Zekiel nodded approvingly.  “ _I think he’s all right to be moved, if you’re careful.”_   Then he looked at the elf’s face, staring at the tattoos.  At first, he thought they were only tattoos.  His immediate thought was— _What’s a Dalish doing here?_ \--but then he recognized the substance.  He had only seen lyrium once—maybe twice.  But he would bet his life that the tattoos on this elf were made of the stuff.

            If they skinned him…  If they just let the elf die, or slit his throat here and now…  All that lyrium was expensive.  It could set them up for months.  Why would someone tattoo lyrium on him?  It was so costly.  Why would they do that?  All the money…  It had to have taken time, expertise—that too.  Maybe more.  _Someone loved you_ , he thought.  _Like any piece of expensive property or jewelry, but loved you nonetheless._

Which also meant, of course, that if that someone were alive, selling him back to that person could be just as profitable as stripping the lyrium out of his skin while also being less messy.  Zekiel didn’t like the idea, but knew the Fog Warriors needed coin—weaponry, medicines, supplies, none of it was cheap.

            “ _Is that…?”_ the Qunari wondered.

            Zekiel nodded.  “Lyrium,” he breathed, and they were both thinking the same thing for a moment.

            “ _It’s dangerous to touch it,_ ” Ashaad said suddenly.

            “ _Do you think we should leave him?”_ Zekiel inquired.

            But the elf flinched, and stirred, his lips parting in a small sigh.  His eyes started to open, and Zekiel caught a glimpse of sage green before his eyelids slid closed.  _Damn my inhibitions_ , he thought to himself.

            “ _No,_ ” the former scout answered.

            Zekiel sighed, and found himself carrying the sword, and Ashaad carried the unconscious elf.  Zekiel wasn’t sure which weighed more, in retrospect.

 

            Shaislyn had taken Jameson’s books, and put them in a heavy leather and oak case.  It had held some relic once—likely something priceless, but no longer; someone had taken it.  But the books fit in it, after he removed the plush lining.  He shut it, and took a shovel, and buried it in the practice yard.

            When he was done, and had eaten, he moved into the city.  He was confident now.  No one could hurt him.  If they tried, he could just turn into a bird and be gone before anything happened.  In fact, why not turn into a bird now?

            He saw no reason not to, so did.  Flying was a special joy, and seeing with his own eyes a delight.

            He observed the city, and watched an elf and a Qunari carry another elf—a wounded one.  He followed them, curious.  What were they doing?  Antaam had moved on.  Or were these really Qunari?  Could they be the Tal-Vashoth?

            Curious, he surveyed the might-be-Qunari encampment.  They had taken up residence in the ruins of the castle for the time being, though showed little interest in looting it.  Oh, they looked at pieces now and again, but showed more interest in the weaponry than the artifacts and tapestries.

            They also did not feast themselves, but rather ate only their fill.  Even a bird grew hungry, though, and he found some breadcrumbs, like the sparrow he had modeled himself after, and pecked at them.  The Thedosians—he wasn’t sure if they were Qunari or Tal-Vashoth--paid him no mind.

            He fluttered to a high beam when one came too near, but always went back to pecking at the crumbs.  He went back to his rafter, and watched the goings-on.  The Qunari and elf had finally come.  The others asked questions, and one of them, who seemed to know some things about healing, had them take the injured elf into a guest room—one that still had a bed that wasn’t broken.  Curious, Shaislyn followed, but found the way shut.  He fluttered outside through an open window, and landed on the sill.  This window was broken, but only in the sense that it had a hole in it, and most of the pane was still in place.  But sparrows were small, and he fluttered inside.  The elf turned and looked at him, then back at the unconscious one on the bed.

            The Qunari who had carried him excused himself briefly, and the other instructed the brunette elf to undress the unconscious one.  The Qunari, having come back, began wetting a cloth in a basin while Brunette worked at the bloodied clothing.  Most of it was so torn up and bloodied, sticking to skin, that the elf opted to cut it off of him, which he did.

            The leather lay in bloody pieces on the floor.  Shaislyn flapped up to a beam in the ceiling, to watch from a better angle.  He fluffed his feathers, as if roosting.  He heard himself twitter, and stretched his wings.

            The pair inspected the unconscious elf—Shaislyn revised that to tattooed elf—for further damage.  Much of the blood seemed not to be his own.  He must be a warrior, a good one.

            They treated and bandaged the elf’s wounds, and the Qunari left the two elves.  Brunette left a bit later, and Shaislyn fluttered down from the rafters.  Brunette had pulled a sheet over Tattoo.  Shaislyn landed on the sheet, and walked across his chest.  He looked down at the tattoos, and leaned down.  Birds explored the world with their beaks, which they used a lot like hands.  He touched his beak to a mark on his shoulder, and tugged on it gently.

            He jerked back in alarm when he realized what the mark _was_.  It was lyrium.  He had never been this close to lyrium before, but he knew that was what it was.  Nothing else in the world looked like that—liquid metal, with a luster unlike anything else in existence.

            It was strangely beautiful, especially to his little bird mind.  As a bird, he was inclined to bite it again, possibly play with it, and explore its possibilities.  Birds were naturally curious creatures, after all, and if it were in this man’s skin, logic dictated that it couldn’t be that dangerous.

            Rather, he resisted the urge to peck at the lyrium, and he wandered up to his neck.  It was warm there, and he was so tired.  He closed his eyes, snuggling against the elf’s neck.  His feathers fluffed, and he yawned.  He shifted his wings, and opened his eyes, then closed them.  Just for a moment.

            _I’ll just close my eyes for a moment_ …

 

            Zekiel opened the door, his scissors in hand.  He had sort of become the little group of warriors’ unofficial barber.  Plainly speaking, he was the only one who knew anything about cutting hair—mostly because he had been planning—well, not planning so much as informed—that he was going to be a barber, before he abandoned the Qun.

            Finding the Fog Warriors, for him, had been a blessing from… Andraste.  The Maker had been his mother’s god, before she had joined the Qun as a refugee, a Viddathari.  He had taken to reading the Chant of Light when he had came across the book.  He wasn’t sure if he believed in it any more than he had believed in the Qun, but it wasn’t as bloodless and unfeeling as the Qun was.  To a degree, it still felt cold to him—alien.  But maybe that would pass with time.

            His first doubts in the wisdom of the Qun had been when he was two years old, his mother a runaway slave, caught in the in-fighting in Seheron, and had come to the Qun.  She had to give up her child for education; the Qunari do not exist in family groups.  He had not seen her since, and to a two-year old, that was crippling.

            To Zekiel, that was in poor taste.  His entire existence was nothing but a duty, and it was duty that made his mother give him away.  Was it no different from slavery?

            But even for all that, he would have tolerated the Qun.  He would have obeyed it, maybe eventually found a sort of deadened joy in it, if he tried hard enough, all except for one thing.

            Zekiel went to the bed, and couldn’t help but smile.  The little sparrow that had followed them into the room was nestled under the unconscious elf’s chin, and seemed so exhausted that it did not wake when Zekiel had entered the room.

            “ _Little one_ ,” he crooned to it, and it stirred, but didn’t wake.  He put his hand near it.  Most birds were light sleepers, and would wake to that, but this little sparrow did not.  _You have the instincts of a grapefruit_.  _Why are you alive, bird?_   “ _Wake up.”_

            He made his voice louder, and a bit harsher.  The bird squawked, startled.  It stared at him, as if aghast.  It took off suddenly, fluttering back to its rafter.  It squawked angrily at him, chittering as it scolded him.  Zekiel chuckled, but half-expected the bird to shit on him in revenge for disturbing it.  Instead, the bird fluffed its feathers, more in an aggressive way than in a cute fluffy way, and zipped out the window.

            The elf looked back at the other, and gently moved his head enough to gather his long hair.  It had once been very beautiful—nearly to his hips and white as milk.  Now, it was charred at the tips, and singed all the way to his shoulders.  There really was no saving it.

            With some regret, Zekiel trimmed it off delicately, making sure all of it was even.  It was difficult with the elf unconscious and lying down, but he took his time and managed it.

            He tossed the hair in the rubbish heap outside, and it seemed like the others had decided that caring for the unconscious elf was officially his responsibility.  So, he complained, and sighed, but secretly didn’t mind as much as he thought he would.  Ashaad helped him get the elf to drink something—via a tube in his mouth, and practically drowning the poor thing.

            The elf’s eyes finally opened that evening, when Zekiel came back to see about pouring mashed and watered turnips down his throat.  Delighted to see him awake, Zekiel put the bowl down and went up to him.

            “You’re awake!” he said, unnecessarily.

            The elf stared at him for a moment, looking as confused as ever.  “What…  What happened?” he asked, but seemed reluctant to know the answer even as he asked it.

            Zekiel sat down in the chair he had pulled up next to the bed on a previous trip.  He explained how he had found the elf laying under some rubbish, and gestured to the sword they had stuck in a corner of the room.  The elf seemed gratified to see it.  “Oh, I’m Zekiel, by the way,” the Tal-Vashoth said, painfully aware that he must have an accent.

            The elf seemed quite aware of his accent, and was staring at him strangely.  “What happened to the city?” he asked.  The elf, too, spoke the Trade tongue as though he were not entirely used to it.

            Zekiel frowned.  “Aren’t you going to give me your name?  Do that, and I’ll tell you.”

            The elf looked away, and seemed very forlorn in that moment.  As if, in all the world, he was isolated and alone.  Maybe he was.  “I don’t… know my name,” he confessed.

            The elven Tal-Vashoth looked at him, and wondered.  _There’s more to that story—a lot more._   His instinct was to ask him, but then he saw the look on the elf’s face, and he held his tongue.  It was something painful.  “Then what shall I call you?”

            The elf stared down at his hands, and Zekiel saw that he was looking at the lyrium.  “My master called me ‘Fenris’,” the elf offered without looking at the other.

            “Why?” Zekiel heard himself ask.  “That’s an odd name to just start calling someone.”  He had meant for it to be light-hearted.

            Fenris tried to smile, and failed.  “His ‘little wolf’,” he answered, almost mechanically.

            Zekiel paused.  “Well, I bet he’s dead now.  So you’re free.”

            Fenris looked at him, clearly not understanding what Zekiel was saying.  _Poor thing,_ he thought.  _He’s been a slave all his life, and has no idea what that even means._   “My master is alive,” he argued.  “I saw him leave on a ship myself.”

            “Then he abandoned you.”

            It must have been the wrong thing to say, because Fenris’ sage eyes filled with inner pain in that moment.  He seemed like he might say something, but the elf looked away instead, his eyes sliding closed against the pain.  He laid back down, turning from Zekiel.

            “I…  You must be hungry,” Zekiel tried instead.  “I’ll bring you something to eat—don’t try to get up yet.  You were hurt.”  Abrasions, for the most part—things that were made worse because of splinters and grit in the wounds, cuts, and many nasty-looking bruises.  By the elf’s breathing, they had judged his ribs to be bruised internally as well, but not broken, and by the way Fenris moved, that seemed to hold true.

            Fenris made no reply, but did not move.  Zekiel left and took his bowl of watery turnips with him, wondering what he could have said wrong.  Maybe it was just the thought of being abandoned—the shock of realizing that he was just petty property to his master?  No, he surely must have known that for years.  But Zekiel wondered.  Fenris was covered in lyrium.  Expensive lyrium.  No.  Someone had put a lot of care into that man—and money.  Fenris wasn’t petty property.

 

            _He meant well_ , Fenris thought with a sigh.  But he had no idea how close to the truth that felt like.  He _felt_ abandoned.  Disposed of.  Danarius hadn’t wanted to leave him, that was clear.  But he _had_ left him.  He had left him, and knew Fenris might die.  He had been concerned, he knew, but he had still _left him_.

            He felt angry about it.  Alone.  Very alone.  Zekiel was an elf, true, but he noticed his accent; he was…  What was that word?  Tal-Vashoth, probably.  But his first language had been Qunlat.  He had killed so many Qunari.  What would they do if they knew?

            No, he realized.  They already know.  They know, and they had rescued him anyway.  He would have died, from exposure if nothing else, buried under the rubble.  He knew that the army had moved on, if the Tal-Vashoth were here now.

            What did that mean?  He didn’t know.  The Tevinters would not have done it; they would have held the port.  But, he supposed, that was the difference between Imperial thought and Qunari thought.  But then, the Qunari had obviously attacked for the opportunity of destroying some of the Magisterium and crippling the Imperium.  If the Imperials had attacked a Qunari city, it would be to take the city.  Seizing control of a city had not been their goal.

            His despair clutched at every corner of his being.  He had been abandoned.  Sadness, then anger coursed through him—lighting up the lyrium for an instant, before his temper cooled, and gave way to the despair.

            He had tried so hard…  He had done everything his master had ever asked of him.  And he just…?  Rationally, he knew that wasn’t the case.  Rationally, he knew his master had never intended or wanted to leave him, and had been forced to.  But he was partially delirious from his wounds, hunger, exposure, and dehydration, and he was not thinking rationally, nor did he want to.

            He felt as alone as ever--abandoned and neglected, and that was all there was to it.

 

            Shaislyn walked down the lonely street in the dark, unafraid.  There were worse things than the dark.  And maybe sometimes his imagination turned shadows into Qunari, they were all in his head.  He knew they were real elsewhere, but these were in his head.

            He was going to the castle, where the Tal-Vashoth were.  They called themselves Fog Warriors.  He supposed that was better than using the name the people they had abandoned called them.  After all, there was a reason they had left their beliefs behind them.

            The halfling child simply didn’t know where else to go, or what to do.  And anyway, he was hungry besides, and they had food.  Maybe he would learn from them where he should go.  Seheron wasn’t safe.  But in that case, what could he do?  This city was all he had ever known.  The refugees had crossed the sea to Minrathous.  Should he go there?

            But a little sparrow couldn’t fly that far on its own, could it?  No, he thought.  The wings are too small; he wouldn’t make it.  He would have to learn another form.  Maybe some kind of fish, or a bigger bird.  That would take time.  He would need time to watch, and learn.  And he was a child, and didn’t know how to take care of himself.  Maybe these Tal-Vashoth would help him.  And if not, it wasn’t a wasted effort.  No harm ever came of trying, or asking.

            He was stopped at the gate, and the Qunari hailed him in his own tongue, “Halt.”  Then he saw that Shaislyn was just a child of eight, and stepped aside to let him pass.  “Go into the hall—you’ll find food there, and if you are hurt, we will see to your wounds.”

            Shaislyn was half-tempted to thank him in Qunlat, but stopped himself, and only nodded gratefully instead.  They had accepted him unthinkingly.  After all, what harm could a child pose?  _Fools_ , he thought.  _I’m a mage.  Maybe not a learned mage, but I could summon demons.  Any mage—no matter their age—could._

            But he kept on anyway, and was grateful for their somewhat lax security.  _When I’m an adult, I won’t think a child harmless just because it’s a child_ , he promised himself.

            Sure enough, he was greeted with, not exactly open arms, but a certain level of sympathy and pity.  He didn’t know what else to do but to play into it.  What child his age wouldn’t be upset?  Was it _wrong_ that he was finished being sad?  Or maybe he was lying to himself about that too.

            But he pretended, and no one asked about his eyes.  They found him a bunk in what had been the servant’s quarters.  The upper floors had, for the most part, suffered the majority of the looting and damages.  The lower floors, alternately, were untouched, so most everyone slept there.  Shaislyn quickly discovered that they let him do whatever he liked.

            Living with the Fog Warriors was unlike everything he had previously experienced.  They weren’t family exactly, and they were nothing like the Imperial army either, nor were they like Antaam.  They went where they desired, and they had no leader precisely, though everyone seemed to agree a particular Qunari who went by the strange name of Aban was their unspoken leader, of sorts.

            Some things still needed doing though—chores that were designated, and everyone was expected to pull their own weight.  It was generally agreed that they should move on soon.  They had piled bodies into piles and burned them.  When Shaislyn asked, they told him that if they left the bodies to rot, it can cause plague.  Furthermore, while the Tevinters were happy to inflict plague on Qunari and the rebels, and the Qunari cared not for an Imperial city, the Fog Warriors did not want the people of Seheron to suffer because of each side’s selfish ambitions, which was why they existed in the first place.

            Shaislyn was still kind of afraid of the Qunari, and if they noticed the scars by his lips, they never said anything about it.  He was out by the docks one mid-morning with Zekiel—who was the only one he really felt comfortable around--and Zekiel was teaching him how to skip rocks earlier.  Shaislyn had gone off in search of more smooth, flat stones—which was easy, considering how ruined the city was.

            Zekiel turned, and smiled.  “So—you finally decided to leave the room,” he said, hailing to someone Shaislyn couldn’t see.

            “It still hurts to walk on it,” the other said, in an affected Tevinter accent, but in the King’s Speech.

            Intrigued, Shaislyn peered around the corner.  “You’re lucky your leg’s not broken,” Zekiel commented.  “It was bruised up pretty badly—I was worried it was fractured, and we don’t have a healer.”

            “I suppose I’m lucky then,” the other said, and Shaislyn was surprised to see another elf briefly, before he recalled the injured elf from earlier.

            “Still hurt to breathe?” Zekiel asked the other.

            A shrug from the tattooed elf.  “And speak.  And… everything—but I’m tired of lying in bed all day.”

            Zekiel looked back at Shaislyn, who immediately ducked back behind the wall, feeling like he should not have been watching.  “Hey—come on out.  For a wolf, Fenris doesn’t bite a whole lot.”

            Fenris made a face, and Zekiel grinned at him.  Timidly, Shaislyn looked around the corner again, and then slowly strode back up to them.  He looked up at the stranger, and studied him for a long moment.  He had seen him once as a bird, but he pretended that it was the first time.  He knew the lyrium wasn’t dangerous.  Or maybe it was—maybe under certain circumstances, or prolonged exposure.  But Shaislyn was unconcerned about it.  It was clearly a refined lyrium, so he had nothing to fear in proximity to it—in theory.

            “Hi,” Shaislyn said.  “I’m Shaislyn.”

            “Fenris.”  The elf had questions—Shaislyn could see it on his face.  But why guard his tongue like that?  If he had a question, he should ask it.

            The boy frowned, and the lie came easily to his lips.  “I hid in the alienage during the attack.  And I was hidden in the cellar when the Qunari came and took everyone.”

            Fenris blinked, and then turned his head to look out at the sea, suddenly lost in thought.  He looked back at the other two.  “I’ve heard talk of the Fog Warriors moving on.”

            Zekiel smiled reassuringly.  “Both of you are more than welcome to come.  I trust neither of you know anything about camping or hunting anyway?  You couldn’t take care of yourself.”

            _I could_ , Shaislyn thought.  Maybe he could learn how to be a bear, or a wolf—he could take care of himself.  Zekiel had teasingly called Fenris a wolf.  Shaislyn wondered why.  He wondered what it would be like to be a wolf.

            The grown-ups started talking, and Shaislyn quickly grew bored, and wandered back down to the pier.  He looked down at the waves, but didn’t see any fish.  So how could he learn to be a fish if he never saw any?  He frowned to himself.  Well, maybe being a fish was a bad idea.  Fish got eaten all the time.  He should pick something that was less likely to get eaten.  Like what?

            He looked up at the sky, and watched the gulls.  A seagull wasn’t a bad start.  He wasn’t so sure they could make the crossing, but it was something.

            An eagle was hunting, he saw, just off the pier.  It dove down, and came up clutching a wriggling prize—some kind of fish.  He found himself grinning at the thought of becoming a mighty eagle.  That sure beat a sparrow!  He tried to watch the eagle, but the bird only flew away, and he sighed.

            There were crows all over the city right now—big black birds, feasting on the carrion.  It was gruesome, but necessary.  His nose wrinkled.  They were burning bodies again.  He looked back at the city, and watched the acrid smoke rise from the pyre.

            The living animals had all been taken by the Qunari to feed their forces, but still food had remained.  They were not the sort to loot, and had not pried apart every cupboard, but the Fog Warriors had after most of the work of clean-up had been done.  He had disliked it at first.  It was rude, disrespectful to the dead, but then he thought about it.

            He had taken Jameson’s books because he didn’t want someone else to, and because Jameson had been dear to him, and he wanted to keep them safe.  The Fog Warriors hadn’t known the people here, but the things they had held precious in life were no use to them in death.  But they _could_ be useful to the living, so why not take it?  Like the medicines that Ashaad had found, or the weapons.

            A few more days passed, and everyone seemed to be talking about moving on.  Shaislyn was bored anyway, and would not mind leaving.

            Zekiel was teaching Fenris Qunlat, he discovered, when he walked up to them one late afternoon at the docks, giving him names for words, as well as occasional spurts about what their cult-like religion was all about.  They needed to work on his pronunciation.  The words were right, but his accent made it difficult to understand.

            “You want to learn it too?” Zekiel asked Shaislyn. 

            The half-elf had had enough Qunlat lessons in his life.  “No,” he said.  “I’m hungry.”

            “Right.”  The elf hopped down from the crate he had been perched on.  “Let’s go see what we can find, shall we?”

            They headed back to the castle, where the others were discussing when they should leave.  Tomorrow morning seemed to be the agreed upon date.  Shaislyn was anxious to go.  He wondered what traveling with them would be like.  Maybe he would have an opportunity to study wolves and eagles.  He certainly hoped so.

            The others talked over him, often, as if he were not there.  People did that with children, especially in another language, but Shaislyn understood them all.  He usually didn’t pay them much heed, but today, they were discussing what to do with him.

            “ _We could bring him to Schavalis.  The woman there may take him—she has other children,”_ one of them offered.

            _“That’s a good plan_ ,” Zekiel agreed.

            _They don’t even ask me what I want_ , Shaislyn thought miserably, but he kept his expression schooled.  Instead, he finished eating, and helped with the washing, lest they begin to think he was lazy or spoiled.  Afterwards, he went to the yard, and watched the Qunari warriors fight.  He sighed to himself.  His lessons had been cut short.  Maybe…  But he was too afraid to ask.

 

Zekiel often went on long walks with Fenris, who was still recuperating from having a building fall on top of him.  At first, Fenris had to rest frequently, but he was getting better gradually, and the walks were doing some real good.  Today, Shaislyn had decided to come along.

“What’s an alienage like, anyway?” Zekiel wondered.

Shaislyn laughed.  “It’s a ghetto.”

“Yes, but I mean, is it like a human ghetto?  Or is it worse?”

“We’re not far--we can go look at it.  Can’t imagine why you’d want to see it though,” the boy muttered.

“I’ve just never seen one,” he said honestly.

This was baffling to Shaislyn.  “You mean, with the Tal-Vashoth, they don’t keep the elves separate?”

Zekiel shook his head.  “No point; there aren’t enough of us to be prejudice, and a lot of the Fog Warriors are Qunari; so even though we’ve all given up the Qun, we still believe we’re all equal.”  He paused.  “It’s humans that are weird about it; I mean, all these human-governed countries aren’t properly utilizing a large portion of their potential work force.  It’s insanity.”

Fenris laughed.  “They don’t see it that way; most humans view elves as worthless.”

Zekiel was genuinely puzzled.  “But why?  If I put a bag over my head, no one would ever be able to tell the difference.”

“Aside from your thick Qunlat accent,” Shaislyn chimed in.  “These are the gates.”  The gates of the alienage were scorched but not burned away, one hinge broken, and they lay open wide.  The three filed through the gate.

Fenris looked around the alienage; he had never been in one either.  His eyes roved from one crumbling building to the next.  A wind bled ash from a fire, and the whole of the alienage was hard to see through the fog, the mists just seemed to make it feel more desolate and isolated.  “Many of my master’s slaves live better than this,” he said quietly.

“Slaves are valuable; elves are not,” Zekiel whispered as they followed Shaislyn along the street.  “Street” was a polite term.  Before the Qunari attack, it had been a street paved with broken mud bricks, uneven with missing bricks and broken pieces, an open sewer on one side of it that flooded when it rained.  A rampaging fire, looting, and destruction had turned the street into a mess littered with shattered glass, broken pottery, splintered furniture, and decaying bodies of animals.  The people, the Fog Warriors had burned out of respect for the dead.  The buildings leaned against one another like people worked too hard and tired to their bones.

“There’s no venedahl,” Zekiel commented, sounding disappointed.

Shaislyn snorted, gesturing at the buildings.  Sometime that awful night, there had been a fire in the alienage, and many of the buildings were now naught but ashes.  “Does it look like anything can grow here?” he said with a flat look.

“No, it doesn’t,” Fenris said gently, but he wasn’t looking at the buildings; he looked at Shaislyn’s tawny frame, his malnourished body.  He had never once cried out for a parent, or missed his home.  Looking at the lingering misery of this place, he knew why.

“Where was your house, Shaislyn?” Zekiel asked, changing the subject.

The boy hesitated, and stammered.  “Um…”  He looked around, and back at the two adults.  “Everything looks so different with no one around… and it’s all burned down, I…”  He pointed, toward the bones of a building, now only so much ash.  “Ah…  That’s it.”

“Oh, in the apartment building?” Zekiel said.  “How’d you get out of the cellar when it caught fire?”

The boy froze.  “I…”

“He’s obviously upset about it, Zekiel.  Leave him alone,” Fenris said.  Shaislyn looked visibly relieved.  The half-blood had said he had hid in the cellar, yet…  He supposed that there was no good reason that he hadn’t been able to get into an apartment building’s cellar.  Maybe it caught fire sometime after the Qunari had been by.  Or maybe Shaislyn was simply reluctant to talk about it because he had stolen into someone else’s house to hide.  Either way, he had survived that night, and Fenris didn’t think the how or why of it could be that important.  Wasn’t it enough that he had?  So many people hadn’t.

“Sorry,” the Tal-Vashoth muttered.  “I can’t believe elves really live in places like this.”

Fenris looked at him morosely.  “You should see how the slaves in the country live, or in the quarries—especially for foreign-born slaves.”

“But I expect _that_.  This is hardly a step above that.”  He sighed.  “And humans treat us like this everywhere--and why?”  He swore.  “The only _good_ thing about the Qun is that this would never be allowed.”

“Why is that?” Fenris inquired.

He looked back at him.  “Only damned good part about living under the Qun:  Everyone is equal.  Everyone has a place in the world.  Elves, humans, dwarves, Qunari, Fex, we’re all _equal._ ”

“Are there those that are _more_ equal than others?” the Imperial elf inquired.

Zekiel made a gesture, holding his finger in the air for emphasis.  “I think you’re seeing where this is going.”

“I’ve never seen a Fex before.  What do they look like?” Shaislyn asked.  He had only heard the name mentioned, once, by Vanessa in her many teachings of the Qunlat and Qunari.

“They’re only in Par Vallen I think--I’ve never seen one either.  They’ve been indoctrinated into the Qun forever, though.  I guess there are just more Qunari.”

Shaislyn was disappointed.  “Oh.”  He looked off, in the direction he knew the graveyard to be, where his grandmother’s ashes lay buried.  One day, when he died, he wondered if anyone would try to remember him, or would he just be one more escaped slave, a tally in a book.  _Fex_ —with nothing but a name, conquered by life and death.

 

            Evening found Fenris standing alone on the shore, watching the sun go down with a quiet tranquility he had never quite found before.  It was odd not being told what to do every day.  The Fog Warriors sometimes gave suggestions, but that was all they were— _suggestions_.  He hadn’t understood at first, and they still puzzled him, but it felt… good.

            He even liked the traveling, to a degree.  They didn’t have horses, and pulled most of their things in ox-drawn carts.  The going was slow, but pleasant, and gave the others time to hunt for game.  Walking was still a bit painful, and he had to pace himself when he walked, because breathing was so difficult, but they let him ride in the wagon if it were too bad, and everyone understood.  There were a few different Qunari who spoke at least some of his tongue, but being around them, and listening to them talk, he picked up their words quickly, and they seemed happy when he started practicing it, so he had kept at it.  He still stumbled over the words, and he had an easier time with the Trade tongue, though that was a language he had not used very often as a slave.  Come to think of it, he had never learned either Tevene or the King’s Speech, but rather had woken simply _knowing_ both of them, and had never questioned it.  But not every slave spoke both tongues.  But then, his master had told him that he had come from Seheron.  Maybe he _had_ been free once?  And free again?

            Seheron felt like a safe refuge to him.  If he had been free in his life, it had been in Seheron.  And he had returned, and was free again.  The shifting fog and grassy knolls kindled something in his soul—maybe joy?  For the first time in his life, joy?  The joy of freedom, and what may be his homeland welcoming him back to its soil?  He knew it was only temporary; the idea of being free forever seemed foreign, and silly.

            The only other one who spoke Tevene at all was Shaislyn, and it was obviously his first language, though the boy spoke the Trade tongue equally well, saying that his mother spoke better Tevene but his grandmother was better in the King’s Speech.  Shaislyn was surprisingly not very underfoot, listened attentively for a child, but had a bad tendency to wander off, though he never strayed far and came back for meals. 

            In traveling, everyone had duties they had to attend to, and help with, but they went where they pleased.  In the city, they had been a large group, but now many of them were branching off, saying they were heading north, and another group wanted to check on the whereabouts of the Antaam.  Now, they were a much smaller group, so there were more chores.  He was learning to help, but they didn’t _expect_ him to, per se—save to work for his food.  They gave orders, but they didn’t treat him like a slave.  They treated him, for the first time in his life, like an equal.

            He looked down at the object in his hands, his heart wrenching in anger.

            His fist clenched, rage building.

            The hate coursed through him like a thing alive, burning through every artery.  He felt it tainting his soul irredeemably.  It was painful, and nearly a match for the burning in his skin.  Because he had been bedding in the servant quarters before the attack, a small chest of his things were still intact.  He had changed into the most practical outfit available, and with no small amount of contempt, had thrown the trunk into a fire.  No one had commented on it, nor asked what was in it.  It had been serving outfits, things he had hated to wear.  He had given the jewelry to the Fog Warriors, to do with as they wished.  He saw no reason not to.

            People looked at Fenris, and regarded him as some kind of monster—based on the lyrium, or the abilities it gave him, maybe how he took some amount of pleasure in killing.  But Danarius was a monster.

            He knew that now, knew that from the depth of his soul that everything up until now was wrong.

            He hadn’t… _understood_.  He felt like, to a degree, he still didn’t.  But treating him the way he had?  That was wrong.  The child he had murdered, the things his master had done…

            It was unforgivable.

            A part of Fenris wanted to go back, all the same.  He wanted to go back to Minrathous, to the world he _knew_ and understood.  It was easy to do as he was told.  Easy to follow orders.  Everything in his life had been a guarantee.  Now, his future just seemed uncertain, maybe even bleak—who knew?

            Alternately, it felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.  He felt _good_.  More than anything… he felt… happy—if this was what happiness felt like.  He didn’t want to let it go.  Even so, he could feel it slipping away from him.  He imagined the weight of the collar back on his neck, the tug of the leash, the way the slender chain tinkled, or the way he had thought constantly of how easy it would be to snap it.

            He stood up, pulled back his arm, and hurled the collar as far as he could.  It sunk beneath the waves, and was lost.  He touched his throat, and his heavy heart felt that much lighter.  It was gone, at least.  Another could be made, but that one was gone.  No one would be the wiser.  Even if Danarius did come to retrieve Fenris, and he knew he would if he could, who was to say it wasn’t lost in the battle?

            Oh, he might be suspicious, considering the clothes Fenris was wearing, but who would be the wiser?

            He sat down on a driftwood log, and emotion caught in his throat.  All the feelings he could not understand, or could not express welled inside him, and he blinked away the unbidden tears.

            He heard footsteps, and looked up.  It was Zekiel, but without his little tag-a-long.  Shaislyn was usually with him.  Fenris suspected that the Qunari scared the child.  “It can be hard to let go of your past, even if you hate it,” Zekiel said gently.

            Fenris looked up at him.  “Was it hard for you?”

            Zekiel’s mouth pressed into a thin line, and he sat down next to him on the crate.  “Ashaad left the Qun because of a disagreement when one of his peers was promoted.  He said that his peer was self-serving and cruel, and he was told that it was the will of the Qun.  So he left.”  He paused for a moment.  “I guess many of the others have stories similar to that—but we all left for different reasons.”

            Fenris raised an eyebrow.  If Zekiel wanted to be evasive, that was his right.  “I see.”

            Zekiel paused for a long time.  “Some left the Qun because they disagreed with it, or because they wanted something different.  I guess you could say that I was the same… but I left for love.  Or, rather… because I couldn’t have it.”

            Fenris knew nothing of love—love of anything.  It was an abstract concept to him, and nothing more.  He looked out at the sea, and listened to the waves.  He had nothing to say in response to what Zekiel was telling him, so he said nothing.

            The other elf took his silence for what it was, and continued.  “I was a child when I noticed that I was different from the other boys my age, but I never thought about it.  There was no room to talk about it, and I never said anything; I couldn’t.  Life in the Qun leaves no room for yourself, and your wants.”  Fenris assumed that Zekiel must have meant that he was an elf.  The Tal-Vashoth looked down, at his hands, then back at the ocean.  “I was instructed on what I would do with my life.  With every aspect of my life.”

            “That sounds like slavery,” Fenris said, a note of bitterness in his voice that had not been there before.

            Zekiel only sounded sad.  “It was.  It _is_.  But you have to be devoted to it.  It consumes you, and there is nothing left but obedience.  You have freedom to choose to do as you are told.”  He laughed bitterly.  “A slave has the same freedom.”

            Instinctively, Fenris wanted to argue this, then stopped, and considered.  _There is always a choice.  Even if that choice is death_.  Who had said that?  “In a manner of speaking.”

            “ _Asit tal-eb_ ,” Zekiel said.  “It is to be.”  He was silent for a moment, as if he did not wish to go on, but he did.  “I may have found happiness in it, in time.  I would have accepted my role in the Qun, and served willingly, and gladly in it.”  He looked up at the darkening sky.  “Then I met…  Athlok.”

            “Worker?” Fenris guessed at the translation, a touch confused.

            “We don’t have names in the Qun,” Zekiel told him.  “Much like your master undoubtedly changed your name.”  Zekiel looked down.  “Anyway, that wasn’t what I called him.”

            “Will you tell me what you called him?” the elf asked.

            Zekiel looked at him sidelong.  “I haven’t even told Ashaad this,” he said, then snorted.  “But he wouldn’t care.”  He was silent again.  “Kadan was… a Qunari.  Small for a Qunari, though—he would never be a soldier.”  _Kadan?_ Fenris wondered.  It was a term of endearment.  They were still talking about Athlok, were they not?  “We met, a few times.  We talked.  He was… different… too.  We talked some more, and were glad to find someone else.”  Zekiel’s blue eyes closed, as if in pain, then opened.  “We knew what we were doing was wrong—it was even… strictly forbidden.  And we knew that we would get in trouble for doing it.”

            Fenris slowly began to get the idea of what Zekiel was actually talking about.  “So…  I understand that you…”  He amended his previous thought; it had nothing to do with him being elven. 

            Zekiel looked back at Fenris.  “I’ve always looked at men, rather than women.  So did Kadan.”  He looked away, and did not look back until he had schooled his expression.  “Of course, we were both taken, and we needed to be… reeducated.”  He glanced at him.  “Anyone caught having sex—or even masturbating for that matter--without being told to purely for the sake of reproduction, is seen as being mentally ill.”

            Fenris found himself gone still.  Everything about that was wrong.  Sex was a natural, normal act.  True, it would all but solve rape crimes, but…  Mentally ill—just for giving in to a perfectly normal, natural desire?  Worse still, they weren’t… allowed to have sex except to conceive?  Do they have no joy in their lives?  He assumed that also meant that love, especially, was eradicated from their lives.  Zekiel had mentioned to him, a little bit, about how they don’t have “families” or “parents” per se, and he realized that must mean that…  That seemed so sad.  Even Danarius’ slaves, all except Fenris, were allowed those basic privileges.  In the Qun, just like Danarius had kept records of his slaves for breeding purposes and documentation, they kept records for breeding their own people like cattle.

            Zekiel’s blue eyes shifted towards him, as if daring him to say a word, daring him to ask what “reeducation” meant, but he didn’t need to, the way he spoke.  “Kadan was sent back to Par Vallen, and I was marched to a reeducation camp in northern Seheron.”  A pause.  “He… wouldn’t even speak.  I asked him if he loved me, and he wouldn’t even answer, not even when he left…  I cried.”  He shook his head.  “I couldn’t stay.  So I didn’t.”

            “You never tried to find him?”

            “Par Vallen… is a big place, Fenris.  I couldn’t have, unless they told me where he had gone, but they did not.”  He looked back at the sea.  “I hated the Qun.  I even hated Kadan, when he refused to speak.”  He shook his head.  “I hated everything, and everyone.”  He stood up.  “All that hating takes a lot of energy, though, and it’s not worth it in the end.”  He left Fenris, then, and started walking back toward the camp.  Fenris hesitated, and followed after him.

            He wanted to say something comforting, but he had no words to give him.  He wouldn’t know what to say.  He didn’t want to let go of his hatred.  It might hurt him, but he needed his hatred too badly to let go of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, I want to strangle my own character and scream "He's your god-damned uncle, Shaislyn!"


	67. Sacrificial Lamb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lysander, though he doesn't know Fenris personally, begins to sympathize with him. Shaislyn just wants to escape Seheron.

                The problem with studying animals is finding them, Shaislyn decided.  He wanted to learn to be a soaring eagle, or a ferocious wolf.  But _finding_ those animals?  Impossible—even as a sparrow, he had trouble finding them.  So, when he traveled, he looked, and was always watching.  He observed squirrels, and crows, seagulls too.  He observed crabs, and the oxen.  He didn’t want to be an ox though.

                And who would want to be a crab, or a squirrel?  Crows weren’t useful either—they didn’t glide like eagles did.  Or did they?  He had never seen one gliding.

                He needed something that would fly over the sea.  Or perhaps, he was looking at this the wrong way.  Perhaps, he needed to find a ship.  A little squirrel could hide in a large ship, or a lizard.  So he watched the squirrels, and the lizards to learn what he would learn.

                He tried to feed the squirrels, to get them to come closer.  The others mistook what he was doing for innocent childishness.  He let them go on thinking that.  He didn’t trust them—why would he?  He didn’t want them to know that he was a mage.  Maybe the Fog Warriors suspected, but maybe they did not.  He knew the stitching on his mouth had scarred, but perhaps they still did not guess.  Such a thing could be an odd abrasion scar.  Such things were known to happen, he reasoned.  No one ever said anything about it anyway.

                He was never in one place long enough to win over the squirrels though, but the crows were not so shy.  He resolved to watching the crows.

                One day, they came across a tree, with hanging corpses.  They were Qunari scouts, from the Antaam.  The Tal-Vashoth tipped their heads to them, but continued on without cutting them down.  Shaislyn supposed that they did not wish to call attention to themselves if they did not need to.

                Birds were in the tree—large black creatures cawing and pecking at strips of flesh.

                “The crows…” Shaislyn heard himself whisper, watching one tug a bit of flesh loose.

                Zekiel touched his shoulder gently in a manner that was supposed to be comforting, and he pointed to one in particular.  “That one is a raven—see the crows leaving him alone?”

                It was true.  The raven had a body all to itself, and now that Shaislyn was looking, he saw that it was a much bigger bird than the crows.  Shaislyn stopped and watched it, fascinated by the grisly display.  The eyes had already been plucked out like fine delicacies.  The raven’s sharp beak tugged at a strip of flesh in the Qunari’s neck, a gaping hole already exposed.  The warriors continued walking past him, and he felt the line begin to leave him, but he stared at the raven.  Its wings were large enough to glide, and ravens were not so different from crows.

 

                Matilda limped on her crutch after Lysander.  “You can’t do this,” she insisted, hobbling after him.

                He swallowed the lump in his throat, and looked back at her.  “What else can we do?” he asked her, his voice soft.  His eyes were wet.  “Issie will die if I don’t.”

                Matilda glared at him, or more accurately, tried to, but she loved her brother too much to be truly angry with him.  “I don’t want you to do this to yourself.”

                He smiled, as if it were nothing.  “Don’t worry about it.”  He put a comforting hand on her shoulder.  “I love you, sis.  I love both of you.”

                Matilda shook her head, as if in pain.  Her soft brown curls bounced when she did it.  It made her look cute.  “You shouldn’t have to do this.”

                He only kept smiling.  “Watch after the house while I’m gone.  Someone needs to be with Issie.”

                The girl looked down.  “All those times you didn’t come home at night…”

                He kept the smile on his face.  “Nonsense.  Do you really think I’ve been lying to you all these years?”  He had.  He knew he had, but still he smiled.

                She looked at him, and seemed to be near to tears.  “Yes.”  She quivered.  “All those times you left, and came back in the morning with some coin…  And I thought…  I don’t know what I thought.  I don’t think I did.”  She bit back a sob.  “I was so glad to have it—either ‘cuz Issie was sick, or we were starving…  I never even thought…  Please, Ly, don’t…”

                His face was beginning to hurt from the continuous smile.  But he dare not stop.  If he frowned, it would be all the affirmation that Matilda needed that he hated it.  _Please, Mattie, don’t make this harder_.  “I’ll go instead,” she insisted.  “I’m a maiden.  They’ll pay for that.”

                His heart skipped a beat, and he put both his hands on the determined girl’s shoulders.  “No, Mattie,” he said gently.  “No.  It’s all right.”  He looked at the girl, with her cute curls, big brown eyes.  He couldn’t bear the thought of her in a brothel.  “We will never be that desperate, I promise you.”

                At that, she was angry.  “But we can be desperate enough for you to sell yourself the same way?”  He had no words for that, and was silent for a moment, his smile fading away like the setting sun.  She took it for assent.  “Ly, you mustn’t.  You’re a man…  You can’t.”

                He forced the smile back on his face, aghast that he had lost it.  “Exactly.  Mattie, you can get pregnant, and then what would we do?  Please, stay with Issie—she needs you.”

                His tone of voice calmed her, and the truth of his words.  She looked down.  “If only Issie wasn’t sick all the time.”

                They both knew that it would be easier on both of them to let their baby sister die.  If they didn’t have to spend so much money on medicine, they might afford more for themselves—a lot of things actually.  They wouldn’t need to watch her, or care for her.  But they couldn’t let her die; she was their baby sister, and they could not let her die.  “I know,” he said gently.  “Go sing her a lullaby.  She likes that.”

                Matilda sighed, and kissed her brother on the cheek.  “Take care of yourself,” she told him, but clearly didn’t like letting him go.

                He nodded and promised that he would, and return as soon as he could.  Matilda turned and hobbled back the way she had come.  An accident a couple of years ago had left her crippled—a merchant’s cart had fallen on her and crushed her leg.  She had kept the leg at least, but would walk forever with a limp.  One day, she might only need a cane, but for the moment, she needed a crutch.  Lysander didn’t know what the two would do without him—one crippled, and one sickly, both young girls.

                He loved them both with all his heart, though, and really would do anything for them.  The money from the job a month ago had been great.  He had bought the girls some clothes, food, and even fixed some of the leaks in the roof.  He had been careful with the coin, and did not fritter it away on anything, but the cost of living had its expenses, and he wanted so badly to provide for those girls…  Maybe he shouldn’t have bought Issie that doll, but she loved it.  She carried it with her everywhere, and slept with it, and he had missed so many of her name days; didn’t she deserve a toy once in a while—one that wasn’t broken?

                It was foolish, though, and he knew it.  They should have only used the coin on necessities.  And it was summer right now—they really didn’t need the leaks fixed.  It could have waited.  No matter what he thought now, though, it was done and there was no going back.

                He had heard about the strange request from Chaisty.  He had told him that Alesand, the mistress of the House of Jade, had a very specific request from a most prestigious client.  With limited time to find one suitable at the markets, she had begun to ask around at the local brothels.  Lysander would not have known about the… job… at all except that he had happened to reluctantly ask Chaisty if he needed another male for a night or two.  Chaisty had thought about it, then realized that Alesand needed someone of his basic description.

                A young male—one that has either never been with a man, or it’s been months since then, and inexperienced.  That alone wasn’t so difficult to find, but the client was exact:  Strong of body, like a swordsman.  That narrowed it down a bit more, but it still wasn’t why the brothels were having such a hard time of it.  The client also wanted one… less willing.  “If you cry--” Chaisty had told him.  “--he’ll pay more.  But no begging, and be obedient.”

                _What kind of man wants something like that?_ Lysander thought with a sinking feeling.  The House of Jade, though, was prestigious.  It would pay a lot.  Furthermore, despite that this client basically wanted to rape him, he was willing to pay for it.  For a rich man, wouldn’t it just be easier to find one of their young male slaves, and rape them instead?  Maybe this was easier though.

                Besides, even though he would owe a certain amount to the House of Jade for use of the room, and another small amount to Mermaid’s Kiss for recommending him, it would be more than he would have made at the Mermaid for a week.  It would set them up for a while, and he could look for better work in the meantime.

                He was nervous when he entered the House, and a well-dressed, very polished servant eyed him with such contempt that he almost slunk away.  The servant approached him with the same air of obvious disdain.  “What brings you to the House of Jade, serrah?” he inquired.

                Lysander suddenly wanted to run.  If he were going to, this was his last chance.  “I…”  His throat suddenly felt dry.

                The man’s frown deepened.  “If nothing at all brings you here, perhaps you should leave,” he suggested, and his eyes flicked to a guard by the door.  The guard shifted, and Lysander knew he had to say something quickly, or they would just throw him out and not listen to him.

                “I’m here about the… job,” he blurted.

                The servant seemed more annoyed than anything else.  “You’re in the wrong place.  Guard, I think this man is drunk,” he called.

                “No!” he insisted.  “Chaisty sent me—from Mermaid’s Kiss.  I’m to ask for Mistress Alesand!”

                The guard stopped mid-stride, and the servant’s entire demeanor changed.  He smiled pleasantly, all previous nastiness apparently forgotten.  “Oh, I see.”  He looked him up and down, and sighed.  “It’s good you came so early.  Come.”

                The servant turned on his heel and strode away.  All Lysander could do was follow him.

                _It’s not my fault I’m so filthy_ , he thought to himself.  Poverty didn’t exactly allow for good grooming habits.  He was lousy with lice and fleas too, he bet.  They had told him to arrive an hour early, at the least.  He had left earlier than he needed to, though, just in case, and he was quite early even by those standards.

                The servant opened the door, and ushered Lysander in, and the door shut behind him.  He was standing in what looked like an office room, of sorts.  An aging woman with good posture sat in a high-backed chair behind a desk.  She gave him an appraising look, and her expression was nothing short of disapproval.

                “You’re the one Chaisty sent me?” she inquired, her tone brusque.

                He only wanted to slink away.  “Yes,” he admitted, looking down.  What did she think of him?  Whore, most likely.  Desperate too.

                “I see.  Step out.  You’ll be shown to the room.  I want you washed, and dressed in the clothes I have laid out for you.  When the client comes, you will obey his every command to the best of your ability.  You may refuse nothing.”  She wasn’t even looking at him any longer as she spoke.  “You’ll find oils in the top drawer of the dresser.  I want you to put on the rose oil—over all of your body.”

                His fingers clenched.  _Like a slave!_   It was one thing to be a whore, but they were treating him like a slave!  He was a free man.  How dare they—

                She was staring at him now, her sharp eyes penetrating.  “You are displeased.  Why?” she snapped.  “You are being paid a generous sum.”

                His teeth ground together in his anger.  “You’re treating me like a slave,” he hissed.

                She frowned.  “Tonight, you are,” she said, in a tone that brooked no argument.  “But you are not being _bought_ , you are being _rented_ , mercenary.”

                That caught him off-guard.  “How did you…?”

                Her eyes flicked to his hands.  “Your hands are callused.  You walk confidently, but as if you are missing a weight at your back, likely from a sword.  You also speak as though you’ve had some form of education.  All of which tells me that you might have been born in a well-to-do family, fell down on your luck, and now you’re here.”

                He didn’t know what to say to that.  He had never thought it was that apparent.

                She raised an eyebrow.  “In this business, I need to know people, and read people.  I have to keep my girls and boys safe, after all.  Tonight, I’ll keep you safe.  In the morning, or whenever your client leaves, you may visit the resident healer—he’ll treat any mars you might have—consider it a bonus.”  She considered.  “I’ll send him up to you before your appointment too.  Now, go.  You’ve much work to do.”

                He had nothing left to say, so he left the room.  A slave was waiting for him, and wordlessly led him up the stairs and down the hall.  He opened the door for him and showed him inside.  The slave gave him a cursory tour of the room before he left him to change.

                Lysander stripped out of his dirty leathers, and hid them in an empty trunk.  That hadn’t been instructed, but it seemed obvious enough.  The hot water and soap felt good, no matter what the reason was.  There was a shaving kit laid out, with a mirror.  He scratched his jaw, but still had no stubble as of yet.  His father had once told him that he hadn’t started to get facial hair until he was in his early twenties, and that his friends had teased him endlessly about it.  So it was unlikely that Lysander would get any until then.

                When it did grow, though, it would just be one more annoyance, really.  But maybe it would keep his face warmer during the colder months.

                He had plenty of time, so he spent it all on personal grooming—things he hadn’t been able to do in years.  Bathing was an extravagant waste he could not afford, but he still felt so light afterwards that he wondered why he did not do it more often.  The water, when he left it, was brown.  And most likely contained more than a few drowned fleas.

                His hair was longish, to his shoulders, and it was more because it meant fewer haircuts than as a fashion statement.  It was longer than he realized it was, though.  It being so dirty and tangled, he hadn’t known it was that long.

                Lysander toweled himself off, and realized he should do something about the tub.  He really should have figured that out before he had dried off—oh well.  He poked around for a bit, and plunged his hand back in the water, searching for the stopper.  He found it quickly enough, in the tile, and pulled it out.  The water drained out through a series of pipes, and he dried off again.  He listened to the water draining, and was reminded of what his family house had been like.

                That magister had taken it, and everything else, though.  It had been his home…  The only one he had ever known.  There was a knock at the door, startling him.  He pulled the towel around himself just in time for the door to open.  A young mage, clearly an apprentice of some sort, strode in, looking more annoyed than anything else, to be there.  He muttered darkly while Lysander stayed still.  The mage inspected him, then laid his hands not on him but almost touching him.  Blue light played about his fingers, then with some effort, he pushed it forward, enveloping Lysander for one instinctively terrifying moment.  The mage left with barely a word, and Lysander actually felt better than he had in a long time.  All the little aches were gone, scabs, all of those sorts of things.  He couldn’t say if any disease had been cured, except to say that he felt good.

                He went to the bed, and found the clothes laid out with some reluctance.  He ran his hand over the fabrics.  They were silk.  He almost began to dress, and at the last moment remembered the oil.  He gritted his teeth and found the drawer containing the oils.  Out of curiosity, he explored the other drawers too, but found them empty.  Was this an empty room?  Why would they keep it?  Maybe just for nights like this?

                He went back to the first drawer.  The bottles were different shapes and sizes, and the liquids were different colours, and some were colourless.  He wondered how he was supposed to tell which was the rose, before he examined the corks on the bottles.  They had little symbols carved into them, and it took him a moment to recognize them.  Most of them were flowers and plants.  Lysander didn’t really know too much about how to tell one plant from another, but he did recognize the rose blossom.  He picked up that one, and uncorked it.  He sniffed experimentally, just in case.  Yes, it was the right one.

                Why didn’t they just write it out?  Stupid question—not everyone could read.

                He started at his feet, and worked his way up.  Was he supposed to do his face too?  She had said “all over.”  He hesitated, and put it on his face too.  He pushed the cork back onto the bottle, and put it back in its drawer.  The glass clinked as he placed it back, and pushed the drawer closed.  He felt like he would slip and fall.  The oils the slaves were coated in were nothing like proper oils to care for the skin—they were thicker and more prone to sitting on top of the skin than being absorbed by it.  At least he smelled nice.

                He had gotten so used to the way he had smelled that he hadn’t noticed it, but now he wondered.  He went back to the bed, and examined the clothing, if it could be called such.  It took him a moment before he realized that he didn’t know how to wear any of it.  It didn’t _look_ like clothing to him.  It didn’t make any proper _sense_.  Well, if a slave could figure it out, why couldn’t he?

                Lysander struggled with the bits of fabric, and when he thought he had it on, he looked in the mirror and decided that it had to be wrong, so he stripped it all off again.  Why couldn’t he just wait naked?  He grumbled to himself and continued to struggle with it.

                A knock at the door made him jump.  So soon?  Wasn’t he early?  Lysander’s heart hammered in his chest.  Was he supposed to get the door?  He went to the door, and pulled it partway open.  He shyly hid behind it, and was actually relieved to see the slave from before.

                The slave pushed the door the rest of the way open and glanced around the room.  He made a face, and snapped his fingers.  Two more slaves dashed in.  He pointed to one of them, and then to Lysander.  The woman picked up the clothing he had left in a heap on the bed, and went to him.  The other started fritting about the room, lighting candles, drawing the shades.

                The first slave observed, and gave instruction where needed—which was very little.

                Lysander blushed and stammered as the woman dressed him, and he felt like she was judging his incompetence at not figuring out the garment.  The thin gold chains he had thought were supposed to be some kind of jewelry were actually what held most of the garment together.  The rest was held together by hopes and a prayer, or nothing at all.

                The three preened him a bit before they left in a hurry.

                He looked around the room, more than a little worried.  They had lit the candles in the room—the drapes were shut.  He wondered what he should do until the man arrived.  Slowly, he sat down on the bed, and abruptly jumped back to his feet when the door opened again.  He relaxed when it was another slave.  This one carried a bottle of wine, a plate of cheese, fruit, and bread, and not one but two cups.  He thought that odd.

                “Why two cups?” he asked, suddenly anxious that there would be two clients instead of one.

                The slave did not look up when she spoke as she set the little table.  “The courtesans often dine and drink with their clients.  Remember that the clients must pay for the wine, so try to get them to drink as much as you can,” she said.  Her accent was faintly Antivan.  She looked at him then.  In the eyes, and he felt outraged for a moment that she would dare.  But then he realized that, tonight, he was of no higher station than she was.  “He’s arrived.  Don’t greet him on the bed.  Greet him at the door, and try to get him to sit down and drink first.”

                It was the best advice anyone here had given him yet.  “Thank you,” he told her, and meant it.  Besides, if he sat down and drank first, it would be even just a few more minutes where it was not happening.

                She had already begun to turn, but she looked back at him.  “You’re welcome,” she told him, and disappeared from the room.

                He almost sat down on the bed again, so nervous was he.  His legs were shaking.  He paced instead, and tried to remember to breathe.  He sat down in one of the chairs at the table, and tried to control his shaking hands.  The man didn’t knock.  Instead, the door opened, and Lysander jumped again, his eyes widening.

                _A magister_ , he realized at once.  He stared down at his hands.  He had never hated the magisters, until his father died.  But now he did.  _It doesn’t matter.  It’s just one night—that’s all!_

                Lysander rose to his feet, knowing he was not as graceful as any of the other whores the man could have bought.  He suddenly felt incompetent for this.  “Mesere, welcome.  Why don’t you—“  His words caught in his throat when the magister turned and appraised him.  The man wasn’t looking at his face, for which Lysander was grateful, for he could not school his expression at first.  He clamped his mouth shut, and forced himself to relax.  “Mesere?” he tried again once he was certain that he had schooled his expression.

                “I don’t care for the games.  I just paid to fuck you, which is what I intend to do,” the man snapped.

                The boy wanted, suddenly, to hide.  He wanted to run from the room and go home.  He wanted to be anywhere but here.  Not him.  Why him?  No, of course it was him.  It would be, the way his rotten luck was.  “I…  Yes, mesere.”  He rose to his feet, and kept his eyes on the floor.  “What can I do for you?”  He tried to keep his voice even.  It was an effort.  The magister may have mistaken it for nervousness and fright, instead of anger and horror.

                “You can start by addressing me as ‘Master.’”

                _Then I am a slave, for the night,_ Lysander though glumly.  “Yes… Master.”

                The man snorted a chuckle.  “Lift your head.”

                Lysander obeyed, and stared straight ahead, past the older man.  “I would have paid more for an elf,” he muttered.  “But a human will do too.”

                At that, Lysander could not bite back his remark, “Good luck finding an elf that practices the sword.  Try a gladiator.”

                To his surprise, the magister laughed.  It was true though—most elves were too poor for such things.  They were laborers, not mercenaries, for the most part.  And if they did practice the sword, they were in the army, or they were gladiators, and there were very few exceptions in Tevinter.  The Imperium had little use for their kind, outside of simple labor.  “Do you think I should have just fucked one of my gladiators, is that it, boy?”

                Lysander hesitated, and found himself looking away.  “It is your choice, mese—Master.”

                “Why would I do that?  It’s so hard to replicate what I want, and if they react badly, then I would have to sell them.  I don’t want to sell them.”  He looked at him, and Lysander had the creeping feeling that he might recognize him.  “But you—you’re disposable.  I don’t care what you do after this.  I don’t care if it destroys you.”

                And there was the truth Lysander had wondered at.  He would rather have a whore for a night than a slave forever, because on the off chance it destroyed the one he took, he’d rather it be the more disposable of the two.  It was rational, Lysander supposed.  And rape did destroy people—broke their minds and their will to go on.  Well, he had endured and proven resilient before.  He saw no reason this should be any different.

                He also learned something else.  To a degree, the magister cared about his slaves.  The same way anyone would care about their property, but that was better than some.  Better not to damage their own property, he supposed.

                “All the same, what shall we start with?” he asked.  He wanted to make his tone coy, but it came out more meek than coy.

                That seemed to suit the man just fine.  “Get out of that.  The House will make you pay for it if it rips—I’ve no doubt.”

                Lysander looked down.  That hadn’t occurred to him.  “Thank you,” he heard himself say.

                “It’s the last bit of kindness you’re likely to see from me.”

                Lysander started to peel off the garment.  He had been alone before.  He had been stranded and had to walk halfway across Tevinter to get back to Minrathous before.  He had been orphaned years ago, and felt miserably alone when he had to raise the girls.  Now, he felt the same way he had back then—alone, vulnerable, and stranded.

                The magister sat down, and watched him, though left the tray and the wine untouched.  The boy only wanted to hide when he had nothing left on, and the man continued to stare at him.  After a prolonged silence, he finally said, “You’ll do.  You’re no proper replacement, but you’ll do.”

                _Who am I replacing?_ Lysander wanted to ask, but held his tongue.  Whoever it was, he did not envy them.  Rather, he pitied that person, and hoped they were out of this man’s reach forever.

                “Tell me honestly—when’s the last time you’ve been with a man?” he inquired.

                Lysander had to think about it to get an exact date.  He frowned in thought.  “I think…  I think it was about eight months ago, mese—Master,” he caught himself.

                “And a woman?”

                Lysander looked away.  He couldn’t afford to waste coin buying a woman, and he was always so filthy, so flea-ridden, and destitute, that was never an opportunity that had presented itself.  He didn’t know what to say, or how to say it.

                But his silence spoke enough.  “I see.  And you hated being with a man?”

                He stared down at the carpet under his toes.  “Yes.”

                There was a moment of silence.  “Then if you hate it, do you only do it for money?  A woman won’t pay for you?”

                Lysander glanced upwards.  “Few women feel a need to,” he admitted.

                The man at first seemed like he would say more, but changed his mind.  “And those men bought you for the same reasons I am?”  He smirked.  “Because you’re known to cry.”

                His fingers curled into fists.  “You would too,” he heard himself snap, his temper getting the better of him.

                A very long pause this time.  “You remind me more of Leto than Fenris.  And I’m not sure which of the two I’d like more.”

                Lysander obviously wasn’t meant to understand what he said.  Maybe it was about whoever he was replacing.  But was he replacing two people?  He wasn’t sure that he understood, and was also certain that he didn’t really want to.  The first name sounded elven—so that one was an elf, hence his comments on how he would have preferred an elf.  The other he wasn’t so certain of.  What the hell kind of name was that?

                He was ordered to the big, canopied bed.  The man pushed him down, bending him over the side of it, and he was suddenly glad of the rose oil.

                Lysander had done this a total of six times, counting tonight.  Each time was different, he would have to say.  It didn’t always get gradually worse, after all, but it didn’t exactly get better either.  He also wasn’t sure what kind of man was a lesser evil than the others.  The smaller they were, the less it usually hurt, but the longer their stamina.  The opposite was also true.

                His fingers wound into the blankets without conscious thought, in an effort to hold onto something, anything.  He bit his lip to keep from crying out, but it didn’t stop the whimpers in his throat.  His eyes squeezed shut, and they watered.

                Some people went far away during times like this.  They just thought about something else, and it was like they weren’t even there, detaching themselves in an almost magical way.  Other people were so caught up in the moment that they were immobile and unthinking and unfeeling.  Lysander was neither of those things.  Sometimes, he could think about other things.  The worst bit was that he would think of the most random things sometimes, and it came and went too.  For example, one moment, he would be wondering if his hip would bruise from how hard the magister was holding him, and the next he would be thinking about his sisters.

                Those were the thoughts that got him through it.  Everything was for them, and if he could not sell his skills as a swordsman, then he had to sell his body.  If he were alone, and it were not for the two girls, he wouldn’t be doing this.  He would rather starve or die of fever in a gutter, alone.  But it _was_ for the girls.

                The magister gripped his hair on occasion—tight enough to hurt, and pulled his head back.  On one such occasion, he craned his neck in just such a way as that it was difficult for him to breathe.  Then his fingers left his hair, and Lysander gasped for breath.  The magister’s hands trailed down his neck, his palm sliding around his throat before he applied pressure.  At first, Lysander could breathe in choking gasps, but it gradually became more and more difficult, until he could not breathe at all, and he felt himself going limp, and still he didn’t ease his grip.  Everything just felt fuzzy and dim.  _Am I going to die?  Just like that?  I didn’t even fight back…_

                Then the pressure suddenly eased, and his vision spiraled back into place so quickly it almost hurt, but not as much as the thrusting inside him.  The magister had thrown him onto his back, and Lysander looked up at the canopy while it happened, his lower lip quivering.  Was this it?  What happened if he never got a big break, some job that made a difference in his life?  What happened if he couldn’t get his family out of poverty?  Would he have to keep doing this?  Worse—what happened when he couldn’t anymore?  When he was too old, too much of a man?  He wasn’t sure he could still sell himself like this when he was, and as much as he hated doing it, the idea of never being able to fall back on prostitution scared him.

                He pushed him around a couple more times, and he thought about trying to find a job at the docks or something.  He would never sell his father’s sword, not if he could help it.  It was all there was left, and without it, he couldn’t even do mercenary work.

                It was the early grey of pre-dawn when the magister finally let him fall into a ball on the floor, his knees rubbed raw, shaking and uncertain that he could walk.   He supposed he must have wept, because his face was wet, and his eyes felt sore, among other things. 

                The magister was dressing behind him.  He heard him move to the door.  “Lysander.  I trust this is about your sisters?  No man who hated such things would endure it for something less… noble.”  His eyes opened wide.  He _knew_.  He had known the entire time.  Despair pulled at his heart, and he felt humiliated on top of everything else.  “In the future, why don’t we skip the middleman?”

                Lysander felt like he might vomit.  “You knew,” he whispered, as if in pain.  “You _knew_ it was me.”

                “I told you that you should have just sold the girls.  Now, the older one will never sell with her crippled leg, and the other only grows more sickly, doesn’t she?”

                His eyes squeezed shut.  “Go fuck yourself,” he hissed.

                “I’d sooner fuck you again.  Tell me, do your sisters know you whore yourself out to buy them medicine?” he inquired.

                A tear rolled down his cheek.  “You took everything from me,” Lysander whispered.  “Everything!”  _You won’t take this.  You will_ not _take my sisters from me!_   “Go to hell.  This is never happening again.”

                “Oh?  Well, if you ever need the money again, you know where to find me.”

                The door opened and closed, and Lysander wanted to break something.  Or someone.  Sick, sadistic bastard.  Who had Lysander replaced?  No one deserved to be treated like that, by someone like that.  No one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Even though this chapter technically does not include Fenris, it is still very much about him and the kinds of things he endured, when Lysander replaced him. Lysander's growing sympathy is also relevant.
> 
> I like it though, y'know? You ever think about all these individual people that maybe have a greater influence on your life than you ever imagined, yet you only knew them for the briefest moments, your lives only brushing once or twice in a lifetime, yet change one another so much? I guess that's another aspect of this story. Aramael, for instance, has never met Fenris, yet has influenced his life in many ways (shot him, was Kylie's courier, etc). Who, then, in our lives, has influenced the course of our personal histories even though we may not know them?


	68. Cut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris tries to come to terms with what his life has been like. Shaislyn proves to be therapeutic for him, and Zekiel is understanding.

            The road seemed so familiar, like he had been this way before, but that was impossible.  Fenris had never been to Seheron.  But he remembered what Danarius had said—he was from Seheron, originally.  So maybe…  Maybe he _had_ been this way before, a long time ago.  Maybe he had walked along the same road.  It was possible, but who could say?

            “Watcha thinking about?” Shaislyn asked suddenly, appearing at his side as if from nowhere.

            Fenris glanced down at the child.  “Nothing.”

            He frowned up at him.  “Liar,” he accused him.  They were both silent for a moment.  “I keep having the same dream.  I’m small and helpless, and things are going on that I don’t understand.  Someone holds me, but I’m afraid of the one holding me—so scared that I don’t even cry out.  Then I keep seeing the colour blue—but I don’t know what that is until I wake up--and I hear people screaming and crying.  Then _I’m_ screaming but no one will help me, and then I wake up.”

            “It’s just a dream,” Fenris told him.

            Shaislyn frowned, and shook his head.  “I don’t know.”  He shrugged.  “Maybe, but most people at least have different dreams.  The past few weeks—since the city burned—it’s always been the same dream.”  Fenris shivered involuntarily.  Before the wedding, he had had terrible dreams too and couldn’t think of why.

            “You could try a sip of whiskey before you go to sleep,” Ashaad suggested pleasantly.

            Shaislyn scowled up at the big Qunari.  “How can anyone drink that fermented horse piss?”

            The adults only laughed.  The half-elf sighed and darted off again.  The Tal-Vashoth took a lackadaisical approach to dealing with Shaislyn.  The child could go where he wished, and no one bothered him about it, so long as he was back by the time they were setting up camp, to help with the nightly chores.  For the longest time, Fenris was certain that Shaislyn had to be blind, considering how pale his eyes were, but he must not be.  He had never seen him with a cane or a staff, and he commented on sights frequently enough.  He just had odd eyes, he supposed.

            The more he was with the Fog Warriors, the more he came to realize just how awful his life up until now had been.  He had never had a point of comparison before, but it hurt when he thought about it.  He had never known he could live a different way.  It had simply never occurred to him that it was possible, or that there could be an alternative, even a choice.

            They went where they wished.  They had no master, no boundaries.  To him, it was strange at first, but marvelous when he started to get used to it, though it left him bitter.  Their freedom came so naturally to them.

            The group decided to strike up camp a little earlier than was normal—the hunting party had come back with a big elk that needed tending, and they were all eager to get the animal on a spit.

            Zekiel suggested, “You look like you could use a rest.”  He pointed, though it was hard to see through the fog.  “There’s a bathing pool up there.  When you get to the stream, follow it northward—you’ll see it.”

            Fenris gave him his thanks, and excused himself from his duties.  No one seemed to mind overmuch, and he made a mental note to do more to help later tonight or tomorrow.  Still, a bath sounded excellent.  He was covered in dust, and he hadn’t bathed in days.  Danarius had wanted him to bathe every day.  It was strange not to, though somehow delightfully disobedient.  The stream was easy enough to find, even in the dying light, and he followed it upstream, just like Zekiel had said.  They must come this way frequently.  What would it be like to live like they do—really live like they do?

            He found himself daydreaming, and banished the thought.  That was silly.  Fenris found the pool, and stripped out of his clothes.  It was cool, but it had been warmed by the sun throughout the day and was tolerable.  The bottom of the pool was sandy, and he discovered the center of it was actually moderately warm.  Standing on his toes, he could just barely touch the bottom.  He held his breath, and went under.  It was kind of nice to be weightless like this, untouchable, worry-free.

            He remembered that he had almost thrown himself into the sea on the crossing, like a dark stain on a white cloth in his memory.  If he had, he wouldn’t be here now.  How could he have ever so seriously considered his own suicide?  He could not do anything by dying, and who was to say that death was any better than life?

            He came up for air again.  “You forgot this!” a voice called from the shore.  He blinked, and turned to look.  It was Shaislyn—covered in mud, a leaf stuck in his charcoal hair, possibly bits of twig too.  He was waving a bar of soap.  “Zekiel sent me after you.”

            “You need a bath,” Fenris suggested.

            Shaisyln threw the bar at him and darted off into the forest.  Against his will, he found himself smiling.  The soap floated to the surface, and he scooped it up before the gentle currant took it.  He walked ashore to scrub, and pondered on what the best way to dunk Shaislyn in the water would be.

            He finished his bath and dressed, and put the soap on a large leaf by the pool, hoping nothing would disturb it.  He followed the path that Shaislyn had taken—crashing through the forest carelessly.  He found the boy halfway up a wild cherry tree, straining to reach one of the ripe cherries.

            “Can you get me one too?” Fenris asked him.

            Shaislyn did not break his concentration by looking down.  “Sure,” he said, just as his fingers plucked a cherry.  “Catch!”  He dropped it down, and the elf caught it.  Shaislyn scrambled up to another branch and snatched another cherry.  That one, he popped immediately into his mouth.

            “They brought back an elk,” Fenris reminded him, tossing the stem from the cherry away.  “Let’s go have some.”

            Shaislyn looked down at him.  “But—the cherries…  It’ll be forever before it’s fully cooked anyway.”  The child went back to picking cherries.  Their entire exchange was in their native tongue, Tevene.  Sometimes, they would banter back and forth about one another’s accents.  Fenris would insist that Shaislyn pronounced things incorrectly, and Shaislyn was just as insistent that he didn’t.  Seheron was ruled by Tevinter and often spoke Tevene in cities, but they had their own unique accent, a series of slang that Fenris was unfamiliar with, and to a degree, a different dialect.  Fenris’ accent, thus, was a more posh, polished version of Shaislyn’s, though each was still perfectly understandable to one another.

            Fenris watched the boy, the child climbing to reach another cherry, as if it were the most important thing in the world.  Ah, the life of an eight-year old.  “Come on, you have chores to do, you know.”  Fenris popped the cherry into his mouth after a cursory inspection of the fruit.

            Shaislyn sighed.  “Yes, _Mother_ ,” he complained, but started climbing down anyway.  When he climbed to the base of the tree, the child turned and spit out the cherry pit.  Before the boy could dart off, Fenris caught his wrist.  “What are you doing?”  The child’s tone was suspicious.

            The elf began leading him back toward the pool.  “You need a bath.”

            At that, the half-elf dug in his heels and fought with everything he had to get away.  It was all to no avail, as Fenris was much stronger, and just proceeded to half-drag him through the forest.  “I had a bath two weeks ago!  I’m clean!” he protested.

            “That was _two weeks_ ago.  You have mud all over you and leaves in your hair; you’re _not_ clean.”

            “Am too!”

            “Furthermore, tromping through a pond does not constitute ‘bathing’,” Fenris lectured.  Shaislyn wailed as if he were dying.  Fenris was secretly amused.  “Stop that.  What would your mother say?”

            Shaislyn looked up at him, and stopped struggling for a moment.  “We lived in the alienage.  The water there is brackish and brown, and it’s hard to get enough of it for a proper bath, so mostly you just wash with a bucket and some soapy water—after you boil it at least three times.  And I don’t think she’d care very much anyway.”

            Fenris wondered if he were exaggerating, but something told him that he wasn’t.  Slavery wasn’t much better.  Danarius may have treated his slaves at the manor decently well, but he had seen the slaves at Vinewood too.  “Of course she’d care if you were filthy, and tracking mud all over her house.”

            Shaislyn considered that.  “Maybe.  But only if I were making a mess.  I don’t think Mother actually cared about me very much.”

            Fenris missed a step.  _What?_   “Why would you say that?”

            The half-elf was silent for a long time, and gave up fighting Fenris altogether, and walked beside him instead.  Fenris did not relax his grip on his wrist, however.  “Mama was raped,” he said, as if that explained everything.

            Fenris was silent for a long moment.  He had been raped.  He knew that now—without doubt, and it burned when he thought about it too hard.  It had been horrible, and all the worse because at the time, he had been insistent that it couldn’t be called rape.  If Fenris were a woman, and had been raped… and were with child… would he hate the child too?  He didn’t have an answer for that.  “I’m sorry,” he said, almost mechanically.  It was the only response he could think of to say.  What does anyone say to something like that?

            “Don’t be.  It’s not your fault,” Shaislyn said matter-of-factly.  He was silent for a moment.  “Mama was from Minrathous, and used to be a slave.  They never really talked about it much, but after I was born, they came to Seheron.”

            Something about the story made him pause.  That would have been about eight years ago—around the time Fenris had woken, now that he thought about it.  Had she run away?  Was that what Shaislyn had meant?  But Shaislyn had been an infant, so he wouldn’t know.  There really wasn’t much use in asking him about it.  “Ah, here we are.”

            Shaislyn, upon seeing the pool, started struggling anew.  Fenris had left his gauntlets, or this might be difficult—he snatched Shaislyn by his tunic and proceeded to yank it off of him.

            “Stop it!” he complained.  “I don’t need a bath!”

            Fenris raised an eyebrow and wrestled the child out of his tunic.  Shaislyn put up such a fit, though, that he gave up on the rest of it.  His clothes probably needed to be washed anyway.  He picked him up, and walked closer to the bank.  Shaislyn’s eyes widened.

            “No!  Don’t!  I’ll get undressed!  Promise!” he pleaded.  Fenris wasn’t so certain he believed him, but decided to give the child the benefit of the doubt.  He set him down, but stayed very near to him, just in case.  Shaislyn grumbled to himself, pulling off his boots.  Fenris had always thought he had probably just stolen them from one of the houses.  If he had grown up in the alienage, he had grown up with elves, and most of them didn’t wear shoes—shoes were expensive.  Now that he thought about it that way, it seemed odd that Shaislyn did.  But then, Zekiel wore shoes too, but in the Qun, there weren’t alienages either.

            Shaislyn dropped his boots to one side of him with great disdain for the older elf.  Then he dove forward, and was up and running again in a moment.  Fenris was faster.  He caught Shaislyn before he had reached the forest line, and threw the child over one shoulder.  Shaislyn struggled and complained all the way back to the pool.

            He considered for a moment, and then tossed the boy into the water.  He gave a cry, and hit the surface with a great splash.  If the child didn’t know how to swim or something, Fenris would have to go in after him.  He waited, and watched the surface of the water with growing concern.  Shaislyn had tromped through the water, sure, but he had never gone in over his head…  Did he…?

            He was watching the deeper part, where he had thrown Shaislyn, and not at all the shallows.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something emerge from the water suddenly, and splash with all its might in his direction.

            In the blink of an eye, he was soaked again.  He swiped at his face and sighed.  He supposed he should have seen that coming.

            “I’m clean now,” Shaislyn informed him, and stalked past him.  Fenris caught him with one hand, and set his sword down with the other.  He kept a grip on the child’s arm and went to get the cake of soap.

            “You’re not clean until I say you are,” he informed the boy, and brandished the soap at him.  Shaislyn yelped in mock terror.  By the end of it, they were both laughing, and soaked to the bone.  It was somehow therapeutic for Fenris, too, and he felt better.  He guessed that the laughter, the play, even at his age, felt good.  And there was something special about a child laughing, and even enjoying his company.  Shaislyn had never been afraid of him, or the lyrium for that matter.

            Fenris had to hang the leathers up to dry, and saw no real harm in getting back in the water for a while.  Seheron was hot anyway, and the water felt nice.

            Shaislyn was swimming back and forth.  His hair was really very dark when it wasn’t so dirty.  His curls were plastered to his face and blessedly free of all twigs, leaves, and mud—for now.  “Does the lyrium glow?” he asked, poking Fenris in the shoulder, tired from his game of diving to the bottom and collecting sand and pebbles.  “I mean brighter than it is now.”

            “Sometimes,” he answered.

            “That’s kind of awesome,” he commented.  _Oh, child, if only you knew what it did, and how painful it was._   But Fenris wasn’t about to tell him.  “You ever wonder what your life would be like if you were human instead?”

            The question was so innocent and sudden that it took Fenris by surprise.  He blinked.  “No.  I never have.”  He hadn’t even thought of what his life could be like if he weren’t a slave.

            Shaislyn considered briefly.  “I have.  And if I were completely elven.”  He frowned.  “I mean, other kids used to make fun of me in the alienage.  They’d call me names and stuff.”  He was silent for a moment, as if he were considering saying more.  “The humans never seemed to know what to do with me though, and most of the human children would either ignore me or treat me like the other elves.”  He sighed, and looked downward for a moment, then back up.  “You ever get teased for being so tall?”

            Fenris looked at the child for a moment, wondering if he should make something up.  “I don’t remember my childhood.”

            The half-elf glanced at him sidelong, with a look that said he clearly didn’t believe him.  “Honest?  You look like a mash-up of an elf and a Qunari.  I bet you, kids made fun of you a lot.”

            Fenris shoved him, and had half a mind to dunk him in the water again.  “Watch your mouth, child.”

            Shaislyn made a face.  “Did you have to cut off your horns to pass as an elf?” he teased him, and dove back into the deeper water before Fenris could throw him into it.

            The pair arrived back at the camp washed and relatively dry, and just in time for them to start carving into the roast.  It had been cooked over a fire, and they had been able to smell it long before they could see it—sending visions of the fat dripping down and sizzling in the coals.

            Fenris returned the cake of soap to the supplies before he sat down.  One of the Qunari gave him a plate when he came back, which he thanked him for, and found a place to sit down by the fire.

            “Feeling any better?” Zekiel asked him.

            Fenris looked up at the sky, at the stars, and took a deep breath.  Before he had laughed and wrestled Shaislyn into a bath, he hadn’t even realized he _hadn’t_ been feeling well.  But he had felt so good afterward, he knew he must have.  “I suppose so,” he said, though his heart still felt heavy somehow.

            He ate quickly, and helped wash.  They drew lots for watches.  Shaislyn always wanted one, but he was always put to bed as soon as possible.  Zekiel drew the first watch, and there were enough of the others that Fenris did not even end up with a watch that night.  The elves, and Shaislyn, usually shared a tent—more because of size than anything else, and Shaislyn was more comfortable with the elves than the Qunari anyway.  The Qunari took up almost twice as much room as the elves, so it was just more convenient that way.

            Fenris was actually looking forward to a full night’s sleep, but when he laid down, all he could think about was the rape.  It sickened him that he hadn’t even been able to think about it as such at the time.  What did that say?  He had never even considered that his life could be any different, and that saddened him more than anything else.

            He had lain awake for what felt like hours, and Shaislyn had crept from bed half an hour ago.  He didn’t know what the boy was doing, but knew he wouldn’t go far, if he would even leave camp.  The tent was dark, but elves had decent night vision.  He raked his fingers through his hair unthinkingly, and stopped.  His fingers clenched in it, and he suddenly wanted nothing more than to rip it all out.  Danarius had grabbed it, pulled him by it, controlled him with it.  He had grown it long because it had pleased him, and cut it.  He had sold it to a wig maker—sold parts of _Fenris’ body_ like he was so inclined to do--and Fenris was suddenly, hatefully, glad that half of it had burned away.

            But it still came past his shoulders, and he still wanted it all _gone_.

            He didn’t have a short knife, but Zekiel did.  If it wasn’t with him, it would be in a small bag he kept in the tent.  Fenris found himself hunting through it, but found something better.  Zekiel’s shears, in a leather case.  He freed them from the case and started hacking at his hair.  There was no reason to it, or even design.  He wanted it gone, like he wanted that collar gone.  He didn’t want it to be pushed behind his ears, didn’t want it catching on things.  He hated it, suddenly.  He hated his hair like he wanted desperately to hate Danarius.

            And, when the tendrils of hair fell around him, he realized he was sobbing, holding the sharp shears behind his head, listening to the snipping noise, feeling the way his hair slid down his back in clumps.  And he _did_ hate Danarius, the tiny piece of hatred he had first managed to feel for him swelling with every lock of hair lost.  He hated him more than anything.  He hated him more than he could have ever dreamed.  His eyes squeezed shut, and the hair continued to fall as he cut—cut—cut.

            Someone caught his wrists, gently, and pulled them away from his head.  “Careful—you’ll trim your ears,” Zekiel said, his voice gentle.  He set his lantern down beside them, giving the tent some illumination.  Fenris stared at him, feeling the hot tracks of tears against his cheeks, embarrassed to be caught like this.  But the other elf only smiled warmly.  He took the shears from him, and moved behind him, and began to cut.  He had a comb, and combed out his hair as he snipped away at it.  “You didn’t leave me much to work with.”

            “I’m sorry,” Fenris heard himself mutter, and swiped at his eyes, suddenly ashamed to have been caught like this.

            Zekiel pretended not to notice.  “In the future, do this outside—there’s hair everywhere.”

            It was light-hearted, and meant as a joke, but Fenris couldn’t find it in him to laugh right now.  The hatred burned in him like a thing alive, and a lot of that hatred… was for himself.  The Tal-Vashoth knelt in front of him, looking at his hair length.  “It looks good,” he promised him.  “With what I had to work with anyway—but you definitely should have always had hair framing your face—it all one length was doing nothing for you.”  Again, it was meant lightheartedly, and to provoke a smile at least, but Fenris only looked at him.  He brushed it off as if he didn’t notice Fenris’ lack of emotion, or the drying tears.

            Zekiel helped him clean up the hair—namely picking up the blankets it had fallen on and shaking them out outside.  By the time they came back, Shaislyn was in his blankets, as though he had been there the whole time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: Chapter 3. Mieta tells Leto that when he has kids, he can dunk and splash them. Kind of a cute reference. I do shit like this frequently throughout this fic, and I like to imagine that other people get it.


	69. Feathery Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris and Shai have some "family" bonding time. And then there is alcohol.

            The next evening, they had arrived in what had once been a city, Shaislyn assumed.  The walls still stood, but moss and weeds had largely overtaken the majority of the city.  He had heard the adults talking, and they had been explaining to Fenris that the city was largely where they brought refugees—survivors of the fighting, who had no desire to join the Qunari or Tevinter, and that had been this city’s origin.  They explained it all in Qunlat, and Fenris struggled only a little with the translation, and requested that they speak more slowly once or twice.  Shaislyn needed no such handicap.

            Ashaad had said, quietly, that the Antaam had not always been so violent with their conversions.  They had tried, for a while and at the urging of their teachers, to give others a choice of sorts—with the idea that it would not rile an Exalted March.  That is to say, to let them come to it more slowly and in their own time, but Schavalis had not ended well, and that had been their last experiment.  “Stick to what works, I guess,” Ashaad said sarcastically.  He was the only Qunari Shaislyn had ever met who had completely mastered the art of sarcasm.  Zekiel didn’t even understand sarcasm all the time.

            “ _When did the city fall_?” Shaislyn asked, interrupting.  He realized that he had asked his question in their tongue and felt himself still.  Would they suspect?  Would they accuse him of anything?

            But his worries were groundless; rather they praised him for learning so quickly.  One of the Qunari called it the gift of the young.  Shaislyn said nothing about it, but repeated his question.

            “ _About twenty-five years ago or so, maybe less,”_ Zekiel answered with a shrug.

            Shaislyn observed the broken buildings, the obvious signs that the forest was overtaking it again.“ _Can I explore?  Is it safe?”_

Zekiel shrugged.  “ _As safe as a dilapidated building can be.”_

Shaislyn looked at him, confused.  His mother had referred to the alienage as “dilapidated”, but that had been safe enough.  “So…”

            The older elf laughed gently.  “ _Go.  Run and play, child—but don’t go into the buildings; they’re falling apart_.”

            Satisfied, Shaislyn dashed away from the main party and went down a side alley, anxious to explore.  It would be more fun as a squirrel, or a sparrow.  He was still working on becoming a raven or a crow.  He needed to watch more of them.  When he was certain that he was alone, he expanded his vision, just to double check.  He wasn’t really sure how other people saw, but he thought it was confusing to see from this perspective; it was hard to know how to move, but it was perfect for standing still, or reading things people meant to hide from him.

            He saw everything he could have possibly seen from every possible angle, all around him at once.  He saw himself, and he looked like a small, scrawny child even to his eyes.  And perhaps the scars by his lips weren’t as noticeable as he had assumed.  At any rate, it gave him double assurance that no one could see him.

            He abruptly shut off his vision, and his world went dark again with a suddenness that was almost frightening.  Sometimes, he didn’t know how other people dealt with never being able to shut out their sight.  Wasn’t it difficult to sleep at night?  He liked the dark of his blind eyes when he was trying to sleep.  And sometimes, he only wanted to listen, and he seemed to listen better when he didn’t have his vision distracting him.  How did not-blind people deal with that?

            His magic engulfed him—a loving embrace.  Beautiful and divine, and richly powerful.  As always, he gave of himself freely and fully, and accepted everything about it.  He thought of the bushy-tailed grey squirrels he had seen before, and when his eyes opened again, he was small and looking up at the world from a rodent’s perspective.

            Tiny and vulnerable as he suddenly felt, one thing he really liked about being a squirrel—he could _run_.  It felt like he was running faster than a horse, faster than anything he could have ever felt.  Nothing compared to flying, but the squirrel’s ability to dart and climb were amazing.

            He explored the trees, darted around on the ground when he dared.  He had to be wary of cats and hawks, of course, but he wasn’t worried overmuch.  Squirrels had good hearing, and he was fast.  Other squirrels oftentimes weren’t sure of what to think of him.  They looked at him, and sniffed at him, and only ran away, even when he tried to play with them.

            He got bored with the squirrels, and moved on.  He squirmed between a post in a fence, and ran across a moss-covered stone.  He stopped, and looked, and hopped further on.  He ran up a statue, and looked around.  This was a graveyard, he realized.  He shouldn’t play here; he should just move on.

            He changed directions and wandered up the overgrown path.  The gate here was broken, and he slipped out.  He meandered up a hill, and found what seemed to be a village square of some sort.  There was a flat, weathered pedestal, and a pile of old stones.  Curious, he crawled up to the stones, and discovered that one of the stones was a carved stone helmet, and he even found a stone sword hilt.  It had been a statue.  He sat, and wondered what it had looked like.  He bounded away, down the road.  He watched children playing at what had once been docks—refugees, like the Fog Warriors had said.  They were elves and humans mostly, but he did see one dwarven child.  _They mean to leave me here with them_ , Shaislyn thought with some annoyance.

            It was time he insisted they teach him the sword again.  He wanted to learn, and why shouldn’t he?  His only ability as a mage was in his sight, and transformation.  True, they were brilliant gifts, but they were not practical for defending himself.

            He moved away from the docks, and watched the adults unloading looted goods.  Bored, he bounded away again, hid up a tree until a dog passed, and continued on.  As the day grew dimmer, and he began to worry about owls and other predators, he bounded into the nearest house, listened and looked, and found a corner to change back in.

            The house was old, just the sort that Zekiel had told him to avoid.  He was unafraid, though.  If the floor fell out from under him, it was the work of a blink of an eye to turn into a sparrow again.  He didn’t _have_ to take as long as he did; he had proven to himself that he could do it at a moment’s notice.

            He walked through the house.  It had been looted several times over, but still traces of its former inhabitants remained.  He saw tick marks on a doorway where an adult had marked a child’s height.  There weren’t very many, and they were quite small when they stopped.  Somehow, that made Shaislyn very sad.  _That child probably didn’t live any longer_.

            The city had been sacked.  The child was probably dead.  If not, they were more than an adult now, and probably didn’t even remember the sacking.

            He found a back door, and opened it.  The hinges creaked so loudly, and echoed in the streets, that he flinched.  He let it hang open as he stepped into the long-overgrown garden.  There was a murky pond in the corner, and the grass was so high that Shaislyn could barely see over it.  It was probably a very pretty place, years ago before its caretakers had gone.  The apple tree may even still bear fruit in the proper season though.

            “There you are,” someone said. 

            Shaislyn whirled around suddenly, as if he had been caught doing something he should not have.  “Oh,” he said, and sighed.  “Did they send you out looking for me?”

            Fenris raised an eyebrow.  “No.  I volunteered.  Of course I should find you doing exactly what Zekiel told you _not_ to do.”

            Shaislyn frowned.  “I don’t think it’s that dangerous.”  He frowned.  “What’re you looking for me for?”

            The other looked down at him.  “Dinner,” he replied.

            “I’m not hungry,” Shaislyn answered.  He had eaten a few nuts as a squirrel.

            Fenris paused.  “You should come meet Krista.”

            Shaislyn looked down.  _Oh._   This was about introducing him to the woman they planned on leaving him with.  He crossed his arms stubbornly.  “I don’t want to just be dumped somewhere like a child.”  
            “You are a child,” the elf countered.

            The half-elf pouted.  All the things he had been through:  He had been sold into slavery, learned Qunlat, marched with the Imperial army, been a spy, been a Saarebas, escaped, and learned to shapeshift.  All that—and they still just treated him as a child.  But they didn’t know, and his temper flared at being treated like an ignorant child.  His jaw set defiantly.  “That didn’t stop Lura from selling me.  Or Vanessa from training me.  And it didn’t stop the military from using me to spy on the Qunari,” he hissed, and his eyes went wide when he realized what he had said.  He clamped his hands over his mouth.

            Fenris had gone very, very quiet.

            Shaislyn’s lower lip trembled.  “I…” he gasped.

            The older elf looked around, and listened, and looked down at the child.  “Don’t speak about that.  To anyone,” he whispered.

            “I didn’t mean to…”

            “It’s not your fault.”  Fenris looked pained beyond words, beyond what Shaislyn really understood.  The elf beckoned him.  “Let’s leave this place.”

            Shaislyn looked down.  “You leave it.”  He turned from him, his arms crossed in anger.  The child heard the adult approach, and shied away.  “Everyone I know is dead,” Shaislyn whispered.  It was a truth he had been avoiding.  Oh, he had mourned for them, but he couldn’t bear to admit that they might be dead.  Perhaps, he was not truly finished mourning, and the wound went so deep, he didn’t think it would ever really heal.  “What am I supposed to do?”  His voice came out broken, and he had sworn he wouldn’t cry any more, but his eyes began to sting, and water.  Had he really only been numb until now?

            Fenris had nothing to say to that, and maybe he didn’t know either.  He didn’t reply for a time, and thankfully didn’t come any closer.  “There are other children your age—you can stay here.”

            Shaislyn looked down.  “I want to look for my mother, and Lura, and Vanessa.  If any of them are alive, I need to find them.  I can’t do that if I’m here.”  He swallowed hard, and stared upwards, at the sky, holding back the tears.  He was afraid that they would discover that he was a mage, afraid of what they would do to him if they did.  He couldn’t stay here.  Maybe for a little while, but he had to get back to the mainland as soon as possible, farther from the Qunari.  He only felt like he would ever be safe in the Imperium.

            “It’s dangerous.”

            The child didn’t look at him.  It was dangerous if he stayed too.  He couldn’t hide that he was a mage forever, not from the people he lived with.  “I don’t care.  I can’t stay here, and I’ll leave by myself if they won’t take me with them.”  His hands balled into determined fists.  “I have to find them.”  And the tears spilled.  “It’s my fault if they’re dead.”

            Fenris felt sorrowful.  How could a child feel so responsible for a tragedy like that?  And the poor child had been through so much too.  “No, it’s not your fault.”

            Shaislyn rounded on him, angrily.  If Fenris had been indifferent, if he had been spiteful, he could have tolerated it.  But Shaislyn could not tolerate compassion and understanding.  They were more alike than either could abide.  “How would you know?”  He blinked, and another tear rolled down his cheek.  He lowered his voice.  “I knew about the attack weeks before it happened.  And I couldn’t get away to warn them.  It’s _my fault_ ,” he insisted, pointing toward himself.  “All those people died _because of me_.”

            Fenris looked pained, but like he didn’t know what to say.  Shaislyn swallowed the lump in his throat and turned away, wanting to run, so he did.  He ran back through the house, out the front door.  He ran down an alley, and pushed open a gate, and found himself in a different yard.  This one had once been a garden, and it looked like it was herbs and vegetables, once, and now it was all wild, but the rose bush was still alive.

 

            How could a child blame himself for something like that?  It was a heavier burden than a child should ever have to bear, but he insisted that he did.  Why?  Why did he refuse to be comforted?  Any normal child would want—desperately—to be told that it wasn’t their fault, and be comforted, Fenris was sure of it.

            He wondered if he should let him go, but he wasn’t so certain that that was a good idea.  It ended everything on a very poor note, and children could be so impressionable.  But then, what did he know?  He had never spent much time around children that he could remember.  What would Zekiel, who always took care of the boy, do?  What would be best for Shaislyn?

            What Shaislyn had said, though, disturbed him more than he preferred.  The Imperium was using a child to spy on the Qunari?  It was brilliant—he had to admit that.  No one would suspect a dirty, half-elven child after all.  And how close they had put that child to death when they had sent him to spy—that was intolerable.  But they didn’t _care_ —Shaislyn had been a slave too.  _And also hadn’t seen why it was terrible_.

            He walked back through the house, and couldn’t shake the feeling that he knew this place, even though, logically, he knew that was impossible.  His master had said he was from Seheron, but this had been sacked such a long time ago—almost thirty years ago.  His master had mentioned, another time, how old he was.  If Fenris did the math, he decided that made him about twenty-six now.  If he _had_ been from this city—unlikely—he had been a toddler at the time.  He couldn’t imagine, even for a moment, what it was like to be that small.  He wondered what it would be like to remember growing up.  He had been an adult when he had woken.  What was it like to be a child?

            _I could always ask Shaislyn_.  That thought had a ring of sarcasm to it.  _He would think I was teasing him._

            He left the house, and listened for any tell-tale signs of the boy.  He heard a gate creaking in the breeze, and was prompted to follow it.  Sure enough, it was left open, and he saw obvious signs of someone coming through the overgrown yard—bent stalks, trampled grass.  The door into the house had broken years ago, and the plant life was retaking the house.  It looked like Shaislyn had gone inside.  Fenris sighed, and wondered why he was doing this for a moment, before he followed after him.  The doorway led into what used to be a small kitchen, adjacent to what might have once been a bathing room.  When he walked past it and into a large main area, he heard a creak from up the stairs.

            “Just leave me alone,” Shaislyn said, his voice monotone.  Fenris looked up, and saw him sitting at the top of the stairs, looking forlorn.  The elf glanced at the stairs and wondered, a little incredulously, how he had gotten up them.  Many of them were rotted completely away, and what was left couldn’t be safe.  “They won’t support your weight.”

            “I wasn’t going to try it,” Fenris assured him, and was content to stand below him.

            Shaislyn stared straight ahead as if he saw nothing around him.  “Leave me alone.”

            Fenris sighed.  “It’ll be cold.”

            “I don’t care.”

            A short pause.  “Aren’t you hungry?”

            He shook his head.  The elf didn’t know quite what to do with Shaislyn.  He didn’t even know what to say to him.  He had very little experience with children.  He didn’t feel right leaving a child here alone all the same.  Thankfully, the child began to speak instead.  “If your master is dead, what are you going to do?” Shaislyn asked him.

            “I hadn’t thought about it,” Fenris admitted after a short pause.  But he didn’t really believe that Danarius was dead, not truly.  He felt like he would know if he were.  He wasn’t sure how or why, but he had to know.  Danarius was too much a part of his life not to know if the man died.

            Shaislyn nodded once, as if confirming his own thoughts.  “I don’t know what to do if they’re all dead either—Mother and Lura and Vanessa, I mean.”

            Fenris blinked, and frowned.  _Vanessa…_   “Vanessa Aurelius?  The magister?”

            A smile tugged at Shaislyn’s lips.  “The very same.”

            And the elf darkened a bit.  “Your mistress, I take it.”

            Shaislyn looked down at him, both literally as well as figuratively.  “I _like_ Vanessa.  You seem to hate your master, but I _want_ to find her.”  He paused.  “I hope she’s alive.”

            Fenris stared at him, and suddenly felt mortified.  He wanted to shake Shaislyn, yell at him, tell him all the reasons he should hate Vanessa.  He was at a loss for words, though, and didn’t know how to begin.  The half-elf was a child—he didn’t know any better.  Shaislyn was quiet long enough for him to find the words.  “She’s just another magister.  She’ll kill you to fuel her magic if she feels the need.  Why are you so devoted to her?” he demanded, but was unable to say everything he really wanted to—to a child at least.

            Shaislyn gave a strained smile.  “You would have liked Vanessa too, Fenris, if she had been your master instead.”  Fenris started to object, and saw the boy’s expression.  Doubt held him for a moment—maybe not all the magisters were as corrupt as his master—but then the moment passed.  “She taught me Qunlat.”  He hesitated.  “And taught me to make tea.  She would buy me things—like books, and tell me she’d be offended if I didn’t read them.”  He kind of laughed.  “She bought me candy, and scolded the other boys when they made fun of me.”  He shrugged one shoulder and his voice lowered.  “She hugged me goodbye the day I left.  I think she was crying.”

            Fenris didn’t even know what to say to that.  He wanted to believe in Shaislyn’s tale of a magister that _wasn’t_ twisted and evil, but everything he had seen made him doubt it was even true.  What if it were all some plot of Vanessa’s?  That would make sense.  What use was a spy if he wouldn’t report back to his master, because he would rather run away?  “You shouldn’t trust anything that she said or did,” he said instead.

            Shaislyn paused, and looked away.  “If you’re trying to get me to come back with you, you’re doing a poor job of convincing me,” he muttered, pulling his legs up against his chest.  He paused, rose to his feet, and ran into a room, to a place Fenris could not follow.  But it gave him some time to think, anyway.

            The child… had been through a lot for someone his age.  Everything he had said and done had only driven the boy away.  Maybe he should just leave him.  He was half-tempted to, and the child deserved it.  But, no…  Shaislyn _was_ just a child.  None of it was his fault, and he didn’t understand.

            Fenris wondered what it would be like to be so innocent.

            “Shaislyn?” the elf called up the stairs, eyeing the wooden stairs with distrust.  There was no answer.  He must be ignoring him.  He sighed, not at all trusting the stairs to hold him.  He paced around the room, and that feeling of familiarity just wouldn’t leave him alone.

            There was a loud cracking noise and a cry of alarm from upstairs, followed by something heavy falling in another room.  He ran to the bottom of the stairs, and halted.  “Shai?” he called again, louder this time.

            “Don’t come up here!” he yelled.  “The floor is rotten—and it won’t hold you!”

            His eyes widened as he grasped the implications.  The floor had collapsed, or a piece of it anyway.  Shaislyn had probably caught himself on something, but obviously wasn’t well.  He looked at the stairs again, and set his sword down.  Carefully, he crept up the stairs, his back pressed against the wall, stepping only where the boards would be strongest, testing each step before he put weight down.  He tried to be fast, and listened for sounds of the child falling.  But when he looked up, the boy was standing at the top of the stairs, and scowling with all the seriousness of a child.

            “I wouldn’t do that,” he insisted.  “Go back down, and I’ll… come down too.”

            Fenris decided to just be grateful that the boy was all right, and went back down the stairs.  The child followed in much the same manner.  He breathed a little easier when he wasn’t standing on the stairs, and came away without any splinters too.

            “You won’t tell anyone?” Shaislyn asked him, quietly.

            “No,” Fenris responded.

            The boy nodded, and looked up.  “Mama used to call me ‘Shai’ too.”  He smiled crookedly.  “It feels like a million years ago.”

            He knew the feeling.  “Let’s go—it’s getting dark.”

            The boy paused, staring downwards as if he had not heard him.  He looked up again.  “You can call me ‘Shai’, I guess… if you want.”

            They were mostly silent on the walk there, then Shaislyn said, “I’m sorry—that I kept running away I mean.”  He frowned.  “Every time I get upset, I want to run away.”  He paused.  “But no one ever came after me before, or tried to stop me.”

            There was something sad about that.  What kind of a parent did he have?  “You really want to find them, Shai?  It sounds like they didn’t really take care of you.”

            Shaislyn frowned.  “Vanessa did.  I don’t care what you say about her—it’s not true.”  He sighed.  “And Mama always worked really hard to feed us.”  He frowned at Fenris.  “We couldn’t always eat, y’know.  They didn’t sell me because they had a choice.  What would you do?  Two women and a child, and they couldn’t feed themselves, let alone the child.”

            “They should have sold themselves,” he muttered darkly.

            Shaislyn, to his surprise, laughed.  “And what?  What would _I_ do?  I’m a child; I can’t take care of myself, can I?  You think I’d be any better off?”  Fenris had no reply for that.  He shook his head.  “No, someone would just rob me, and I’d be some street urchin the rest of my life.  Is that any better than slavery?  No.”

            Fenris wanted to argue, but at the same time couldn’t really find a flaw in the boy’s matter-of-fact logic.  Shaislyn had lied about hiding in the alienage the night of the attack.  Fenris wondered how much of the rest was lies.

            A silence fell over the pair again, and again the boy broke it.  “You’re leaving with the Fog Warriors, aren’t you?”

            “I…  Yes, I’d like to,” he admitted.

            The boy nodded.  “Convince them to bring me.”

            Fenris snorted.  “I don’t know that I can convince them not to leave _me_.”

            “Just… speak up for me when I ask.”

            “I make no guarantees,” the elf said instead.

            The boy rolled his unnaturally pale eyes and sighed.  By then, they were close enough to the docks where they had built from the rubble of the walls and the other houses, a large house to accommodate the children, and a separate sort of barracks for the warriors.

            They were already eating when the pair arrived, and the hostess quickly found them seats.  Shaislyn seemed to get along with the other children, and they asked about him, and he was friendly enough, despite how badly he seemed to want to be rid of them.

            Krista, a human woman with a scar that marred her face, took care of the children here—she and the older children, that is.  They had started putting the youngest children to bed, and seemed to be hinting for Shaislyn to follow.  Krista had commented to Fenris earlier that she often had some amount of trouble with newcomers, though.  Shaislyn was having none of it, and came and sat with the adults.

            The Qunari were telling a hunting story in their tongue, and now Fenris knew that Shaislyn had known the language all along.  The boy listened with rapt attention, and then asked, “ _Why do you call yourselves ‘Fog Warriors’?”_

Aban seemed pleased by the question or perhaps the boy’s pronunciation, and beckoned the child closer.  Shaislyn went to him.  “ _We strike suddenly, and are gone just as suddenly, disappearing into the trees—like fog.”_

Shaislyn seemed to think about that.  “ _I want to go with you,”_ he decided.  “ _I want to try to find the refugees.  And I want to learn how to fight.”_ He paused and for a moment, his eyes looked haunted beyond what a child should ever know.  “ _I never want to be helpless again.”_

Of course, some of the Fog Warriors tried to convince him not to.  And of course others were proud of this brave child.  In the end, Fenris had to do nothing at all to help Shaislyn, because Aban seemed only too happy to bring him.

            “ _What weapons do you want to learn?”_ Aban asked him.  Shaislyn had once asked Aban about his name, something no one else had done.  Fenris had been curious too, so had listened.  Apparently, Aban had floated to Seheron on a raft he had made, and even swam partway, to get there, so he took his name from the sea that had nearly ended his life.

            Shaislyn didn’t even think about it.  “ _Swords.  Two of them.”_

            _“And so you shall.  Now, go to bed, child—it’s a long day tomorrow.”_

            With that, Shaislyn rushed off to bed happily.  Krista seemed grateful.  Fenris stayed with the Qunari for a while, listening to their stories with a sort of reverence and hunger for companionship he had never been allowed to indulge in before now.

            They served ale, and Fenris usually didn’t drink it, but he had used all of the medications he had  a long while ago, and the lyrium just seemed to burn.  He just kept drinking it, and realized, about six cups in, that he was drunk, and the others were amused enough to keep pouring it.

            When Fenris drained the eighth, Zekiel stopped Krista from refilling it.  She was a good hostess, but always assumed her guests knew when to stop.  “I think he’s had enough,” the elf said.

            Fenris sighed, leaning heavily back in the chair.  The world was spinning, and he felt _good_.  The alcohol had dulled the pain, and he never wanted to go back to feeling so much of it again.  He listened to the stories, but didn’t always hear them.  Zekiel and Ashaad said something to him, and it took him an extended moment to respond, which was when the two decided he needed to get to bed.  They gave him a cup of water and Ashaad threatened to carry him if he couldn’t walk.

            He got to his feet, and stumbled.  Zekiel caught him, and pulled his arm over his shoulder.  Ashaad walked with them, and the two talked, but Fenris didn’t always understand what they were saying.

            They went outside, and the cool air felt good on his face.  He couldn’t say he remembered the walk into the empty guest room, but he remembered Ashaad leaving them—something about seeing that Zekiel had everything well in hand, and having no desire to play nanny to a drunk.  Zekiel gave him a sarcastic thanks.

            “You need to go to the privy?” Zekiel asked him, with the tone of voice that implied he had asked it several times.

            Fenris frowned, and had to think about the answer.  Zekiel took him anyway.  Fenris _may_ have spent an ungodly amount of time inside, but eventually came out again.  Zekiel walked with him back to the room with the patience of a saint.

            He set Fenris down on the bed and asked him, possibly at least twice, if he could get out of his clothes, or at least the armor bits.

            Fenris fumbled with it, and couldn’t seem to make any sense of it.  Zekiel left him for a moment while he fiddled with a couple of candles, and opened the shutter on the window to let in the breeze.  He also went to get a cup of water, and a bucket, in case Fenris had to vomit apparently.  Zekiel returned, and Fenris was still staring at his gauntlets, so Zekiel helped him out of them, and the breastplate.  He placed them gently on the floor.

            “Sorry…” Fenris muttered as Zekiel thrust another cup of water at him.

            “Drink it,” he insisted.  Fenris took it, and started to sip at it.

            Zekiel sighed, and pursed his lips.  “Fuck, you drank a lot.  Some of that was dwarven ale.”

            Fenris finished the cup, and he wasn’t certain if he dropped it or Zekiel took it back, but he wasn’t holding it, and he was lying down on the bed.  “I don’t remember.”

            “I bet you don’t,” Zekiel said.

            But that wasn’t what Fenris had meant.  He meant, _I don’t remember anything.  I don’t remember who I’m supposed to be, or any family I might have had—I don’t remember!_

            “Goodnight.  I’ll check on you again later.”  Zekiel left.  Fenris may have lied there an hour or half a minute, but he realized he had to piss again.  He half-fell out of the bed, and the door opened again.  Zekiel stared at him.

            “What do you think you’re doing?” he practically shrieked.  “Get back in bed!”

            Fenris staggered to his feet.  “I have to… go to the privy.”

            Zekiel scowled.  “Use the chamber pot.  I’m not walking with you all the way back there again.”

            Fenris walked past him, one hand leaning heavily against the wall, trying to remember where it was.  “I don’t want to smell it later.”  _And I don’t think I can aim that well._   Despite Zekiel’s complaints, he walked with him anyway, and even waited for him, and walked with him back.

            This time, Zekiel got him to the room, and pulled down the blankets on the cot.  He led Fenris to the bed, muttering to himself the entire time.  Fenris stumbled, and the other caught him, and it didn’t seem easy.

            “Fuck, you’re heavy,” he muttered.  He helped him into the bed.  “Here, let me help you out of that; we can get it washed.”

            Fenris sat up, groggily, but beginning to feel better.  “I am so drunk,” he commented.

            Zekiel actually smiled warmly.  “It’s all right.  I’ve seen worse.”  He paused, concentrating on undoing the closures on his tunic.  “You seem… happy.  Or just really drunk.”

            “Both,” Fenris whispered, and tried to focus on Zekiel’s face.  “I’ve never…  I’ve always been a slave…”

            “It’s all right,” the other said again.  “I understand.”

            Fenris reached out toward him, and caught his arm.  “No—I mean…”  He struggled for a moment to find the right words.  “I mean that I was always alone.”  He looked down.  “My master kept me separated—from everyone.  And…”

            “Hey.”  Fenris looked back up.  Zekiel was smiling, but it looked a little forced, and his eyes looked sad and troubled.  “It’s over now:  You’re safe.  Even if he wants you back, we won’t let him take you.  Don’t worry.”

            How could he know what he was saying?  How could he know what any of that _meant_?  Fenris didn’t believe, not really, that his master would just let him go.  He was… his prized possession, his pet.  He wouldn’t just give him up for lost.  Danarius could bring the weight of the Imperium down on these people.  He could have them all killed.  He could…  Fenris was so tired.

            Zekiel helped him out of his clothes, and bundled them up.  He made Fenris promise to go to sleep before he left, and the elf was tired enough to comply, despite his worries.

 

            The day _had_ been long.  After breakfast, Shaislyn had to go to a field with a Qunari, who only spoke Qunlat, and began his teaching.  They used wooden practice swords, and the child enjoyed it thoroughly.  It was much more fun than learning from Master Taggart, with the other boys to mock and ridicule him, and try to trip him.

            He learned faster without their watching eyes and their chortles of laughter when he made a mistake.  And when lessons were done, they went to lunch.  He inquired as to how long they might stay in Schavalis.  None of them really seemed to know an exact day, but only a couple more days, they all agreed.  Krista found Shaislyn some clean clothes to wear while his were washed.

            He instinctively avoided the other children, knowing full well that he was an outsider.  They would look at his eyes, and see their unnatural colour, and that he was distinctly of elven blood, and would shun him, even the elves, for he was too human-looking.  They might be polite with adults around, but he knew better.

            Rather, he went off alone, practicing steps in sword fighting, until he was far away enough to be comfortable.  He watched the crows for a while, studying them.  He watched for hours, and toward the nightfall, he felt like he knew them.  He had been watching since the idea came into his head.  The first form was the most difficult, the book had read.

            One bird was a good base for another, it had also read.  The same went for lizards, for fish, for equines, and for many sorts of rodent.  He hid himself, and became a crow.  It was different, being a crow as compared to a swallow.  He felt more powerful.  Not much more powerful, but powerful all the same.

            His wings were big enough to soar, and he was big enough to not worry so much about predators.  He flew down to the docks, and observed the children at play.  He winged over the city and stopped to watch the Qunari practicing with their swords.  Fenris had joined them today, and Shaislyn was impressed with him.  He felt oddly joyful to see an elf that skilled—and strong.  It gave him some hope for their kind.

            He guessed he did think of himself as being more elven than human.  Why wouldn’t he?  He was raised by elves, in an alienage.  People called him _half-elven,_ not half-human.

            Shaislyn wanted other people to see him and think those things too.  He wanted to grow up, and have others look at him, and say, _There’s hope for the elves_.  They weren’t _all_ weak and subjugated.  They could be strong, and fearless, and free.

            As a shapeshifter, he knew now that he could never be caged against his will.  No one could cage a shapeshifter.  He wanted this freedom for all of his kind.  He wanted to give them all wings, so they might all experience the freedom and the joy he felt when he was flying.

            _One day,_ he promised himself.  _One day I can do something_.  _I won’t be a child forever._


	70. Slavery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris' betrayal.

                The Fog Warriors decided to wait until one of their scouts had returned almost two weeks later, and told them that the _Antaam_ was moving to port, an escort to their captives.  It did not sit well with the Fog Warriors, and they made the decision to go give them some trouble.

                Shaislyn _would_ have insisted that he go along too, but they were going to be doing real fighting.  What they _didn’t_ know was that Shaislyn had every intention of following them, though—as a bird.  For real fighting, they did not want to bring him.  They had agreed to bring him for scouting and “foraging” but not on something like this.

                Well, the women he was looking for could be among those captives, so he wanted to know.  He put up an appropriate fit at staying behind, and Zekiel and Fenris both said that they weren’t going, so he was somewhat consoled, though also frustrated.  He wasn’t sure how fast a crow could fly, and while Krista might not know him well enough to assume that he had just wandered off into the city and disappeared for a while, he doubted that Fenris or Zekiel would be so fooled.

                Well, there was nothing for it.  He disappeared from them and followed the Fog Warriors from the sky, and often flew ahead of them.  He imagined that it would look weird for a lone crow to be circling them like that, so he only flew by them a couple of times in a day.  He found it vastly amusing how slowly people traveled on foot, even when they hurried, and how quickly he caught up to them every day.  He flew beyond them, for a long time, soaring in the wind lazily, and spotted the _Antaam_.

                He was afraid for a moment, then remembered that he was a bird, and one that was not at all uncommon amongst an army.  He swooped down low in the midst of the captives, and landed on the back of a wagon.  He turned around, and looked among them.  They were treated fairly, he noted, but even on the march, they preached the Qun to them.  Either way, the message was clear:  Convert, or die.

                For most, the choice was obvious, and they did.  He noticed some animosity between humans and elves and the couple of dwarves, but the Qunari preached to them about that as well, that it was wrong.

                Shaislyn liked that bit, and moved on, seeing no one he recognized.  He flitted from wagon to wagon, and looked at everyone walking, but saw no trace of Varania, Lura, or Vanessa—or anyone he remembered for that matter, but as a bird, it was hard to distinguish facial features.  Feeling a sense of defeat, he circled above the army again, too afraid to search in his birth form, which he knew now was the only true way of finding and recognizing them.

                He flew away, suddenly no longer caring about this mission.  He flew lazily back to Shavalis, and it was past sunset when he fluttered to a landing.  He was tired, and just wanted to go to sleep.  He checked to make sure that he was alone before he changed back, and wandered back to his sleeping quarters.  He was met with a scowling Zekiel.

                “Where have you _been_?” the elf demanded.  Shaislyn shifted uncomfortably.  “We’ve looked _everywhere_ for you, but you just disappeared.”

                The child looked down.  He couldn’t tell anyone the truth.  What would they do to him?  “I was just… exploring,” he said.  “Sorry—I lost track of time…”

                Zekiel sighed.  “Of course.  Look, don’t do that.  The Imperials and _Antaam_ both have scouts you know.”

                Shaislyn shivered at the thought of being taken captive again.  He yawned, and Zekiel let him get to his bed.

                The Fog Warriors came back exhausted, but seemed generally pleased with themselves.  Shaislyn didn’t have to guess why; he had witnessed it.  They attacked just like they said they did, and it was brilliant, and worked.

                He watched, sitting on a fence, as the Thedosians practiced with their weapons, fletched arrows, and fixed spears.  Fenris was there too, sparring with a Thedosian easily twice his size.  Shaislyn could watch Fenris fight all day, and often found him to be a source of inspiration.  He wished that Fenris’ fighting ability was less of a rarity, and more of a commonality among elves.  He wanted so badly for elves to be like that—not subjugated and weak—but fearless and strong, and free above all.  Maybe one day, Shaislyn would be half as good as Fenris was.  Zekiel was fletching arrows nearby, and the child went over to him.

                “Can you shoot?” Shaislyn asked him.

                Zekiel raised an eyebrow.  “They wouldn’t keep me if I wasn’t good for _something_ ,” he said half-jokingly.

                “I wouldn’t mind learning the bow,” the child commented.  “But it’s useless when you run out of arrows.”

                At that, Zekiel laughed.  “And what good do you think a sword is after you’ve cleaved bone a couple of times?  You think it just _stays_ sharp?” he chuckled.  “You hit something in armor a couple of times, and it’s pretty dull—then you’ve just got an awkwardly balanced club.”

                Shaislyn thought about that, then looked over his shoulder, back at Fenris.  For practice, he had a big hammer.  Maybe there was more to that than he had at first considered.  “So…  You think two swords would be useless?” the child asked.  He tried not to let his own feelings about the matter show, lest they colour Zekiel’s words.

                Zekiel considered, and shook his head.  “Not at all.  Just make sure that when you strike, you kill.  The more you hit someone’s armor or even their sword and _don’t_ kill them, the more it will dull your blade.  So you have to make every strike count, or it’s all for nothing.”  A pause.  “Stab, don’t slice—try to kill quickly.”

                The half-elf considered his words with care, and treated them like gospel.  It was good advice, and it made sense when he thought about it.

                In this manner, days and then weeks passed, and the summer was exciting and interesting to Shaislyn.  To his eyes, Fenris seemed happy.  When he had first met the man, he had been as miserable as could be, and the worst part was that he didn’t seem to know it.  Now, he just seemed happy and content.  Shaislyn was glad to see it, actually.  Though sometimes, Fenris got kind of broody and hateful.  When he got like that, Shaislyn would make a point of saying something funny, or dumped water on his head—or something like that.  He would rather have Fenris mad at him and throw him into a brook than have the older elf look so gloomy.

 

                Danarius’ first act of business upon landing in Minrathous had been to account for all of his family.  Annalkylie was missing, but she could have easily been on one of the ships that had sunk in the crossing—the Qunari had given chase, after all.  The mages had met them, and any archers they had on board, but ships had still sunk.

                He mourned the passing of his favourite niece, and gave his condolences to his brother, as well as her husband and family-in-law.

                Annalkylie had a grave in the family plot, as her marriage had never been consummated.  A body could not be recovered, but her memories were buried alongside all the others.  Danarius had walked among the gravestones, remembering everyone who had passed:  His father in the hunting accident; his mother to wasting disease; his twin sister to madness and, ultimately, suicide; Roschelle and the stillborn infant; and so many others.

                The tower outside of the city that their phylacteries had been stored in had burned in their absence.  He did not lament that, though it was curious:  Had it been Qunari, rebelling slaves, even a magister perhaps?  There was some discussion on whether or not they should even create a new one.  Most were against it, at least for the magisters themselves.  For their mageborn slaves, that was different, and new ones were made immediately, but this time, stored elsewhere.  They also questioned what to do with the lower-ranked Circle mages, and the debate only seemed to go ‘round in circles.

                There was so much to do that he couldn’t even begin to think about Fenris fully until nearly two months had gone by.  Time passed so much faster than he could have anticipated.  He was somewhat consoled, despite all of that, because he knew without a doubt that Fenris was alive.  His life flared like a single candle in a void, and Danarius would always know where to find it.

                He had to arrange for a voyage to go _collect_ his pet, and debated on whether or not he should even go himself.  But then another magister raised the issue that damage in Seheron needed to be better surveyed and accounted for, and if he volunteered and waited a week or so, the taxpayers would pay for it, instead of a private venture—which played very nicely into his plans.  This time, Hadriana had been quite content to stay at home, and seemed nothing short of grateful that she had not gone, despite her former tantrums.

                Naturally, upon arrival, he first assessed the damages to the town.  Clean-up would be months in the making, and even after three days of searching, they found no survivors, which was to be expected.  The city looked like scavengers had picked through it many times over since the initial attack, and for the most part, the bodies were even already burned.  A small division of the army arrived on the second day, to make certain they were safe during their stay, while the main body chased after the Antaam.

                Danarius wrote his report:  A staggering count of the dead bodies still being pulled from the rubble and washed ashore, the amount of looting that had gone on, anything salvageable, and a disturbing lack of survivors.  He had to constantly ascertain that Fenris was still alive.  Fortunately, the elf was in the opposite direction of the Antaam, and had not been swallowed up by the Qunari.  If he had, there would be no feasibly retrieving him, which would be infuriating.

                He wondered what the Qunari would think of Fenris.  It made him a bit uncomfortable to think on that, but they would probably take one look at his abilities, and what he could do, and leash him just like they did with their mages.  Just one more reason they needed to be stopped.  They needed to be killed.

                But all that would come later.  The troops sent by the military flatly refused to come with him on his private venture, stating that because it was just that—a “ _private_ venture”—that they had no business in it.  No matter—he had never relied on their help anyway.  He brought his personal guards and a few slaves, and rode off in the direction he knew his prized possession to be, and simply hoped that Fenris was _well_ in addition to alive.

 

                They had been gone from Shavalis for not quite a week when one of their scouts intercepted them, and said that there were Imperials at the sacked town, and that they should avoid the area for a while.  It was good advice, for they had been headed south.  They changed course and veered eastward instead, steadily.

                Another scout had reported that the Antaam had arrived at their port, so the Fog Warriors had no business harassing a fortified location.  But they held no qualms with harrying the stragglers and the Antaam scouts, or the Imperials for that matter.

                Ashaad had been a Fog Warrior for many years, and a scout for longer, and a hunter before that.  He knew what he was doing, when he moved quietly through the forest.  It was not Par Vallen, which had been a home of sorts though it was always taught that Par Vallen was not home, even to children who knew nothing else.

                The big Qunari preferred to scout alone.  Some of the others liked to be in pairs or groups, for safety, especially during long scouting missions, but Ashaad found that few could match his stealth or his woods skills, so simply preferred to be alone.  Besides, he liked the solitude.  He found that he craved such solitude more than anything else, oftentimes.

                When he had been a part of the Antaam, a piece of something rather than a whole something—even if that “thing” was “nothing” according to the Qun—he had often craved and longed for solitude, which he was always denied.  Single scouts existed, but many went in groups, especially for long distances, which was more what they needed.  A single man was just too easy to kill.  But so much harder to spot, he had found.

                He could have reached out and touched the magister’s horse, so close was he, and these humans didn’t even know he was there.

                He studied the robed man he knew to be a mage, memorizing his features.  One human, to Ashaad, looked much the same as any other:  Small, hornless, often helpless-looking creatures with dull skin.  How they had managed to survive and thrive was more than Ashaad could understand, particularly when they were so scattered and warred amongst themselves so.  They were a violent race, and the elven history spoke to the truth of that.

                There were few elves in the Qun, but enough, and precious few humans too, at least in Par Vallen.  But Ashaad had more experience with elves.  Elves looked much the same to him, too, but he wondered how comparable they were to humans.  He could always ask Zekiel, but his friend might chastise him rather than answer him directly.

                Ashaad listened to their words, but they spoke little that was relevant, or of use.  He did not learn where they were going, but the magister continuously looked in the same direction that the warrior knew Zekiel and the others to be, which was cause for concern.  He needed to report this, but what could this man want?

                There were enough men here—good warriors, he saw, from the way they moved with their weaponry and cared for their blades and bows—to cause some trouble, but not really enough to do anything serious.  A mage could easily tip the scales, but, as Zekiel would say, a well-aimed arrow could put a quick end to that.  He wondered what, in that case, they could want.  The magisters sent their slaves to do their fighting for them.  Whatever this was about, it wasn’t about fighting.  And these men lacked the order and discipline Ashaad had associated with the Imperial Army.  What, then, did that mean?

                After he observed a while longer, he decided that these men were guards.  Strange, very strange.  All the same, the others needed to know as soon as possible.

                Ashaad crept back into the forest.

 

                Shaislyn, in the form of a crow, perched in a sycamore tree, and listened to the Thedosians talking below him.  Ashaad had come back from a scouting mission, and seemed perturbed, so Shaislyn had come closer.  It was just before midnight, and the half-elf had yet to go to sleep, opting instead to sneak out of the tent and fly first.

                He liked being with the Fog Warriors.  No one seemed to care too much that he was in bed at a “decent hour,” so long as he got up in the morning and did his chores.

                He listened to Ashaad’s description of the magister and his party, and the giant seemed most troubled that the humans were so close.  They debated briefly on breaking camp, and ultimately decided that traveling in the dark was unwise, and breaking camp in the dark would be nothing but a hassle.  They stayed put, but doubled their guard.  The Fog Warriors grumbled, but consented to this extra form of caution.  Ashaad went to his tent, and Shaislyn decided that he had better get some sleep too.  It would be wise.  He flew off into the forest, and found a small space under a mulberry bush.  He changed back, and crawled out from under it.  He snuck back into the camp, and this time was actually scolded.

                “ _There’s Imperials nearby—don’t wander off,”_ the Tal-Vashoth said to him, not unkindly.

Shaislyn promised that he would stay nearby, and went directly to bed, but found he couldn’t sleep.  He rolled, and listened to Zekiel breathing, and the sort of low humming sound that came from Fenris’ lyrium.  It wasn’t a bad sound.  Actually, it was sort of lulling.

                Shaislyn had asked Fenris about it once—how he tolerated the constant humming.  It had taken Fenris several seconds to even understand what he meant.  He simply stated, “I don’t hear it anymore.”

                The child had made a face.  “You just got used to it,” he had informed him.  There was a bright, sudden flash of blue light.  Shaislyn had been alarmed the first time he had seen it, but now he only recognized it as one thing:  Fenris had a nightmare was all.  His emotions could make the lyrium run rampant.  It was a lot like a mage’s abilities, when it came right down to it.

                Shaislyn sometimes felt like pointing it out to him, particularly when the topic of mages was brought up, and Fenris always had a disgusted look on his face.

                The lyrium flashed again, then stayed at a steady but bright glow.  Shaislyn frowned, and sat up.  He crawled over to the older elf and touched his shoulder, but jumped back when Fenris jumped, his hand reaching out.

                Shaislyn’s “vision” was no different in the dark as from the light, only so much that everything was in different shades.  He saw Fenris’ eyes open wide for a moment, then he relaxed, and the lyrium paled again.  Shaislyn glanced at the liquid metal in the man’s arms.  The liquid seemed to run across his skin, constantly moving, constantly in flux.  It traveled, even in the smallest lines, back and forth.  It was so much more than just a tattoo.

                “You were having a nightmare,” the child whispered helpfully.

                The elf sighed, and sat up, rubbing his eyes.  “I should thank you then,” he said in a low voice, so as not to disturb Zekiel, and Shaislyn wondered if he could be teasing him somehow.

                “Do you remember your dreams?” Shaislyn asked, pulling his legs up against his chest.

                Fenris shook his head.  “No.  I don’t—not often anyway.”  There was something about his voice that implied that he was very grateful for that.

                Shaislyn frowned, and nodded.  “Sometimes, I dream about my sister.”

                Fenris looked at him, and frowned.  “You never mentioned a sister.”

                The child glanced away, then back at the other.  “She’s dead.  She died when we were infants—we’re twins.”  He paused.  “I don’t remember her though—but I dream about her.”

                Fenris looked at him.  “What are you implying?”

                Shaislyn’s lips pursed together, briefly annoyed that the other didn’t get it.  “Your memory; how you don’t remember your childhood.  Maybe you really do—just not when you’re awake.”  He yawned.  “Night.”

                “Night.”  Shaislyn climbed back into his bed, burrowing under the blankets.  He shut off his vision, and now it was dark enough to sleep.

 

                Danarius was ruthless in his pursuit of his pet, and the Tal-Vashoth less so, and he caught them, in a manner of speaking.  The Qunari runaways had settled on a hill and looked down at him in the meadow.  For a while, the two sides found themselves at a standoff, each one just a bit unwilling to move.  Danarius sent one of his men with a message to parley, and when the man returned unharmed, it was only a matter of waiting.  One of them came down to speak.

                “Why are you here, human?” the Qunari said in the Trade tongue, getting right to the point rather than mince words, like any civilized human would have done.  He also stayed a respectable distance away.

                Danarius sat atop his horse, and was annoyed at the impetuousness of this horned brute.  “It seems you have something of mine I lost.  I simply came to retrieve him,” the magister answered smoothly.  It really was as simple as that, and could be remedied just as simply.  Why, he was even willing to pay them for Fenris’ safekeeping.

                The Qunari knew instantly who he meant, the mage could see it in the Qunari’s alien eyes.  “We will not give him to you.”

                Danarius’ eyes narrowed.  “I’ll reward you.  It’s only fitting, as you’ve kept him safe for so long.”  _And treated his wounds_ , he reflected.  He always knew somehow when Fenris was hurt.  He didn’t feel it, nor could he tell exactly what it was—but he always sensed the danger and the hurt all the same.  He might compare it to being paralyzed and having the paralyzed limb injured—one knew it happened, but didn’t feel it.

                The brutish creature shook his head firmly.  “No,” he said, jaw set.

                The magister’s fingers clenched in the reigns.  He should kill the creature where it stood.  “Let me speak to Fenris.”

                The Qunari appraised him, silent as their kind were known to be, before it turned away without answering, one way or the other.  Danarius waited.  He was a patient man.  He could wait, and see what happened.  He watched the Tal-Vashoth climb back up the hill, and speak with the other waiting creatures, and they disappeared behind the hill.

 

                Fenris listened to the Qunari talking in their tongue, though he was not quite fluent in Qunlat.  It had begun in heated whispers, but now they were arguing with each other, and he quickly realized what it was about, to his despair.

                Danarius had found him.  Worse, Danarius was _here_ —at the bottom of the hill.  Most of the Qunari were in agreement that they would not hand Fenris over to him, to live the rest of his life as a slave.  Others insisted that they should, because in a fight, many of them would die.

                “ _One is not worth so much_ ,” a Tal-Vashoth argued.

                “ _Which is why we will distract them, and run—like we are known for_ ,” Aban said decidedly.  Now, he had all of their agreement.  Fenris only looked away.  So.  It was ending.  This was it.  Fenris could see it all so clearly.  The past few weeks had been a dream-come-true, but the funny thing about dreams was that they never lasted.  A few weeks from now, that’s all it would feel like, a dream.  Something that couldn’t have possibly happened.  It would be fall in Minrathous, now, he imagined.  The trees would be turning in the orchards, the servants beginning to make winter preparations on the manor.  The vineyards would be doing the same.  He thought of the view from his window, and all the other rooms in the manor.  A few months from now, this would feel like it never happened.  Maybe it would even snow again this year.

                “No,” Fenris said suddenly, as the Qunari began breaking camp to run.  They looked at him.  The elf suddenly felt uneasy.  “I will…  I’ll go.  You don’t need to get hurt for this.”

                Zekiel touched his shoulder gently, and when Fenris looked at him, the elf smiled reassuringly.  “Don’t worry about it:  It’s what we do.”

 

                Danarius pretended to fall for the Tal-Vashoth’s feint, but he and a portion of his guards broke and headed off where he knew Fenris to be.  On a horse, he caught up to the small party in an open field.  His gaze settled on Fenris.  His slave’s hair was practically sheared off, but he seemed otherwise to be fine.  He even bowed his head.

                “Fenris,” Danarius called to him.  He watched the elf start to move forward, and another elf, this one brunette, hauled him back, and whispered something to him.  Fenris looked at the other elf, and seemed torn for a moment.  Danarius was pleased to see that Fenris moved away from the other elf, and would have obediently came to him, except a Qunari stepped in front of him, protectively, the magister noted.

                The Qunari from before held a weapon in his hands now.  “I told you that we wouldn’t give him to you.”

                The magister had just about had it with these rebel Qunari.  “Fenris.”  The elf looked up.  Danarius felt himself smile, and he moved his staff into his hand.  “Kill them.”

                The elf’s eyes flickered with half a moment of indecision, before his sword was in his hands.  The Qunari didn’t even know how to react at first.  The elf just cut into them with a steady precision.  Calculated, cold, and unfeeling.

                All the Qunari’s attention now was diverted to dealing with the sudden threat of Fenris, or more specifically his greatsword.  Danarius watched with interest, and only occasionally had to assist his pet with a well-aimed spell.  His own guards worked at keeping the Qunari from the magister.

                Zekiel—though the magister did not know his name--bent back a bow, not looking toward Fenris, but toward Danarius, who was the real threat.  The elf knew that Fenris would stop if Danarius were dead.  Goose feathers touched his sun-kissed cheeks.  Danarius saw, but too late.  The bowstring went taught, the bow arced.  The arrow left the stave, the string striking the elf’s arm as the arrow cleaved through the air.

                What Danarius didn’t know was that Zekiel had held a bow since he was a child.  He had started with a stave when he was old enough to stand, and would stand with the stave, and if he lowered it for even a moment, the overseer would tan his hide.  When his mother and he had escaped and joined the Qun, he had been allowed to go hunting, as they had been in a small learning community, and he had learned how to use a bow.  However, the Qunari did nothing by halves, and they trained him well:  He could shoot while running.  He could shoot while jumping and hit his target.  He could hit a moth’s wings from two hundred yards—and that was when his instructor had told him, with barely a note of approval, that he may one day make a decent archer.  Zekiel was better than that now.

                A Qunari broke the line of Danarius’ defenders, and it actually had the opposite effect of what the giant had intended:  The flash of the axe made Danarius’ horse rear and wheel, and the arrow, rather than sink into his neck, pierced through his side.  Pain lanced through the mage, and he lost the reigns on the horse.  His first thoughts were of how much it hurt, and then that he needed to cast a healing spell.  As its hooves came down, and it danced away, he slipped, and fell from the saddle, landing hard on one side.  The arrow was pushed violently further into his side, and he felt his world begin to dim.

                _Don’t faint.  Don’t faint.  Don’t faint._

                A tiny thread of magic, blue and healing, trickled over him.  It had been a weak cast, but he was surprised he had managed it.  He wasn’t going to faint, he knew that now, but he needed real care soon.  His eyes slid closed in concentration as he tried to summon his mana.  Trying to use blood magic right now would only make it worse.  Part of being a _skilled_ mage was knowing when to use the right spells and type of magic.

                Around the magister, he heard the fighting continue.  He heard the clash of swords and armor, the sound of a blade striking a shield.  He heard men screaming in mortal pain, screams of rage, screams of anger—and anguished perceived betrayal.  Then he heard only the sounds of pain, belabored breathing, the panting that comes after a fight.  He risked a glance up.  Many of his own men were wounded or dead, but the Qunari seemed to all be dead, including the brunette elf—hacked nearly in two by a greatsword that had even split his yew bow.  The fighting seemed to have stopped.  His horse had ran off too—blasted thing.

                All around, were bodies of the dead and the dying, the dead attracting flies and carrion, and the dying moaning their pain—that one mortal moment that left no distinction between magister and slave.  Fenris stood amidst them, looking lost somehow, like something about him was dying with the Tal-Vashoth around him.

                There—movement.  Something stirred, and made a small noise.  Danarius turned and looked, expecting a half-dead Qunari to be moving.  But it was a child.  What he at first thought, from a distance, was a human child, but then saw that that wasn’t true at all.  But it was also incorrect to call it elven, or dwarven; it was a half-breed child.

                It made him think about Fenris’ sister, about her child.  It would have grown into its power by now.  It would have been… about that age actually.  He blinked, and saw the hair, the pale, pale eyes.  It couldn’t be…  Vanessa had assured him that the child had gone north with the army.

                But there simply was no mistaking the hair.  It was the same shade of coal-and-cinders as his brother’s, the same shade as his niece Caleigh, or his own late mother, and the child had that hair.  Coupled with the eyes—eyes he now knew were blind—he _knew_.  He knew with a cold, dead certainty that somehow, this was his bastard, mage-born son.

                And Fenris had met the boy.  He didn’t think he knew.  He didn’t think either of them knew.

                “Fenris.  Bring me the boy,” he told him.  Each word was forced and hard-gained, and he felt himself getting light-headed.  It was getting difficult to think and reason…

                Fenris moved to obey, his movements stiff.  He didn’t step around the gore, but rather moved as if he didn’t really see or recognize it.  His feet were bloody, and Danarius made a face when he stepped in a bit of brain and bone.  Fenris didn’t flinch—didn’t even recognize it for what it was.  The elf looked sick, pale, and, if Danarius had only known better, ready to bolt like a frightened rabbit.

                The boy’s eyes were wide with fear, and he was staring at Fenris as if he could see him.  The boy fell backwards, landing on the bloodied soil hard.  He backpedaled, away.

                “Don’t come near me!” the child cried pleadingly.

                Fenris paused, but only paused, and kept walking toward him.

                “I mean it!” he continued, trying to scramble backwards, and yelped when he put his hand against a rib jutting out of a Qunari’s chest.  He withdrew his hand quickly in horror, and looked at the corpse, then back at Fenris.  “How could you?”  Tears welled in the child’s blind eyes.  “You’re a monster!” he screamed.

                And Fenris stopped walking, as if he had been struck across the face.  Danarius’ eyes narrowed.  Somehow, the child could see.  He wasn’t certain _how,_ exactly, but he was positive that the boy was somehow using magic to see.  That intrigued him.  What kind of spell was that?  What other uses could such a thing have?

                “They helped you, and you _killed them_!” the child shrieked, and clutched at his bleeding arm.  Blood soaked his entire left arm, and from the way he held it, it seemed to hurt.  “You’re a monster, and you deserve to die!  _All of you deserve to die!_ ”

                “Shai…” Fenris whispered.  Danarius would have the boy captured, see what he could learn of this spell of his.  He had a few questions of the lad too, the spell aside.

                “Shut up!” the boy cried.  But that hair.  That was a family trait.  If he brought the boy back to Minrathous for questioning, if any one should see him, it would only be a matter of time before someone saw those curls, and compared them to Caleigh or Elden.  _No,_ the mage thought.  _This child is a mistake I should have corrected long ago.  He never should have been allowed to live this long._   He had questions—about this spell of the blind boy’s vision, a few questions about how using him in the ritual might have affected him—but it was not worth the political scandal of being seen with him.

                “I’ve changed my mind,” Danarius decided.  “Kill him.”

 

                Oh.  An order.  Orders were easy to obey.  Easy to follow.  It was so much harder to think, to reason.  To process what had happened, what was going on.  It was like someone else was controlling his body.  No, that was irresponsible and irrational.  That placed blame on a god-like figure that Fenris did not believe in.  It was like waking from a dream and knowing that the dream had been pretty, but you had to let go of it, because it wasn’t real.  It was time to wake up.  He was a slave.  That was all he would ever be.

                The Fog Warriors had been like a dream, nothing more.  To believe he could be anything more than a slave was an illusion.  This was reality.  It had been childish to think, even for a moment, that there was anything else.  There was _nothing else_.  To deny it was to deny his own existence.  To deny that he was a slave was like denying that he was an elf, or denying that he breathed, slept, ate.  He couldn’t; it wasn’t possible.  It was not something he could fight or stand against.  One does not fight when the sun rises again in the east.

                Fenris adjusted his grip on his sword.  Shai was shaking now, in something akin to terror.

                There was no room for guilt, or remorse, or even thought.  Thinking was painful—best not to do that.  Just the order, and nothing else in his mind.  _Obey your master:_   Kill him.

                _You’re a monster_.

                Maybe.

                _Kill him_.

                Yes, Master.

                That was all there was.  There was _nothing else.  Nothing._   He was a slave, and that was the end of it.  A slave, and that was all.

                He stepped forward.  It would be a simple matter.  He was just a child.  How he had avoided getting accidentally killed was beyond Fenris—just a stroke of luck, he imagined.  Or was it?  He wasn’t sure.  Maybe dying in the melee would have been better, but he wasn’t sure.

                “Fenris, please, you don’t have to do this,” Shai pleaded with him.  He had liked Shaislyn.  The kid was obnoxious and rude sometimes, but he had liked him all the same.  He didn’t want…

                He didn’t want to do this.  The thought struck him like an arrow through the chest.

                So… why had he?  That thought was like the arrow twisting in his gut, the barbs catching on his vitals.

                It was like awakening from a dream to discover that it was a nightmare.

                He could smell the viscera, the blood, vomit, feces, and urine that went along with the peculiar air of death.  And, oddly enough, he could smell meat—raw meat, and that was the most disturbing thing about murdering _people_.  After a point, they just smelled and looked like meat.

                The combination was revolting, but something he was accustomed to.  But he felt like… the blood would never really come off.

                Guilt hit him then, shaking through his entire body through the numb haze, crippling him as certain as any blade.  He stopped moving, his fingers gripping the hilt of his sword.  The half-elven child looked up at him with his strange eyes.

                “I’m sorry, Shai,” he said, and readied himself to strike.  It would be a simple task.  One swing, and it would be done.  His master would take him back to Minrathous.  The blood would wash off--simple as that.  All of this would be nothing but a distant, unreal memory.  It had never felt real to begin with, surely it wouldn’t be so hard to go back to Minrathous.  It was easy.  Easy to do as he was told.  Easy to continue doing as he was told.  It was expected.  It was certain.  It was all he had known.  A few weeks wasn’t enough to change years of indoctrination.

                “No!” the boy cried, and his tone had changed from pleading to angry determination.  The poor kid…  Fenris knew the boy couldn’t outrun him, and the child certainly had no chance in a fight either.  The boy was going to die, simple as that.  Exactly as his master wished.  All that ever mattered were his master’s wishes, and nothing else.

                Everything seemed to happen at once.  Shai jumped to his feet and threw an open hand outward.  Though it might not have been his intention, his magic drew on the power of his blood.  Fire erupted from his hand, but he wasn’t attacking Fenris.  He had set the grass on fire, and the boy swung his hand in a wild arc, creating an effective wall between himself and Fenris.  The blood on his arm steamed and evaporated, but there was more flowing from the wound.  The elf stood dumbfounded for an instant, and backed away automatically from the heat of the blaze.  The fire leaped higher than it should have if it were a normal fire.  Bodies cooked and crisped in the blaze, curiously filling the air with the aroma of cooking meat.  He saw glimpses of Shai, as the boy ran in the other direction into the shifting fog.

                All this time, Shai had been a mage.

                Fenris felt, oddly, like he had been lied to.  Funny, considering that he had never really asked, and Shai had certainly never mentioned it.  But, all the same, lied to by omission if nothing else.

                But the boy didn’t make it very far.  From the corner of his eye, Fenris saw Danarius cast out his hand, and Shai cried out, stumbling, and fell, slipping in blood.  Mages could, with practice, prevent other mages from casting spells.  Danarius gasped in pain and two of his guards knelt at his side to see what could be done for his wound, but neither were mages.

                The fire burned out, and Fenris could see Shai, kneeling, and struggling to his feet, but he didn’t run when he stood up.  He reached his hands out, and walked, stumbling without a cane or staff to guide him.  It was sad to watch a blind child struggle so desperately to keep his short life, his very birth making him destined for loneliness.  And yet he still tried so very hard to escape and live.  It was a puzzle.  The boy was blind, mage-born, and half-elven, with no family to speak of.  Why cling so frantically to life?  What else could there be except to pass on?

                Danarius not only wanted him to kill a child, but a blind half-elven child, who no doubt had been dealt a bad enough hand.  He thought of all the things that Shaislyn had told him privately, all the times the boy had confided in him and trusted him.  He thought about dunking the child in the pond.  He thought about the child feeding the squirrels.  He thought about how he had laughed, and teased Fenris when the elf became too gloomy.  Fenris thought about how Shaislyn had thrown a pinecone at him, and the elf had retaliated by tossing the boy in a nearby brook.  He remembered how they had both laughed about it.

                Then he thought about Zekiel.  He thought about Ashaad and Aban, and everyone else he had betrayed.  He remembered their faces, their voices.  He remembered their words, their laughs, the way they had welcomed him and helped him.

                He looked at the corpses around him, and swallowed.  _I can’t_.

                He couldn’t do it.  He felt like he couldn’t do anything.  How could anyone do this?

                “Kill him,” Danarius repeated, holding his wounded side.  Blood was soaking his robes, over his hand.

                But the elf couldn’t obey.  He couldn’t refuse, and he couldn’t obey, so he did the next best thing:  He ran.

                As he ran, he thought he saw a sparrow fly over his head, and when he glanced back, the half-elven child was gone or hidden, and Danarius had finally collapsed of his wounds.  He did not look back again.

 

                Fenris heard someone breathing hard through the trees.  At first, he had thought it must be the forest itself and the leaves in the wind—he was little experienced with those—but after a moment of listening, he knew it must be a person.

                _I should just go away,_ he thought, even as he headed toward the sound.  Whoever it was sounded exhausted, and occasionally cried out in pain.  They might need help…

                He pushed a branch aside, and his lips pressed into a thin line.  Well, the Maker certainly did have a sense of humor, didn’t he?

                “Shaislyn,” he said, and the boy looked up with those eerie unseeing eyes.

                The boy’s face twisted into a look of utter contempt.  _I deserve that_.  “Come to kill me?” he spat contemptuously.  “I won’t be much of a fight.”

                Fenris knelt beside him.  “Let me help you,” he said, choosing to ignore the boy’s harsh words.  _I deserve that too_.

                But Shaislyn shied away from him, holding his obviously hurt arm.  It was sliced open and his sleeve was drenched in blood.  The child couldn’t dress it well, though he was making the attempt.

                “You’re a mage,” the elf said, unnecessarily.  “Can’t you…”

                To that, the half-elf glared at him.  “You’re an elf.  Shouldn’t you be bowing and scraping to some magister right now?”

                He may deserve the cruel japes, but he wasn’t about to take much more of this from a mage, even a child mage.  “I offered you help, mage.”  He spat the word like an insult, and the child only stared at him.  “If you would rather bleed to death, then do so,” he said morosely.

                The child was silent for a moment.  “You haven’t come to kill me then?” he said.

                Fenris looked away.  He felt like mages deserved to die, but for this one, there was nothing but guilt.  Guilt is a fantastic motivator, and Shaislyn’s accusing eyes and words were enough to stay his hand.  “No.”

                The half-elf was silent for an even longer time.  “Then help me—I think I’m in trouble.”

                The child was half-right.  The sleeve had to just be cut off, and the kid had a small pack with bandages in it.  He couldn’t stitch the wound shut without the proper equipment even if he knew how, but he cleaned the cut with cold water from a nearby spring, and bound it tightly.  It was shallow, but it was bleeding a lot, though not quickly.  He thought it quite curious that it could bleed like that for over a day and the boy had somehow gotten _ahead_ of him.

                “Where’s your master?” the child asked, cocking his head to the side.

                Fenris had never been entirely comfortable with the way the half-elf stared at him.  His eyes were entirely too pale, and now it was only worse that he knew it must be some kind of strange magic, and the idea of being seen through magic was a disturbing one.  “Gone.”

                He was silent again.  “I wish you had abandoned him half an hour before you did.  A lot more people would be alive,” the child said, and rose to his feet.  “I caught a rabbit.  If you help me with a fire, you can have half of it.”

                Guilt drove him to it—and a gnawing hunger in his stomach.  Twilight found the unlikely pair sitting across from each other at the fire, neither one entirely trusting the other.

                “Will your master be looking for you?” the boy asked as the rabbit cooked on its skewer.

                “Not for a while yet,” Fenris assumed.  “He was wounded.”

                He looked at him, studying him with blind eyes.  _He must see using magic_ , Fenris thought for the umpteenth time that day.  There was no other explanation for it.  A part of him wanted to ask about it, and another part didn’t want to hear the answer.  “They’ll look for me too.  I have a phylactery,” Shai explained.

                A pause.  “You said you were used to spy on the Qunari…”

                The half-elven boy seemed sad.  “Why do you and everyone else in the world judge me not on my actions or my words, but on what I look like and how I was born?” he asked, but not in the way that begged an answer.  He just looked sad.  “I wasn’t lying when I said I was a slave.  I convinced Lura that she needed to sell me, or she and my mother wouldn’t be able to eat.  The army paid more for mage flesh.”  He shrugged one shoulder dismissively.  “And the Qunari wouldn’t question a runaway child, would they, if one came stumbling into their camp?  And do you suppose, if that child knew their language, that they might overhear something?  It’s amazing how frequently people assume that because I’m blind, I must be deaf and dumb too.”

                “You are blind then,” Fenris said, the comment half a question.

                His eyes raised, and looked at him, staring directly at him.  “I was born blind… yes,” he agreed, and his gaze flicked back to the fire.  “I thank the Maker I’m a mage; else, I’d never be able to see.”                “I hope that consoles you when a demon falls upon your soul,” Fenris said bitterly, his words dripping venom.

                But Shai, curiously, said nothing at all.  And he continued to say nothing for the rest of the night.  As they may be being hunted, they decided to stand watch.  Fenris took the first watch, but before Shai rolled over to sleep, he said, in a quiet voice that he had to strain to hear, “We can all be only who we are, Fenris.  Nothing more… and nothing less—my grandmother used to tell me that, before she died.  I’m a mage, and half-elven, half-human, bastard-born, and I’m blind.  What are you?”

                Before Fenris could think of a reply, he rolled over, and either instantly fell asleep or pretended to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maker, I kill almost as many characters as George R.R. Martin! RIP, Zekiel, you were fun.
> 
> In regards to Shai and Fenris' relationship: Fenris' betrayal is all the worse because Shai looked up to and even idolized Fenris. They were even starting to bond. Kid is going to have some serious trust issues when he's older.
> 
> I just looked at the chapter number. 70 chapters!? And only this far? Oh, Andraste's Holy Underpants, this is the longest fanfic ever.


	71. A Grave for Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter in which Fenris is sorrowful about his recent deeds, and Shaislyn gives up hope for his family.

When Fenris woke the next morning, Shaislyn was gone.  Strangely, he was unsurprised.  Shai didn’t trust him any more—and why should he?

                The half-elf had neatly cleaned up the camp before he had gone, as a precaution, as they could be being chased.  Fenris was not so certain they were though; Danarius had been injured, and his retainers would no doubt decide that the magister’s safety was more important than one slave.

                So, he knew he had a reprieve—for a while at least.

                He stopped to look out over the cliff.  He could see the northern sea in the distance.  Par Vallen was somewhere that way, Zekiel had told him… before he had killed him.

                It had been three days since then.  The elf was half-starved.  He had no idea how to hunt or trap—just a few things that Ashaad had told him when he went with him to check the traps and the fishing line.  He could go back to the Fog Warriors, to Shavalis.  Beg their forgiveness, explain what had happened.  The most appalling part in it was that he knew that they would understand, and for that alone did he never want to see them again.  He needed to leave Seheron.  He knew he couldn’t survive on his own in the wilderness and above all, he didn’t want to die.

                He knew he could always crawl back to Danarius, apologize.  His master would be angry, and reprimand him, maybe punish him, but the magister had always thought him too valuable to simply be rid of.

                _Well_ , he thought with some sarcasm.  _At least there’s always one person in the world who wants me._

                How could he get out of Seheron though?  With the last Tevinter outpost in ruins, for the time being at least, there weren’t any docks, besides the Qunari ones and he was not so certain that the Qunari would treat him much differently than they did their mages.  No trading vessels, nothing that he was aware of.  Of course, he’d never know until he looked.

                As he walked, heading for the coast, determined to walk along it until he found a way out of Seheron—that wasn’t in chains—he thought.  There was little else to do.  Sometimes, he thought about how hungry he was, how he decided that he hated walking, and hated the unwelcoming wilderness.  Other times, he wondered if Shaislyn had gone back to Shavalis, and he cringed at the thought of the child telling the Fog Warriors what had happened.

                But Shai had never wanted to stay there.  He was a child, city-raised.  If Fenris stood little chance to survive out here, what odds did that child have?  _He’s a mage_ , he reminded himself.  _He’ll be fine_.  He wasn’t too sure.  He had overheard plenty of conversations about children coming into their magic.  Hadriana and Danarius had had a spirited conversation about the things they had broken before they were “diagnosed” with magery.

                Children, he had concluded from this conversation, had little control over their own power.  He didn’t know Shaislyn’s abilities in the least.  Maybe the child knew enough to stay alive.  But maybe he didn’t.

                _Should I try to find him?_

Indecision weighed heavily on the elf’s mind.  He finally decided that, in addition to knowing nothing of hunting, he also knew nothing of tracking, and it would be useless to look.  It wouldn’t be like finding Annalkylie in the wood.

                Besides, he had enough trouble avoiding Qunari of all sorts, Imperials, and outlaws and he didn’t need to add looking for a lost child who probably hated him to the mix.  Seheron was nothing but a war-torn misery for anyone who wasn’t a soldier.  He came across the odd farming village.  The people there were so wary of travelers that even a lone traveler they eyed with great suspicion.

                “A scout?” a woman demanded, then noticed his ears and eyes.  “Or a runaway slave?  Go back to the Imperials.”  She crossed her arms, her scowl alone enough to make him pause.  “You’ll find no help here.”

                He started to object, and say that he was only passing through, but a graying man spoke up.  “Mayhap—pardon my wife—are you a mercenary?”

                The elf paused in momentary thought.  That was the perfect reason that he was armed, armored, and alone.  “Yes,” he lied with an ease he didn’t realize he had.  But he could not bring himself to meet their eyes, even after all this time away from Danarius.

                The woman’s demeanor changed abruptly.  “A mercenary?”  She appraised him, and Fenris was quite aware that he was covered in soil and dried blood.  “Looks to be a vagabond more like.”  But this time her scowl was the friendly sort.  “Still.  Might be, we can work something out.”  
                Fenris blinked.  What?  What did…?  He suddenly felt silly for wondering, even for a brief moment.  Mercenary work.  “What did you have in mind?” he inquired.  Actually, this was perfect.  Hours of listening to Danarius and the Magisterium complain about rates of gold, inflation, cost of this or that—maybe that would turn out to be useful after all.

                The man pointed down the road.  “There’s an abandoned mill down the road about two miles from here.  Band of ruffians—I don’t think more than six—they’ve been causing trouble, and stealing and ruining our crops.”  The man sighed.  “We’ve got no money to spare, but you look hungry, and we have food.”

                The elf considered.  “Do you require proof of this deed?”

                The man nodded once.  “They broke into the house one night.  Stole my hunting bow.  If you brought it back, I’d trust you did the deed.”

                It barely required any thought.  “Consider it done.”  The elf marched down the road in the direction indicated.  It led away from the coast, but that wasn’t so bad.  Maybe the ruffians would have coin, even if the farmers didn’t.  A mile down the road, a flutter of wings caught his attention.  He turned in time to see a crow land on a gallows, its lone inhabitant rotted to a husk.

                Curiously, the crow did not peck at the corpse.  The winged messenger of death seemed to be judging him as he passed, staring intensely.  It was unnerving, but it was only a bird.  He passed it by, and it cawed once, and took off again, into the sky.  When he glanced up, he saw it making lazy circles in the sky, barely visible through the fog.

                He looked back at the road.  He came upon the abandoned mill—which was more like a crumbling ruin, to be honest.  There was one dozing sentry, and for that they all died quickly.  Fenris found what must be the bow the man had mentioned.  It was yew.  It didn’t have the same marks as Zekiel’s but…

                Fenris felt sick, and not just from the hunger.

                He sat down heavily in one of the wobbly stools, and looked at the bow in his hands.  He did not weep.  He had killed people who were becoming his friends—the first and only ones he could remember having.  What kind of person did something like that?

                Shaislyn had called him a monster.  He felt like one.  _What have I done?_

                They hadn’t wanted to turn him over to Danarius.  They would have stood and fought with him.  So why had he done that?  Why would anyone do something like that?

                But he _had_.  It hurt so much that he had.  If he could not disobey Danarius…  All he had ever known was obedience, though.  The worst part was that his master had known it.  He had been so confident when he had told Fenris to kill the Fog Warriors.  So sickeningly confident.  _Will I always be his slave?_

                The sound of a footstep made Fenris jump, and turn toward what he assumed was a new threat.  Shaislyn stood in the doorway, and the elf sat back down.

                The child said not one word, but walked to the table, and set something down on it beside Fenris.  The elf did not turn and look at it until the boy had begun to walk away.

                It was the little wolf carving.  He had left the halla at the mansion, but brought the wolf carving to Seheron—he couldn’t say why exactly, but was glad that he had.  He had thought it was lost days ago, during the fight.

                “Where did you find it?” Fenris asked him, reaching toward it.

                Shai turned around, gazing at him critically.  “I’m smarter than you,” he said matter-of-factly.  “I went back to see what the Imperials were up to.”  He shrugged.  “I found this.”  He paused.  “I saw you look at it once—I knew it was yours.”

                Fenris frowned, looking at the tiny carving.  “How did you find me here?”

                The boy was silent for a moment.  “I saw you come inside.”  He frowned.  “No one looks like you, Fenris.  I couldn’t be mistaken, even… from a distance.”

                “Did you go to Shavalis?”  Fenris felt he had to know.

                The boy shook his head.  “No.  They’ll never know—from me anyway.”  He looked at him.  “You could always lie to them.”

                The thought made the deed all the worse, and the elf looked at the bow this time, and could think of nothing to say in reply.  When he looked up again, the half-elf was gone.

 

                Fenris was looking for a way out of Seheron, Shaislyn was certain.  So was he.  He wanted to find a way out, and a part of him wanted to help the elf, but another part of him would always despise Fenris.

                How could he not?  All those people…  They had been _friends_.  They had done nothing but help him—both of them.  And…

                It was too awful to bear thinking about.

                The little carving had fallen out sometime during the fighting.  Shaislyn had found it, lying by itself, or he never would have seen it.

                Crows, he was finding, were common everywhere and no one thought twice about his presence when he watched them.  By himself, he looked stranger, but only just so.  It was also easy to watch other animals.

                All animals, he found, had souls—souls he had to learn to copy.  That wasn’t to say that he had given up eating meat because of this.  Rather, he saw it as the natural cycle of life, so long as he took only what he needed and wasted nothing.  Even if he did not eat the guts from a rabbit he killed, he left them out for other creatures that would.  As a bird, he saw nothing wrong with eating that which birds normally ate—worms and carrion, namely.  As a person, such a thing would disgust him.  But as a bird, it was only what was natural.  If he were terribly averted to it, he could not shapeshift—of that he was certain.

                He watched other animals in his forms, and began to learn new ones as time passed.  He searched for his mother, for Lura, and Vanessa but found none of them.  A month of flying, and searching, and he finally decided, with a heavy heart, that they must be dead.  He flew to a grassy glade he found on a lonely hill.  When he knew he was alone save for the natural things in the forest, he transformed back, and made three small graves.

                In one, he placed a seashell, for his mother had always gone to the sea and looked out at the waves when she was sad, and he had done the same.  In another, he placed three heavy stones, because Lura had always been the foundation of his life—telling him things others would keep hidden, and letting him explore when others would forbid it.  In the third, he buried an acorn, because Vanessa had, in so many ways, given him a new life, or tried to.

                In each grave lay a piece of himself—his hopes, his family, his chance at happiness.

                He left them there, knowing he would never return again.  But his life was forward, not back—he must look to the future to embrace it.  So he let go of his past, and sought something new.


	72. Promises and Waves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Fenris finds an old acquaintance who offers help, and he struggles with his beliefs--and his hatred.

            Lysander was at first alarmed when he saw the small note on the door to the shack he shared with his two sisters.  His heart hammered as he opened it, wondering what atrocity it was this time.  Were they raising the rent again?  They couldn’t afford it.  The thought made his eyes begin to water when all his grief bore down on him—they could barely make it as it was.  What else could they do?  He couldn’t get another place on such short notice.  They would be on the street again.  He just couldn’t do that to the girls.  He couldn’t.

            His throat dry, he read the letter, then reread it to make certain that he had not misinterpreted the words.  Danarius wanted something from him.  What did he want?

            He shoved the note into his pocket.  To fuck him again?  Lysander’s cheeks burned with shame at the memory, despite that it had been several moons ago.  The gold had been worth it, he tried to tell himself.  It had helped them so much.  He knew that if he could go back in time, he could only do it again.  They had needed the money… more than he had needed anything else.  Besides, one night was only a few hours, he told himself.  A few hours was all it was, and that was nothing at all, not really.

            Well, the magister could take his note and shove it.  Lysander didn’t care.

            And furthermore, Leto or Fenris or whatever his name was, he hoped, he prayed…  _Run, whoever you are.  Run, and never look back._

            He opened the door, and was immediately greeted by Issie running toward him.  The jovial little girl hugged his middle.  “I missed you,” she told him.  He had been gone for nearly two weeks.  He had left the girls what money he had, and gone to put down a riot in a neighboring town.

            “I missed you, little sister,” he told her, gently shutting the door.  “I brought some food.”  He held up the little sack, and the two girls both looked so hopeful.  He wished it could be more than what it was.  He walked to the small table and set the sackcloth bag down.  The girls were expectant, and probably hungry.  “Everyone’s favourite vegetable—cabbage.”  He plucked the slightly wilted head of cabbage from the bag and set it on the table.  The girls sighed, but seemed grateful for the food all the same.  He smiled.  “And a carrot.”  He removed the carrot—a little dry now, but still good.  Then he removed the potato, the package of beans and another package of rice, and saved the best piece for last—a single cut of ham.  Both the girl’s eyes widened, mouths watering at the prospect.  “Matilda—let’s make a soup,” he suggested.

            The girl nodded, and rose, reaching for her crutch.  She hobbled to the stove, and started a fire.  Every morning, Issie would go down to the docks and a few other districts, looking in the trash for anything they could use—often just scrap wood for firewood, but valuable to the siblings.  The best things she found were in the magister’s and the Archon’s trash, but Lysander knew from experience that those were the most difficult to get to so it didn’t happen very often.

            The winter had been a hard one for them, but they were still alive, and still together, and that was what was most important to Lysander.

            Issie helped prepare the food, and Lysander put away his sword, and sat down.  It was good to sit down after so long.  He had alternately walked and rode in the crowded wagon both ways, and it was nice just to get off his feet for a while and stretch.  He talked to Issie while she worked, and had her recite her lessons.

            When the soup was served, Lysander walked to his pack.  “I forgot to unpack,” he commented, as if to himself.  “Oh—how did that get in there?”  He lifted out a loaf of bread.  “What do we do with this?” he asked Issie.  “It’s a stole-away.”

            She giggled.  “We eat it,” she insisted.

            He looked at it, pretended to sniff it.  “Nah—this is a rock.  We can’t eat rocks.”

            Issie laughed again.  “It’s not a rock, silly.  It’s bread!”

            “It looks like a rock,” he argued.

            “It’s bread!” she cried.

            He shook his head.  “No, you can break bread in half.  You can’t do that with a rock—see?”  He broke a third of it off, and feigned incredulity.  “The rock broke!  Did you see that?”

            “That’s because it’s bread,” the girl said, as if exasperated.

            Matilda was smiling.  “Come, let’s eat rocks with our soup,” she teased.

            Issie scowled at both her older siblings.  “Bread isn’t rocks.”

            “Here’s your rock,” Lysander said, handing the bread to Issie.  “I named him ‘Fred.’”

            Issie made a face.  “You’re stupid,” she informed her siblings.  The other two laughed, and he broke the rest of the loaf in half.  He gave the larger half to Matilda, and sat down on the uneven stool.  Issie sat on the bench with Matilda.

            Lysander spent most of the meal trying to get Issie to look the other way while he snuck bits of pork into her soup.  Matilda watched him, and gave him pained expressions as he did, but he only looked back at her sadly.  When Issie looked back at him, he made sure to smile, and told her to keep eating.  “I want to see the bottom of the bowl,” he told her, sopping up some of the broth with his bread.  But he knew they were all so hungry that his sister refusing to eat would never happen.

            He got a bucket of water to wash the dishes in, and Issie helped to dry them.  Lysander had spent too many nights watching those girls go to bed hungry.  He almost couldn’t bear it.

            He thought of the note again, and knew he had enough money not to worry about that for a while.  He took Issie with him to the market, and a boy there called her a ragamuffin, and made her cry.  “Don’t listen to him,” he told her, wiping the tears from her cheeks.  “He’s just a stupid boy.  His head is probably filled with rocks.”

            She tried to smile.  “Are they named ‘Fred’?” she asked her brother, hugging him fiercely.

            He hugged her back.  “No.  Just ‘Stupid’ and ‘Dumb’.”

            He heard her give a muffled laugh, but it died quickly.  He took her back to the stalls, and haggled over prices while she waited.  Why was everything so expensive?  It felt like he had gotten nothing at all, and paid so much.  He knew it wasn’t really that much he had paid, but he had such little money that it felt like more.  As he haggled, he saw Issie wander away out of the corner of his eye, which was fine.

            He found her again when he finished, and she was looking at a smiling doll in a blue dress, with shiny button eyes.  He wanted to get it for her, but he knew that the food was more important, but she looked at that doll with such longing in her eyes that it made his heart break.  There were other dolls at the cart, and stuffed animals, a wooden soldier, puppets, and other children’s toys, but Issie had always loved dolls best.

            She looked back at her brother, and the longing was gone.  No, not gone—just hidden away, where she didn’t want her brother to see it.  “Are we ready to go?”

            “Yeah,” he said, looking back at the doll, and bit his lip.  He asked the merchant, “How much for the doll?”  He pointed.

            The merchant barely glanced at it.  “Eight silvers,” he answered.

            “Ly, it’s okay,” Issie said insistently.  “I don’t need it.”

            Lysander bit his lip, his heart wrenching when he heard her say that.  What child says that about a toy?  When he had gone with his father to the market as a child, he had thrown tantrums and insisted he had to have a toy every time they had gone.  Issie should never have had to live like this.  He reached into his pocket, and Issie grabbed his wrist.  “No, Ly, we need that money.  Don’t.”  She hugged him.  “All I need is you.  You and Mattie.”

            He touched her hair, and tried to smile, but stared back at the doll, and thought about the note from the magister.

 

            Miller’s Ridge was a little husk of a town, named after its flourmill.  The people there were war-torn and haggard, always suspicious of outsiders, like all the rest, but this one was worse off than others.  Parts of the town had burned in the war, fields had been destroyed, people had been killed or captured.  They had reason to be wary.  Any time a stranger came to town, even a lone one, the adults would look on with suspicion, and keep their children close.

            It was easy for Fenris to tell when a stranger drew near, because all the people would grow quiet.  He heard a lone dog bark, before it hushed.

            He had been staying in a half-burned hut over the winter months.  A couple of the villagers had helped him make a windbreak on the burned half, and in exchange for food and shelter, he would protect them from wolves, bears, and at their behest kill off any Qunari that may be spotted.  That last one was bitter to him, but he saw little options for himself.  Spring was almost upon them, and he knew it was approaching time for him to move on, before he had outstayed his welcome.

            When he could not make himself useful by killing or driving things off, he helped with more busy work—repairing walls and things like that.  Most of the people wouldn’t get too close to him, because of the lyrium, and others were outright rude to him, because he was an elf.  He also had come there not knowing how to do any such thing, but it turns out most of it wasn’t very difficult.

            Their distance he was accustomed to, and to a degree, he was used to the bit of racism as well.  But he had never experienced some of the things they would say when they thought he didn’t hear them:  The racial slurs, the remarks—even hatred.  And much of it to his face too, for that matter.

            At first, it had shocked him, before he realized that it had always been like that.  Living as a slave, he had been somewhat sheltered, to a degree.  No one would have dared say such things to his master’s prized pet, not when Danarius was nearby anyway, so he simply wasn’t prepared for how often such things would happen.

            He stood up to inspect the stranger, and touched the hilt of his sword briefly as he considered.  He walked to the side of the road warily, listening to the steady clop of a horse’s hooves.  Horses were always trouble.  The Imperials had horses, and he had to hide from them.  It could be a farmer, but he didn’t hear a cart to accompany the horse.  He heard a second set of hooves, and amended that to two horses.  Two horses, but no cart.  Scouts, maybe.  He hid behind a partially finished wall, crouched, and waited for the horses to pass.

            He had been half-right, at least, he saw as the animals made their way past him.  A horse, and a mule, laden with supplies.  On the saddle of the horse perched a hunting hawk, restless on its perch.  He thought he must be seeing things at first, when he saw the rider.

            He straightened, eyes wide with disbelief.  She had cut off her mop of blonde curls, but he was certain that was Annalkylie.

            “My lady?” he heard himself say, falling back into old habits as easily as if they had never left him.

            Her back straightened, rigid.  Blue eyes were open wide as she cast around wildly, and then spotted him.  “Fenris,” she gasped.  Terror arced through her eyes, but not at the sight of him—merely what his presence would have ordinarily meant.  “Where’s my uncle?”

            The elf’s brow drew down in suspicion, and he debated on whether or not to tell the truth.  Instead, he reached out, around the wall, and snatched her horse’s bit, to keep her from bolting before he had discovered the truth of what was going on.  “It would relieve a great many people to know that you are well, my lady,” he said evasively as he awkwardly stepped over the wall.

            She had gone ghost-pale, and she tried to pull back on the reigns, but Fenris would not let go.  The horse tried to jerk away, anxious with its rider pulling on its reigns, but the elf held fast.  “Fenris, please,” she begged him.  “Let me go.  Don’t tell my uncle I was here—just let me go!”  Her eyes watered.  “Please.”

            “Where are you going?” he asked suddenly.

            She blinked, and hesitated, but he kept a grip on the bit.  She looked around the village, but no one was watching.  No one had even come outside since she had passed.  She swung out of the saddle, the leathers creaking.  She approached him, and looked angry enough to strike him for a moment, but she was not her uncle nor his apprentice.  Rather, she crossed her arms indignantly.  Frustrated, she replied, “I’m boarding a ship for the mainland.  They’re meeting me.”

            Fenris hesitated.  “I ran away from Danarius,” he said, glancing away.

            A grin suddenly broke out across her face.  She let out a cry of glee, and threw her arms around his neck, hugging him fiercely.  She held him out at arms’ length.  He tolerated this treatment the way most people tolerated a trip to the doctor:  With little choice.  “I’m so happy for you,” she told him, and it seemed genuine.  “Tell me—are you having a hard time on your own?  Is there anything I can do to help you?”

            He started to say no, then frowned in thought.  “You could get me out of Seheron.”

            Her arms dropped to her sides, and she bit her lip in thought.  “I…”  She was studying him, the lyrium.  “There’ll be a bounty on your head.”  There always was for escaped slaves.  “And you can’t hide.”  She bit her lip, trying to decide, then nodded once.  “Yes—I think so.  Or, rather, I can bribe the lyrium smugglers to look the other way when you stole away on the ship.”

            His eyebrows arched in surprise.  “Lyrium smugglers?” he demanded in a low whisper.

            She shrugged a shoulder.  “Dwarves.  They’re using Seheron as a cache.  There’s an entrance to the Deep Roads in the bay, and…”  She shrugged again.  “They took my bribes.”  She grinned.  “Besides, you’ll fit right in with their wares, won’t you?” she teased.  She glanced up at the sky.  “We had better get going.  You’ll have to walk, I’m afraid,” she added, and swung back into the saddle with ease.  He let go of the bit, and walked beside the horse.

            Annalkylie explained that it was a two days’ ride from here to the bay, and they might find darkspawn along the way.  Fenris commented that he had seen the scattered creatures recently.

            “Don’t let them touch you,” she reminded him.  “They’re contagious, and I think you have enough problems.”

            He wanted to laugh; he really did.  It just wasn’t that funny, given everything.

 

            “You’d save more money if you bought me,” the whore said, looking at the elf coyly.  “As opposed to rent me for a while.”

            “Owning a slave is too much responsibility for me,” he said, lips curved into something like a smile.  “Feeding you, clothing you, keeping you…”  He counted off the list on his fingers and shook his head.  “I’d rather rent you and let someone else deal with you in the meantime.”

            The slave laughed gently, as if deeply amused.  Why not?  He had never known anything but slavery.  He probably didn’t even realize why this was so wrong.  “I’m certain you’ve paid for me several times over.  Just come let me live in your villa,” he purred.

            Aramael arched an eyebrow.  “What makes you think I have one of those?”

            The man blinked.  “Everyone…  Everyone talks about how much the magisters pay you for… what you do.”  His brow furrowed when the other stared at him inquisitively.  “So…  Surely…”

            Aramael shook his head.  “I’ll see you again—in a couple of days maybe,” he promised him, and left in a handful of heartbeats later.  Aramael stared down at the floor as he passed by, carefully keeping his head down around any humans.  He wasn’t a slave who had to, nor a poor, starving elf from the alienage who must by social graces, but it was easier than risking conflict.  It drew less suspicion and fewer eyes.

            As he passed the desk by the front door, the haggard old woman cleared her throat noisily.  He glanced back at her.  The smoke from the lanterns and candles clung about the ceiling, lending the room a musty yet somehow comforting odor.  “You were late,” she said, tapping her fingers noisily on the desk.

            “Does Eiril have another appointment?” he inquired dubiously.

            The woman’s near-toothless mouth twisted into a dissatisfied frown.  “Not tonight,” she admitted.

            Aramael nodded understandingly.  “I will not make a habit of it.  I apologize.”

            “See that you don’t,” she said snidely.  He nodded, and slipped out the door, pulling his hood up as he did.  He glanced at the position of the stars and the moon, and headed down to the docks.  A man there pretended to bump into him as he passed, pushing something against his hand, hidden by his cloak.  Aramael took it, and the two brushed away.  He changed course, back up to the market district, taking a meandering path.  A man around the street corner, Aramael bumped into, slipping a small pouch into his hand as he hurried past.  Transaction complete, he changed course, heading back for the richer district.

            The next drop he made was to a servant, who tipped his hat to him, and pretended to drop something, and then walked on.  Aramael scooped up the payment from the street, and headed toward his final destination of the evening, a gleam in his silver eyes like polished steel.

            It had taken so many years, but he had finally tracked down the last of the hunters that had destroyed his clan.  He had been systematically murdering them for eight years, ever since he had heard a man at a bar boasting to a serving wench about killing Dalish.  The man had died quickly—a sharp stab in the kidneys, a bit of a twist of the blade, and the elf had vanished out the window like a wisp, leaving less than a trace of his passing.

            He kept a tally and a list of them.  Some digging in the Imperial bounty offices had produced the records but part of them were missing.  Upon reading the conditions of it, he was angry, but they had never been instructed to murder every last elf in the clan.  The bounty hunters had only wanted the one girl, one the Imperials called a runaway slave, and the Dalish, of course, had refused.

            He woke every morning in a cold sweat.  The only dreams he ever had were of watching, too scared to try to help, as his clan was destroyed.  He dreamt of the evening that he buried them, one by one as the rain came down, turning the ground to mud.  Sometimes, he dreamt that he couldn’t dig and the mud just kept sliding back into place.  Other times, he dreamt that the dead spoke to him as he buried them.  Sometimes, he buried himself in those dreams.  He liked to imagine that once all of the bounty hunters were dead, that his nightmares would end.

            He had left the Imperial hunters to rot after dragging their carcasses a distance away in a heap.  All the halla had either scattered or been killed, but as he had knelt in the mud in the afternoon light, exhausted after digging so many graves, one of the white creatures had come limping from the forest.  It had a crossbow bolt buried deep in its haunches, and its flanks were soaked with the blood.  It was dying, he could see that at a glance, but it limped to him anyway, and lay down beside him.  The creature was the only one to offer him any comfort at all, though he prayed to his gods for deliverance.  Rather, the halla had died there too.

            He walked down the lonely streets, back down to the nastier parts of Minrathous, where he waited, and watched, and was mistaken for a whore more than once—which was irritating, but it gave him an opportunity to pickpocket the men who strayed too close.

            When his mark passed down the alley, flanked by two male companions, and a whore at his side, he stood and watched.  The men were talking and laughing, the woman making agreeable noises and tracing her hand lightly along his arm.  They retired at a nearby inn, and Aramael watched and listened, and crept closer.  He heard them talking through the thin walls—heard footsteps, and when he waited long enough, the sounds of rutting, the woman making well-feigned moans.

            Aramael was patient, and waited, sitting as if a beggar that no one paid any attention to.  He waited until he was more certain, and moved unhurriedly to the nearby warehouse.  He scrambled to the roof of it, and its slate roof nearly touched the roof of the inn.  He hopped over, walking quietly.  He found the right window, and listened to the sounds, knowing the whore was trying to rouse him again.  Aramael waited until he heard the appropriate sound, then gripped the roof solidly in his strong fingers, and lowered himself down.  He touched his bare toes to the windowsill, and slowly lowered his weight onto it.  He crouched for a moment, and slipped inside.  The pair were so engaged in fucking that they did not see the stranger in the room.

            He moved with the stealth of a shadow, creeping on bare feet.  His dagger flashed but once, stabbing the man in the kidneys as he thrust into the whore.  The Dalish twisted the blade sharply.  It was so painful that the man could not even scream to warn the whore.  In fact, her eyes were closed, and she had been moaning so loudly that she had not noticed.  The Dalish pulled back the blade, and went to the window, counting the seconds until she realized what had happened.

            By the time he heard her scream, he was strolling down the alley, almost happy enough to be whistling.  He paid his innkeep for the night, and the man gave him a small stack of letters.

            Aramael opened them once he was back in his room, the window barred, every corner checked, the door locked and barred.  The first two were contracts.  He had made quite a name for himself in the past several years.  In fact… he wondered if _he_ wasn’t half the reason people thought of Dalish as being thieves and murderers.  But he doubted that, as much as he would like to think that.  He had learned long ago how to hide his accent.  He had been too young to be tattooed too.  In fact, people only called him “Dalish” anymore because of the wooden rings he gave to new contracts as the means of which they could identify him.  The ones that did not destroy the rings when he asked it of them were also the ones he had to be careful of.  He was reminded of a story he had heard as a child about a girl with a necklace of pearls, and how one by one the pearls had been destroyed because of the carelessness of others.  His was somewhat the opposite, but the same ends.

            The third was that the man making his new daggers had finished the work, and the fourth…  The fourth seemed to be a contract, but it was sketchy on the details.  He frowned.  Worth looking into, though, considering the sum offered.

            The next day, he took care of a contract, did some pickpocketing, and met with one of his potential clients and agreed to the task.  The other, he met with and rejected immediately without giving cause—something he was well-known for.  He made sure to reject a wide variety of different contracts, so as never to draw attention to one thing or another, but this one was too political for his taste.  On his way to a potential client, he picked up the daggers—truth be told, almost swords.  He inspected the blades, balancing them and looking for any kind of flaws.  The blades had the bluish, wavy look of steel folded many times over—a mark of good craftsmanship.  The maker had left his mark on the base of the blade—an elegantly crafted signature disguised in a burning hammer.  The hilts of each were fantastical beasts.  On one, the hilt was crafted into a white dragon, its wings fanned to form the crossguard, its eyes two small rubies like drops of blood.  The blade was as pale as steel would become, and the other its twin in every way—save that it was a black griffin with eyes of blue sapphire, its blade just as dark.  They were all he had left of his clan.

            He paid the man and sold the old daggers, which were in fact new, actually.  Really, he had just been putting new blades on these.  These were the ones he had had with him when his clan was destroyed.  The bow had broken years ago—something he had always lamented.  If he had been able to find his father’s bow after the killing, it would have been more of a tragedy though.

            Whoever had taken it after the slaughter, Aramael had never found it, and he was reasonably certain that he had killed the last of them last night, so whatever happened, they must have either destroyed it or sold it.  Probably sold it—a bow like that would have been expensive.

            He strolled up to the manor and the servant at the gate let him in.  He sauntered inside, and was half-tempted to leave mud tracked all over, but that was petty and anyway, it was the slaves who would have to deal with it, so he resisted the urge.

            He swiped his feet on a carpet, and trotted after the servant who was showing him to the master of the house.  The magister received him in a well-lit study, but rather than candles or fire, there was that odd bluish glow that could only be magic.  Probably lit by some kind of mage-turned-slave.  He bristled a little at the thought, crossing his arms.  _Those elven slaves should be Keepers._   When offered to sit, he refused, and stared at the magister reproachfully until the man spoke.

            “Shall we skip the pleasantries and get right to business?” he said.  The elf inclined his head in the affirmative but made no move to speak.  Aramael disliked pleasantries with the wealthy.  “I find I have need of your assistance again, Aramael.”  The magister’s pale blue eyes seemed to bore into his skull.  “But I am willing to triple your usual pay.”

            The elf raised an eyebrow skeptically.  “What do you want?” he said, making his tone more amiable than he felt like being, for the sake of avoiding conflict.  Their exchange was in Tevene, and the elf had become quite fluent in the language.

            “You don’t need to fake that Tevinter accent with me, Aramael.  I know very well where you’re from,” the magister purred.

The Dalish raised an eyebrow.  “What.  Do.  You.  Want.”  His tone was testy, but held traces of his true accent.

The man tapped his finger against his desk.  The elf peered at it, realizing it was a map.  “I’d like you to recover a piece of lost property.”

            “Lost or stolen?” Aramael asked immediately, dropping back to his feigned accent that had become so much a second nature—so much so that he feared he may lose the Dalish one completely one day.

            “Both.  Neither,” the other said with a despairing shrug.  “It’s complicated.”

            Aramael frowned, suspicion lurking in his mind.  “Of what nature is this ‘item’?”

            “Not an item,” the magister said, leaving the rest unsaid.

            The elf’s eyes narrowed, and he jerked away from the table.  His fingers clenched, angry at the wasted time, and that the man would dare to ask, furthermore.  “Good day, serrah,” he said, his tone very much conveying the “fuck you” he wanted to say.  The elf turned on his heel, and started to go.

            “I thought you would refuse,” Danarius commented.

            The elf was ready to spit venom, his fingers clenched so tightly that it hurt.  He really would like all the magisters to simply stop being alive.  “You could never give me enough gold to be a slaver,” he hissed, his accent very apparent in his anger.

            The magister had the audacity to laugh.  The Dalish began to walk away, but the magister said quickly, “I have something that might interest you more than gold.”

            The Dalish whirled around, prepared to say something slanderous, but his words died on his lips.  His lips parted, and he tried to say something, and found he couldn’t.  He was drawn to it like a moth to a flame, and it was just as dangerous.  He held his hands out reverently, and the magister let him inspect the bow.  The finely oiled yew, the halla horn, the double curve and the twin dragons on either side, whose mouths would hold the bowstring if it were strung—a 175 pound draw (which was more than Aramael weighed), and the longbow nearly as tall as he was.  The arrows it would hold were practically spears.

            “Where did you get this?” he whispered, and might have stolen it, except that the magister took it away promptly, and set it back in its case.  He flipped the lid closed casually, but left the lock untended.  Aramael stared at the case, feeling numb.

            “I bought it off of one of my hunters,” he said matter-of-factly.

            Aramael’s eyes narrowed.  Who had hired the hunters had been eradicated from the files.  He had not been able to learn who it was, but now he felt like he knew.  “You had all of my clan murdered.”

            He shook his head.  “No.  I never gave that order.  You’ve read the contracts, haven’t you?  Where in there does it say, specifically, to kill all of the Dalish protecting that one girl?”

            Aramael’s steely gaze flicked back to him.  “Just to use whatever means necessary to obtain her.”

            He nodded agreeably.  “And I would have been quite content to leave you all in peace, but you wouldn’t hand her over, would you?”  He “tsked” and shook his head.  Aramael’s stomach tightened.  Danarius glanced once at the case.  “I’ll give it to you.  Help my hunters locate my lost property—and catch him.  Deliver him to me, alive or dead, and I’ll give you the bow.”

            It was the hardest thing Aramael had ever done, but he said, “I won’t do that to another person for a piece of wood.”

            Danarius looked nothing short of bemused.  “Would you do it for another Dalish?”

            Aramael blinked.  “What?” he whispered.

            He inclined his head toward the case.  “The bow, and I’ll tell you where to find the only other surviving member of your clan.  She’s a slave, but her master owes me a favor.  Is _that_ worth it to you?”

            His eyes narrowed.  “All that is very expensive, especially if you’re funding this expedition.  Now, tell me; why am I so important?”

            The magister shrugged.  “I’ll be able to trust you, seeing as I have something you want more than the money.”  A brief pause.  “And, quite simply, you’re the best at your trade.”

            Aramael stared at the case for a long moment.  “How can I believe you?” he said softly.

            Danarius looked at him.  “Trust; it’s what business partners must do.  I will trust you to help guide my men, and you must trust me with this.”

            Aramael left later that night, and went to Eiril earlier than he had planned, just to be with someone else for a while.  He went back to his bed at the inn, and cried himself to sleep where he could wander in his nightmares, for he had become the monster he hated the most:  He had signed the contract.

 

            Fenris made terrible company, Kylie reflected with some amusement.  He couldn’t carry on a conversation if it killed him, and he would answer things in one-word sentences that really required more of an explanation.  She had not asked him anything too important in the day and night since they had been traveling together, but she was worried about the answers to her more serious questions.

            From the elf, she garnered that he had run away, and been running for several months now, though was oddly reluctant to talk about the first three months.  Maybe it was personal—she didn’t know and he wouldn’t talk about it.  He didn’t even refuse, he just said there was nothing to talk about.

She was free enough with what she had been doing.  She had a little hideaway in the mountains, and had been living there by herself for some time.  She had snuck out of the city with two horses and a satchel of gold—and her hawk.  One of the horses had broken a leg, and had to be put down, but she had managed to buy a mule, which were surer of foot and better for packing anyway.  She had decided to lay low until after the winter had passed, and sneak out of Seheron with the smugglers.  It was risky business—the smugglers could simply turn her in to the magisters and there would be little she could do about it.  She actually felt better bringing Fenris with her.  She wasn’t sure if the elf could be relied on, if it came right down to it.  But, fact of the matter, if they were going to turn her in, they’d turn in the elf too—so at least they had a common desire:  Stay out of the Imperium.

There was one question that she had to ask, whose answer she dreaded.  But she had to know the answer, no matter the emotional toll it might take.

            “Did my family make it?” Kylie asked, her heart pounding with fear of the elf’s answer.  “I worry about them every day.”

            Fenris paused, frowning.  “Yes,” he answered quietly.  She detected a note of suspicion in his voice.  “But where were you when the city caught fire?”

            The elf had no doubt been wondering at the answer to his dreaded question since he had joined her the day before.  Kylie fell silent for a moment.  “Running, same as everyone else.  I just… got lost in the chaos.”  It wasn’t exactly a lie.

            He stared at her out of the corner of his eye.  Suddenly, he stopped walking.  She looked back at him.  She knew by looking at him that the pieces had fallen together in his mind, and she wanted to hide.  There was nowhere to hide from his accusing gaze.  “You…” he whispered.  “You switched places with your guard.”  She saw rage enter his eyes.  “You opened the gates to the Qunari!”  Blessedly, there was no one else around for miles.

            She was taken aback.  “I…  It freed you, Fenris,” she objected, more to his rage than to his words.  “It freed every slave in the city.  It gave all those elves in the alienage a better life.  If the Maker were good, the magisters would have died.  Is any of that really so bad?  The magisters are evil—you’ve seen it yourself!”

            The lyrium flared to life with his anger, briefly, then he stormed past her, his temper barely controlled.  She hurried her horse after him.

            She should have stopped there.  She should have let it go, but she was angry too and she just couldn’t.  “You should thank me—not hate me.  What I did was—“

            He rounded on her so suddenly that she gasped in surprise, jerking the reigns back instinctively.  The horse stopped, tossing its head.  His temper was barely in check, and the glow from the lyrium made the horse back up in fear.  “’Thank you?’” he demanded.  “I should _kill you_.  You—You’re no better than the rest of the magisters!”

            Kylie was shocked.  “That’s not fair!” she cried.  “I never practiced blood magic.  I’ve never even seen a demon!”  She felt like she might cry.  He was one of the people she was trying to help, and he hated her.

            “Is there a difference?” he demanded, pointing in the direction of the city.  “How many people died that night for your freedom?”

            Her eyes welled with unshed tears.  “How many people in the future will die for yours?” she asked him, her voice barely above a whisper.

            He fell silent, and took a step back.  Slowly, the light from the lyrium, and his temper, receded with the cold truth.  “The people I kill for my freedom are the ones trying to take it from me.  Those people did nothing to you,” he argued.

            He was right, and that hurt more than anything else he could have said or did.  “I never meant…”

            “No, you didn’t.  You never even _thought_ about it,” he hissed lividly.  “All you ever thought about was your ‘freedom’.”

            Kylie blinked, and a tear rolled down her face.  She had tried…  She had thought…  It all seemed so foolish now.  So childish and stupid.  “I…”  She didn’t know what she intended to say, but he never gave her a chance.

            The lyrium was glowing again—bright enough to probably be seen from all around, especially if it were night.  Kylie was glad it wasn’t.  Her horse backed up again, and she was glad of it.  He had put his hand through a man’s chest and ripped out his heart.  Even through armor, and she in a deerskin jerkin.  All the magic in the world wouldn’t help her.  “I had always thought you were the best the mages in Tevinter had to offer.”  He took a step closer to her.  “I had thought that maybe, you could make a difference in the Imperium.  Make it better.”  He closed the distance between them, and she was rapidly aware of how very, very easy it would be for him to rip out her throat.  He stared up at her on her horse with a glower that made her feel like a child, and she felt very small suddenly.  “But you’re no better than they are.”

            With that, he turned, and marched away.  Another tear rolled down her cheek as she felt her heart break from the truth.  He was right.  He was right, and he was so angry.  She _had_ had a chance of making it better, and she had thrown it away.  Was she really no better than the maleficarum?  Was that what it all amounted to?  More than anything, she felt the sting of his disappointment… and even betrayal.  _Yes_ , she realized.  _Betrayal._   In a sense, the elf had trusted her to do one thing, and she had done another, and betrayed everyone she had ever known.

            “Would you rather be my uncle’s slave?” she called suddenly to him, and he stopped walking.  “Would you prefer to serve wine to the magisters?”  Her fingers curled into fists around the leather reigns.  “Would you prefer to stand at his side the rest of your life?”  Another tear rolled unchecked down her cheek, this one of hurt.  “Would you rather my uncle breed you like a horse, and treat you like a dog?”  She swallowed hard, her fingernails biting into her flesh.  “Would you rather have never tasted freedom, but a magister’s cock instead?”

            That last one stung, but he turned back to her nonetheless.  He stared at her, and she regretted saying it aloud, and suddenly grew suspicious of how much truth there had been to her words when she saw how much her words had stung.  “Lady Annalkylie.”  His voice was soft, but it carried.  “I would rather live the rest of my life as his slave… than know that hundreds of innocents died for the sake of my freedom.  _And so should you_.”

            With that, he turned, and continued walking.  Kylie felt like she had been slapped.  In fact, the slap would have been preferable.  She swiped at her eyes.  Why did the elf have to be right?  Why was it so selfish and terrible for her to be free?

 

            Lysander waited in the hall, and felt as out of place as he no doubt looked.  He stared downward, and someone escorted him to the office room where the magister sat, in a high-backed upholstered chair.  He had the look of a cat with cream as he watched Lysander enter the room.  The young man stopped a few feet from the desk, and waited for the servant to leave.  The door closed, and the mercenary looked up.

            He tossed the crumpled note onto the desk—creased and dirty after months of neglect.  “What do you want from me?” he asked, but he felt like he knew.

            Danarius smiled pleasantly.  “Sit down.  I have a business proposition for you, mercenary,” he told him.

            That made Lysander uneasy, but he sat anyway, and didn’t care how dirty the varnished chair became.  “I’m sitting.  Now what?” he said, and his nervousness must have showed.

            The magister regarded him for a moment as if from a lofty position.  “As you are no doubt aware, I have put out a bounty on my runaway slave,” he said.  His distaste for the situation was plain.  “And while there _are_ Imperial bounty hunters looking for my lost property, they are… somewhat less likely to find them than any I would hire directly.”

            Lysander blinked.  “You want to hire me to go after this slave of yours.”

            “You wouldn’t be alone,” he informed him immediately.  “I have a number of others I selected to hunt the boy down.  I can’t have him running about like this—he’s nothing but a danger to everyone.  Fenris can do a lot of damage by himself.  And if another mage were to study the process…”  He frowned.  “I’d rather see the elf dead than have him free.”

            The young man took a deep breath and released it slowly.  “All this for one elf?”

            “It’s more than that.  It’s a matter of my pride.”  He narrowed his eyes.  “And that elf is… valuable.”

            Lysander looked away, then back at Danarius.  “How is he dangerous?”

            Danarius snorted a laugh.  “He can put his fist through a man’s chest and rip out their heart.”

            The younger man stared at him, aghast.  That was no boast—he could tell by the other’s demeanor.  “What?”  That was also how Lysander’s father had died.

            The magister seemed bored.  “Fenris is also very skilled with the sword.  It will take…  Several hunters, I imagine, to subdue the lad.”  He frowned.  Lysander’s brow creased in thought.  _Fenris?_   Why was that name familiar?  “And a cage.  Drugs.  Probably manacles too.  I have some I think will hold him.”  He sighed.  “I’ve no way to test the theory, though.  I should have—years ago.”  He shook his head.  “I should have planned for this.”  The magister glanced away, and seemed to be lost in thought for a moment.  His gaze shifted back to Lysander.  “Understand I will pay you very well when my pet is returned to me.”

            His “pet”.  An elf who could wield a sword.  A slave.  Lysander had replaced someone, that awful night, and now he knew who he had replaced.  His fingers curled into angry fists, jaw clenched.  He shot to his feet.  “No!” he cried.  “That elf deserves to be free, after what you’ve done to him.”  His eyes watered in hurt, both for himself and for the elf he didn’t know.  That elf had endured so much…  He was finally free, and this man wanted to take it away from him.  His selfish pride would rather see the elf dead than free—there was no justice in that.  “And I hope you _never_ catch him.”  With that, Lysander turned and marched out the door.  He found his way back outside, and stomped angrily home.

 

            The smugglers haggled with Annalkylie about Fenris, and the elf, uninterested in listening to it after he discerned that they would allow him on the ship, wandered away.  He watched the dwarves stacking the boxes to and fro.  Not all of it was lyrium, of course—much of it was dwarven ale and bolts of silk—he wondered what else could be onboard.

            He looked out at the sea.  He didn’t even care where the ship was headed, only that it was _not here_.  It apparently had a few stops to make, and Kylie was getting off at one of the first—the Free Marches.  She had insisted to him that he could not call her “Annalkylie”.  She had said, “I left that name behind me, and it has to stay there.”  But it was difficult to call someone by a different name when he had always known her by another, even if it were a shortened form of her name.  She also blatantly refused to speak a word of Tevene, and only the Trade tongue, so he had plenty of time to practice it a bit more.  He was confident enough in the language, but it was still his second language.

            Last night by the fireside, she had said, “Kylie Gallus, from Vol Dorma.  She’s common-born and been an apostate all her life.”

            She had made a new life for herself, and a new name.  He wished he could do the same, but it wasn’t that easy.  She had spent years dreaming this up, planning and scheming.  He was thrust into it without any preparation or a clue as to what any of it would mean for him.

            The two had sort of an uneasy truce between them, after the incident yesterday.  Once, Fenris may have felt some regret over the things he had said, and making Kylie cry.  But he felt none of it.  Rather, he felt she deserved it, and more.

            Were all mages like this?  Were they _all_ corrupt, in one way or another?  He had felt like, if any mage was uncorrupt, it would be Kylie—but she was no better than the rest of them.  That betrayal had hurt more than he had thought possible, and had also been the single snowflake that had sent the mountain sliding down, as it were.  Kylie had already started down the slippery slope of sacrificing others for her own gain.  She had felt there was need enough, and she had acted.  What had happened to that frightened little girl clinging to his leg all those years ago?

            He thought briefly of Shaislyn, and a part of him—a small part—wanted to argue that not _all mages_ were corrupt, but the half-elf had been a child and already felt no qualms about lying to people, cheating, spying.  No, _all_ mages were corrupt.  _All_ of them deserved to die.  He had never met a mage that wasn’t corrupt.  He had never met a mage that wasn’t seduced by their own power in one way or another:  Danarius, Hadriana, all the magisters, Annalkylie, and Shaislyn— _all of them_.  They would all commit heinous acts for their freedom, for their power.  And many of them had.  For the child, it was only a matter of time--he knew it.

            He should have killed that child.  He should never have suffered a mage to live.  How many innocents would that boy destroy?  And was that Fenris’ fault, for not killing Shaislyn when he had the chance?

            He should kill Annalkylie, he knew that.  Even when he looked back at her, and she was walking toward him, looking pleased with herself.  He should run his sword through her chest, and end it now.  But he didn’t, because she smiled when she walked up to him, and all he could see was that five-year old girl looking up at him, clinging to his leg because she was afraid of wolves, and he couldn’t do it.  And he hated himself for his own weakness.

            “So.  I couldn’t get you a cabin, _but_ —“  She grinned.  Something he actually kind of liked about her, because it made it easier to be in her company, was that even though they both knew how ill-at-ease the other felt around each other, she still treated him as if there was no ill will between them.  “We can put together a bunk in the hold, and they agreed to just look the other way with you, Mr. Fugitive.”

            “I suppose I should thank you.”  He kept his demeanor amiable, but he still felt like his distaste for her was plain to see.

            “You should,” she agreed, cocking her head to the side, opting to ignore his aversion.  “It cost me quite a lot, actually.”  She sighed.  And he knew why she had done it.  He didn’t believe it was charity; Seheron was not that big a place, Danarius knew where he was, and it would really only be a matter of time before the magister found him again if he stayed—and he had seen Annalkylie.  That his interests and her interests aligned was simple chance.  “Oh, well.”  Then she brightened.  “The dwarves told me their route—asked me where I wanted to be dropped off.”  She grinned.  “Want to come with me?  Ferelden, maybe Orlais, Rivain?” 

            _So you can keep an eye on me and make sure I don’t betray you?_   “Rivain was hit pretty badly by the Qunari and parts of it are just dangerous to be, Orlesians hate Tevinters, and Ferelden is overrun with Blight right now, so I don’t recommend a vacation there.”

            She frowned.  “You think you’re so funny, don’t you?”  She crossed her arms.  “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

            He almost rolled his eyes.  “I left it in Minrathous—it’s likely to stay there, though you’re certainly welcome to go collect it.”

            “You never had any,” she accused him, correctly.  “The Anderfells then.  I hear the desert gets the most _beautiful_ sunrises.”

            “They’re a bunch of religious zealots.  I’ll pass,” he said, and started to walk away, but she walked beside him.

            “But the Free Marches will be _boring_.”

            She prattled on for a while longer about all the other places in the world he could go and see, and some of them even sounded tempting.  He was interested to learn of countries that caged their mages properly, and killed them when they got out of line.

            He wished he could find it in himself to kill Annalkylie, with her dimpled smile and sparkling blue eyes.  But…  He couldn’t.  It was a weakness that he needed to purge, and perhaps one day he could correct the mistake of letting her live.

            She continued on, oblivious to his inner musings, and that was for the best.

            The smugglers were leaving with the tide in the morning, and in the meantime, the pair camped out again.  Kylie said it spared her a bit more coin that way.  Her hawk caught a duck, and she feathered and gutted it, then put it on a spit to roast it—all of which surprised Fenris.  It was odd to see a would-be magister doing such a mundane chore.

            She used magic to light a fire, but that was all.  She had even helped gather firewood.  She was careful about turning the duck, and cooked it slowly over the fire.  The smell was enough to drive anyone insane with hunger, the sound of the fat sizzling and dripping on the embers tantalizing.

            After they had eaten, and the sky was growing dim, Kylie wandered off, and Fenris looked out at the stars, and the sea.  He watched the moons for a time, then up at the constellations.  Taggert had told him about them—some of them anyway.  Just things to remember, so that he knew directions at night, to keep from getting lost.  He felt like there was more to the stars than that…  They made pictures, stories…

            A cry of surprise and pain shattered his train of thought, and he jumped to his feet, casting about for whatever had made the cry.  He heard a muffled moan, and frowned.  “Annalkylie?” he called.

            “Here!” she answered.  He couldn’t see her, so he followed the sound of her voice.

            “Where are you?” he asked, mostly to get her talking again.

            “Up here!  Aw, fuck,” she cursed in a most un-ladylike manner.  “Ow!”  He found her sitting in a ditch, looking helpless.  It would be so easy to kill her.  “I think I sprained my ankle,” she whined.

            He sighed, and slid down into the ditch with her.  It would be so easy to plunge his hand into her chest and rip out her heart.  It would be so easy to tear out her throat.  So easy to take his blade and slide it between her ribs.  Instead, he extended his hand, and she took it.  He helped haul her up, and she stumbled, leaning heavily on one leg.  “Yep, sprained,” she complained.  She looked up the ditch, and groaned.

            “I can carry you,” he said, and before she could protest, he scooped her up.  She wasn’t as light as she looked, he reflected, but she wasn’t as heavy as his sword all the same.  He walked slowly and steadily up the slope.  He should kill her.  She was a mage, and he should kill her.  But he remembered the little girl, covered in mud to help the hornet’s stings, whimpering in pain.

            “You’re like the big brother I never had,” she laughed.  “Agasius would have made me walk—the bastard.”

            He accepted the distraction from his dark thoughts.  It was too hard to justify his own actions.  It was too damned difficult to rationalize what could not be rationalized.  Even if it felt right to kill mages, even if he felt they all deserved to die, or be caged in their Circles and watched by Templars…  Deep down, he thought of Kylie as a little girl, or if not that, then he thought of her giving food to the poor with a gracious smile.  He thought of that young woman almost weeping because the canary would not leave its cage.  And he couldn’t kill her.  He had watched this girl grow up, and he couldn’t do it.  She deserved to die.  She deserved to die for what she had done, for the people who had died that night.

            But she was right, too—and he was only free now to make that choice because of her rash actions.  He knew that.  He had to admit to that.  Her one mistake had been a blessing to himself personally, and to others too.

            He couldn’t forgive her, but he could see the small good it had done, and how she had changed the world around them—for good or ill, who could really say.  For that, he was resolved to let her live, for the time being.  He viewed it as a personal weakness.

            He set the young woman down before the fire.  She thanked him, and complained that she knew nothing of healing while she tightly bound her injured ankle in a long strip of cloth.

 

            The dwarf, Bastian, had fashioned Kylie a crutch, and she used it to limp about the ship.  She was determined not to let so small a thing get in her way, and for that, the dwarves respected her a bit more.  She watched the waves, and listened to the smuggler’s stories.  They had some great stories.

            The captain, who Kylie knew only as “Captain”, had some of the best stories she had ever heard:  Pirates, storms, a maelstrom, a ship running against rocks, being shipwrecked—everything she could imagine.  She felt like a child when she listened to his tales, her eyes grown wide with wonder and delight at the thrilling prospect of adventure and the unknown.

            She loved stories, but the time was drawing to a close when she had to be content to listen to them.  One day, she would be the one telling them.

 

            A storm had driven Kylie below decks, just in time for her ankle to be healed—which was annoying as well as a bit frightening.  Boredom had driven her to borrow a deck of cards from Bastian.  For a while, she played solitary card games, then went to find Fenris.  She badgered him into playing with her.  He didn’t know how to play, and she had to teach him what all the cards meant, and the rules of the games.

            It was strange though—many slaves played games like that, and when she commented on it, he reminded her that he had been very secluded from the other slaves.  That seemed, to Kylie, one of the cruelest things Danarius had done to Fenris—and there had been many cruel things he had done.  Denying a person even the possibility of companionship, condemning them to years of solitude and loneliness, was awful.  Even the worst of conditions can be tolerated so long as there is at least one other person to be called a friend.  Danarius had denied Fenris many things, but that was the worst thing he had done to him, and it broke her heart.  Fenris had not understood when she had cried for him.  It was all he had ever known.

            The storm lasted all day, and well into the night.  Kylie could scarcely sleep.  If the ship sunk…  If it overturned, all her adventures were over before they had truly begun.  But the smugglers were experienced, and the ship did not sink.

            But she wasn’t entirely wrong to be so nervous, she found, because many of the experienced sailors seemed in much higher spirits and greatly relieved.  Bastian had a lute, and played a lively tune in the evening.  Ale flowed, and Kylie was delighted to watch the revelry, even if she felt a stranger to it.  She drank but a little, finding that the strong dwarven ale was not to her taste.  Though, no matter—they had others, and of course she must sample them all.

            Kylie made the mistake of mentioning in conversation how she had taken dancing lessons, and then she had no choice but to dance, with nearly everyone on the ship, and especially by herself.  She had really never been happier.  She had attended dozens of balls and feasts, hunts, and other revelry.  This was a simple party—a celebration of life—but it was so much more genuine than anything she had ever been a part of.  If she stepped on someone’s toes, it was no great social misstep, but a laugh and an apology and it was forgotten.

            Many of the dwarves still had duties to attend to, so there were many of them coming and going.  Some had drank until they fell into bed.  Others had not made it there.  Others were still drinking, and some were more responsible and had simply put themselves to bed.  Bastian played his lute, and Kylie caught her breath, and asked him if he knew particular songs.  Once they found one they both knew, Bastian played, and Kylie sang the words.  It was a haunting, ghostly melody, out here at sea.  In the song, a maiden waited for her husband-to-be to return from war, and waited so long that she turned to stone, and still she waited.  At the end of the song, he never came home.

            Kylie sipped at the ale, this one a vintage from the Imperium and more of what she was used to.  She had never been allowed to drink such a peasant beverage, but that had certainly never stopped her from trying it.  She put her mug down on a table, and stretched, looking about the ship.

            She found Fenris against the guardrail, looking up at the stars.  When she approached him, he was drinking something from a mug, and by the smell of it, it was dwarven ale.

            She knew he was drunk before she spoke to him; he reeked of drink.  She smiled pleasantly.  “Enjoying yourself?” she asked him.

            “Hmm?” he inquired, blinking at her.  “I suppose.”

            Her lips pursed at how he slurred the words.  “Good.”  She relieved the mug from his hands, and poured the remaining contents into the sea.  His jaw dropped in astonishment.  She flashed a winning smile, and skipped away before he could do anything more.

            She put the mug down on the table.  Bastian was playing a lively tune, and she started to dance again.  She was mid-spin when Fenris grabbed onto her arm, likely to yell at her about wasting the drink.  With her other hand, she snatched his wrist, and used her own momentum to propel him forward.  It caught him off-guard, and she pulled him with her, into her dance.  She led, and the elf was given little choice but to follow.

            “Nope—move your feet more,” she said.  “Like me, and _spin_!”  She moved with him, laughing when he stumbled.

            “I was supposed to be mad at you,” he muttered.

            She laughed, and spun them both again.  “I won’t let you.  You’re learning to dance instead.”

            He actually smiled.  “Seems I’ve little choice in the matter.”

            “This is part of your payment to me for the crossing,” she teased him.  “Be lucky I don’t insist you sing too.”

            He admitted, “I’m completely tone deaf.”

            She giggled at the thought of an elf being tone deaf, then considered it.  The lyrium made a constant, very faint, ringing noise.  If he heard that constantly, he wouldn’t hear it after years of hearing it.  It was just how the body worked.  So certain pitches he might not hear at all, and that would certainly affect any musical talent.  “That makes sense,” she said instead.  Two songs in, and she had a halfway decent dancing partner.

            After the third one, Bastian changed to a softer song, to give the dancers a break.

            Fenris started to turn to go.  “Hey, and _where_ do you think _you’re_ going?” the mage demanded.  “I’m not finished with you yet.”

            He looked back at her, his eyebrow arched.  “Oh?”

            She held her arms out.  “Come on.  Dancing lessons aren’t done yet.  Yes—no.  Like this.”  She instructed him, and eventually got it right.  “Ideally, the man leads,” she admitted.  “But you don’t know what you’re doing.”

            “No, I really don’t.”

            She frowned.  “Stop… pushing me.  When I step forward, you step back.  When I step back, you step forward.  Got it?  It’s a tempo.  Just count, and don’t think too hard on it.”  After they completed a circle, she said, “See?”

            He stepped on her toes.  “No—clearly not,” he said, but sounded amused nonetheless.

            Bastian stopped, and the two pulled away.  The dwarf said he was going to retire for the night.  In fact, many of them had.  They had long days in the morning, though.  The two passengers sat down, tired.  Kylie chatted freely for a while, about her plans to see the world, before they had both rested enough to get up.  Fenris was still quite drunk, and the swaying of the ship was making him nauseous.  He went to the rail, but didn’t vomit—not yet.  He felt like it was only a matter of time.

            Kylie trailed after him, more because she didn’t want him to pass out from the drink and fall overboard than anything else.  The young mage stood beside him—one looking up at the stars, and the other looking at the dark waves below.

            “Where will you go, if you don’t want to come with me?”

            “I have no idea,” Fenris said with quiet surety.

            Kylie rolled her eyes.  “At least you know that you don’t know,” she said with a sigh.  She wondered what the stars looked like in other countries.  She had lived her life under the same stars.  She welcomed the change.  She turned her head and started to say something, and stopped when he turned and looked at her.

            “You have to promise me that you won’t tell anyone about me,” she told him, her voice grave and quiet.  “And I’ll promise that I won’t tell anyone about you.”

            He didn’t need to ask why; the answer was too obvious.  “It’s not an issue,” he told her, and looked back out at the sea.

            “Promise me that you will tell no one,” she told him, cornering him like a wounded animal.

            He frowned, glancing back at her.  “Why would I tell anyone?”

            “Promise me,” she repeated, insistent.

            He made a face.  “ _Who_ am I going to _tell_?”

            She scowled.  “You might make friends with someone one day.  Companionship isn’t toxic; I promise.”  At that, he almost wanted to be wistful.  It was there for a moment, and then the thought faded into the realm of impossibility—she even watched it happen in his oh-so emotional eyes.  “Fenris,” she growled.

            Seeing no way out of this, he said, “I… promise.”

            She held out her hand, extending her smallest finger.  “Pinkie promise me.  Like children.”

            He looked as if the thought caused him physical pain.  “Kylie…”

            She held her finger up to his face.  “Promise!” she insisted.  “If I break the promise and tell anyone, you get to break my finger.  That’s how it works.  Same if you break the promise.”

            She badgered him until he swore on his finger, as well as under pain of death.  They shook fingers on it, and she grinned at him.  “Because we’re both secretly five,” she said with a wink, and skipped off to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think of the bounty hunters so far? My point being with them, every person you meet has their own motives for doing something, even something you think is wrong--and they might even be good reasons! If Lysander agrees, it is for his sisters, and Aramael agreed to save someone else. Which begs the question, slaving is wrong but Aramael agreed for a good cause (someone he knows over someone he doesn't know), so morally, what was the right decision in this circumstance?
> 
> I hope you didn't think I was going to slash Kylie and Fenris there. I write them as if they were siblings, because that's kind of how they see and treat each other, despite racial and social differences.


	73. Departure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lysander is coerced into hunting down Fenris. Fenris, oblivious to this mounting danger, finds employment, and Kylie finds what she has been wanting her whole life: Adventure.

            The ship docked in Rivain for two days, and Fenris had originally intended to leave there, but the dwarves hinted that they had need of an extra guard, and he could have a real bunk instead of a space in the hold if he accepted—and pay.  Having no other real plans and knew he needed coin to survive, he accepted this.  Kylie was delighted.

            While they were in Rivain, he spent some time guarding the ship, but when he didn’t have to, Kylie drug him away from the docks and into the marketplace, insistent that he needed to see the world.  He was suspicious that she just wanted a bodyguard, just in case.

            All the same, it was good to be away from the docks, and see a city not owned by the Imperium.  The first thing he noticed was the lack of burning incense.  He smelled spices and cooking food in the air, but that was from the shops.  He had never known it would feel so good to be away from Minrathous, and Kylie even caught him enjoying himself once or twice.

            The mage wanted to sample all the foreign food, and look at all the local crafts, and of course she drug him along to one of the Rivaini soothsayers too.  He defended her from more than one pickpocket along this adventure, and made a mental note to have a talk with her later about such things.

            A young man at a jewelry shop had looked puzzled for a while as Kylie went over a few baubles, trying to find a pair of earrings that matched her eyes.  She asked Fenris’ opinion frequently, and made comments about how elves were better at matching shades than humans.  “Are you two…?” the man finally asked, eyes flicking from one to the other.

            Kylie practically gagged on impulse.  Fenris made a face.  “Maker, no,” Kylie said.  “That would be weird.”  She laughed a little, and smiled prettily at the boy.  It took Fenris a moment to realize that the boy was fair of feature, and that Kylie could be flirting with him.  She had never been allowed such things before, as she had been promised to another from such a young age.  “No; he’s too old for me.  He’s more like a glorified nanny.”

            Fenris contemplated hitting her in the back of the head, but then noticed the way the boy leaned forward, his eyes all for her, and he let it go.  He was content watching and listening to the two flirt, their voices getting lower and lower.  He heard Annalkylie giggle on occasion.  _Kylie_ , he reminded himself.  It would draw too much attention if he used her true name, and that would mean trouble for both of them.

            Rivain was interesting to him.  In the Imperium, he had been a slave, but even if he weren’t a slave, he would still have the misfortune of being an elf.  Elves were treated with disdain, violence, and uncaring even when they were free—sole exception being mages.  In Rivain, the few elves he did see received no real trouble with humans.  He supposed that was mostly local culture.  Kylie had described Rivaini culture as being nature-based, where their manner of worship was very pagan compared to Chantry teachings, and all of nature was basically deity.  It was also, unfortunately, what made it easy for the Rivaini people to convert to the Qun; many of their beliefs were along the same lines.

            He stepped away, leaning against a sturdy post that supported the stall’s roof.  He watched the people come and go, watched the boy break away from Kylie once to approach an older woman looking at bracelets.  Kylie waited patiently, going back to her hunt through the earrings, but abandoned the effort when the boy went back to her.

            Fenris looked away, back at the street.  He felt out of place here, in a way he was not accustomed to feeling.  With his master, he had never been out of place, exactly, so long as Danarius was nearby.  But here… Here, he was distinctly aware that he was an elf in a market primarily consisting of humans and dwarves.  He stood out—he always would, he realized.  The lyrium, his hair, his height.  He could never hide, and he would always stand out, anywhere he went.  People would recognize him easily.  The thought filled him with unease.

            How easy would it be for Danarius to find him again?  How many people would say they saw him if asked?  He would be easy to remember, easy to point out.

            Where could he go?  He thought about staying in Rivain, but felt like there was nothing there for him, and thinking of the people living there brainwashed by the Qunari made him uncomfortable.  There was also the Rivaini fortune tellers.  He didn’t know enough about magic to say whether it was true or not that they could read the future, but that filled him with unease too.  Kylie had offered to pay for a reading for him if he wanted it, but the mere thought made him feel nauseated.  The future was dark and terrifying enough as it was—he really did not want some cryptic message of foreshadowing to go with it! 

            Where, then, should he go?

 

            The rocking of the boat made Lysander sick to his stomach, and he hated sailing.  He had been on ships before, but never for so long.  They had left Minrathous, and sailed up the coast toward Rivain, where they had stopped to resupply.  He had been blissfully happy to be off the ship for the brief amount of time, and reluctant as ever to return, but thoughts of the girls kept him going.

            Just the thought of it made him angry.  He had been so terrified…

            He had come home late, having worked until past sundown at the docks loading crates.  It was backbreaking and didn’t pay much, but it was work at least and he had come home with his wages and had been thinking about the food he was going to buy the next day.

            He had come home, and expected to smell the cabbage soup, or at least Issie would attack his legs in a fierce hug.  But none of that happened.  At first, he wondered if it were not later than he suspected, and that the girls had simply gone to sleep.  But they would have left a bowl out for him, and there wasn’t one.  In fact, he felt like there was something wrong.  The outer room was separated from the bedroom by mismatched boards, and a broken door served as their passage into the other room, laying against the slender opening rather than on proper hinges.  Quietly, thinking they were sleeping, he shifted the door just enough to squeeze past and then fixed it in place.

            He peered around the ill-lit room, and felt a chill go up his spine.  The girls were gone.  Thinking that perhaps it was some trick of the darkness, he knelt on the floor, touched the threadbare blankets.  There were no words to describe his terror.  His mouth felt dry, but sweat beaded on his forehead.  What had happened?  Had someone taken them?  He swiped his hand worriedly through his hair.  He had been making payments to the debtors—steady payments.  Not as much as they wanted, but they had said it was enough so that they wouldn’t take the girls!  They had been threatening to for years, but each time, Lysander had managed to pull through.

            _They lied_ , was all he could think.  His fingers clenched, and he knew his anger would lead to nothing.  They wanted more money.  They had to have more money, or who knows what they would do to them?

            In the corner, as if it had been dropped and then perhaps kicked away, was a doll.  He went to it, and picked it up.  Issie had named her “Emily”.  The paint was fading, and the dress was worn—it had always been a pale pink, but it was even paler now.  Its yarn hair was dirty and shabby, but she had loved it still.  He hugged it to him, and a tear rolled down his cheek unchecked.

            “Issie,” he whispered to the quiet of the night.  Where was she now?  Where were both the girls?  He knew he had to find them, and there wasn’t a moment more to lose.

            He set the doll down, and swiped his eyes.  He left the house, and headed to the merchant district, following the scent of the incense that attempted and just failed to mask the stench of the city.

            He walked briskly, and found himself running at times, desperately, the money clenched tightly in his fist.  He would give them all of it—everything he had.  If he needed to spend a night in a brothel again… well, so be it.  The girls were more important.  They had _always_ been more important.

            It was late, but the moneylenders were a… shady sort of business, and someone was there even so.  Still, he had to knock, and a toughened dwarf answered it, his eyes narrowing when he recognized Lysander.  “Let me through,” the young man insisted.

            The dwarf did not budge.  “State your business,” he said.

            Lysander swallowed hard.  “You took the girls!  I made the payments, and you still took the girls!”  He couldn’t hold it back anymore.  He was just so angry.

            The dwarf took a deep breath, and stepped aside, apparently not wishing to get involved.  Lysander marched past, and went straight to the desk, where a weasel of a man sat behind it.  The weasel adjusted his spectacles and looked up at Lysander, but he had the air of one who looked down on him.  “Well, I couldn’t help but overhear _that_ outburst,” he commented dryly.

            Lysander ground his teeth.  “Where are they?  What have you done?”

            The man held up a finger, the traditional signal that he would like the boy to wait.  Lysander crossed his arms, tense.  The weasel began thumbing through a large ledger.  He apparently found the page he needed, and frowned deeply.  “If those girls are missing, it’s no fault of ours,” he said, his voice flat.

            His heart skipped a beat, and he was certain that he had misheard.  “What?” he whispered, unbelieving.

            The weasel shrugged a shoulder, and pointed at the ledger.  “You made your payment.”  He leaned back in the chair comfortably.  “We have no interest in the girls, so long as you are paying.  And you are paying.  Now, if you’d like to make an early payment, we will accept.  If not, please leave.”

            Lysander covered his gaping mouth with his hand.  He had been so certain…  He had been afraid, but so certain that they were here.  He had thought, he might get them back tonight, if he just knew where to look.  And he had been so certain they were here.  Where else could they have been?  He shook his head, running his fingers through his dirty hair again.  He swallowed hard.  He didn’t know what else to do.  He had thought—throw money at them, everything he had.  He would beg, and plead, and kiss the man’s boots if he must, but the girls would be turned over to him, and they could all go home together.  Now…  Now…

            The dwarf caught his arm, and began to lead him away.  Lysander walked in a numb haze, and a stiff sea wind reminded him that he needed to find them.  He paced outside, then began walking home.  _Think_ , he thought to himself.  _Where else could they be?_

            No.  Who else would take them?  He didn’t know.  He thought as hard as he could, and still, he didn’t know.  He made it back home, and looked around the little shack they had lived in together for almost five years now.  It had been better than the streets, even better than some of the other places they had lived together.

            He had thought…  He didn’t know.  He sat down on the bench inside the shack, bewildered and dispirited.  His despair clutched at his heart like a cancer, and he was dearly tempted to give in to it.  It would be easier to simply despair, believe his sisters gone.  But he couldn’t.  He loved them, and he couldn’t give in to it.

            He looked around the rooms again, searching for any kind of clue.  There was barely a struggle, he saw, if there was one.  There would be no need.  Matilda wasn’t stupid, and she was crippled besides, and Issie was just a little girl.

            He picked up Issie’s doll again, and thought hard.  He must find them.  He had to find out where they had gone.

            Or had it been a simple robbery?  Someone had abducted the girls—barely more than vagrants—and were going to sell them?  He went back into the main room, and heaved the little dresser out of the way—something he had found in a garbage heap and carried back.  Under it was the loose board, and he pried it away.  In the hidden alcove was his father’s sword, and a little satchel of a bit of silver and copper pennies.  He bit his lip.  Whoever took the girls would have demanded to know where anything valuable was.  They would have hurt them until they told.

            The sword, by all rights, shouldn’t be here, and neither should the money.  He lifted both items out, trying to piece together the puzzle.  There was something more here.  Something… else.

            As he went to put them back, he saw something he hadn’t before.  He reached down, and picked up the slip of paper.  It was sealed with wax, and he brought it into the light before he broke the seal, to better look at it.  The seal was a howling wolf, and the hair at the back of his neck stood on end.  He ripped the seal in half, and pried open the note.  Three words were scrawled in an elegant hand across the parchment:  _I have them._

            “No,” he whispered, his hand squeezing into a fist, crumpling the note.  He shoved it into his pocket with the coins.  He buckled on his sword, and left immediately.  Ordinarily, the guards in this district would have gone to stop him, but for some reason they did not even question his presence there.  Rather, they only passed him by, and that, more than anything, made him even more angry.

            He found the gate to the manor closed, and locked.  He banged on it, and when no one came, he screamed, “Open it!  Danarius, you bastard— _open this gate_!”

            “He can’t hear you from there,” a servant complained, striding toward the gate quickly.

            Lysander shook the gate again.  It rattled, but did not loosen.  He paced like a caged animal while the man found the proper key on his ring, and the servant took his damn time.  “Your Maker-forsaken master is a vile pig who abducts _children,”_ Lysander spat.  The man visibly rolled his eyes, and Lysander probably would have struck him, but for the bars between them.

            The man found the proper key, and left it in the lock, staring at him.  “I hold no responsibility for my master or Hadriana’s actions,” he said, and turned the key.  He threw the gate open, and the young swordsman hesitated, then walked past him, feeling suddenly ashamed for his behaviour, but felt no less righteous about it.  He strode to the manor, only dimly aware of the servant at the gate locking it yet again.  He banged on the door, finding it, too, locked.  Another deeply annoyed servant opened it for him, and shot him a contemptuous glare for all the racket he had made.

            “The magister is in the library,” the servant said with some disdain.  “You will wait for him here, Serah--?”

            Lysander narrowed his eyes.  “No.  I won’t wait.  You take me to him _now_ or I will kill you where you stand,” he hissed.  He did not offer his name.

            The man was unmoved and perhaps even unimpressed.  Of course, one must consider that he was employed by a magister.  “Certainly.  This way.”  Lysander followed him, and was quietly enraged at how slowly the servant walked.  He kept at his heels, and made no secret of his displeasure, but the servant still did not hurry, as if only doing this to annoy him.  It worked.  Did the magister seek out such generally unruffled employees?  Or did they just become this way?

            The servant knocked once, and opened the door.  “Magister, you have an unnamed guest at this peculiar hour,” he said, his distaste showing plainly.

            Lysander pushed past him, and cast about the room.  He had half-expected to find the magister at a table, perhaps, but he was standing on the upper balcony, frowning down at him.  It was his apprentice that sat at the table, and she had the expression of a pleased cat that had killed the family bird.

            The servant bowed and excused himself.  The door shut.  Lysander stared at the magister.  “You know why I’m here,” he hissed lividly.  “Where are they?  What have you done?”

            The magister remained calm.  “I trust you mean those urchins you refer to as your sisters?” he inquired.  “Hadriana?”

            Lysander’s gaze shifted to the apprentice.  She smiled pleasantly, even serenely as if she could never do anything unspeakable.  “Safe,” she answered curtly.

            He stepped toward him, but the big table separated them.  “ _Where.  Are.  They.”_

Hadriana was unmoved by his anger, and it was infuriating.  No one took him seriously.  No one thought of him as a threat.  “They are in a guest room, of course.  Their every need is being seen to, and I trust they are happier there than in that hovel of yours.”

            His fingers clenched.  “By ‘guest room’ do you mean ‘dungeon’?” he snapped, his gaze going back to Danarius.

            The magister leaned against the rail.  “That can always be arranged.  You see, what happens to them now simply depends on you, Lysander,” he told him.  “I thought to help you with your little problem, you see, and you insulted me.”  A pause.  “Well, I won’t tolerate that.”

            And his eyes widened.  “You mean to force me to go after that elf.”

            “Paying men to do something is very fine,” Danarius said, as if to the beginning of a lecture and the man began to pace toward him, running a finger lightly along the banister.  “But desperate men…”  He smiled, and stopped walking.  “Will do anything.  And Fenris is very dangerous.”

            Someone who would take greater risks.  Someone who was desperate.  “Let me see them,” he said.  “I won’t agree to anything unless I can see them.”

            Danarius nodded tartly.  “Hadriana, fetch his sisters, would you?”  His apprentice smiled graciously, and excused herself.  She left the room, walking past him.  “I’ve taken the liberty of drawing up a contract.  Bring back Fenris—relatively unharmed—and you and your sisters will want for nothing.”

            “What if I kill him?” Lysander demanded, even then feeling his resolve breaking.  He had the girls.  He had them, and there was nothing Lysander could do about it, except to go find his damned elf.

            The magister chuckled, as if truly amused.  “I don’t think you can,” he said.  “Though, in that most unlikely of events, bring back his corpse—all of it.”

            “And my sisters?”

            “Will be fine until you return.  And, if and when you do, I trust the three of you will be very happy.”  He turned toward him.  “Don’t you tire of all this manual labor?  Bring back Fenris—preferably alive but I will accept his corpse--and I can see that you are accepted into the mercenary guild.  I think that would solve most of your problems.”

            “You want me to cart a rotting corpse across Thedas?” he demanded.

            Danarius was unruffled by the idea.  “If that bothers you, you’ll have to skin him,” he said, as if discussing the weather.  Lysander felt ill.  “If he’s dead, I’ll be wanting the lyrium in his skin, so you don’t have to skin all of him—just pieces.”  The boy thought he may vomit just thinking about it.

            Lysander looked away, and he thought about all the reasons he didn’t want to do this.  That elf had been abused, probably raped, and very likely mentally and emotionally tortured by Danarius.  He didn’t want to force anything like that on the elf again.  But… his sisters…  The girls meant more to him than a stranger, and that was the truth of the matter.  The door opened, and he turned.  Hadriana stepped through, and to the side.  Issie was the first through, Matilda hobbling after her.  Both of their faces lit up to see him.  Issie rushed toward her brother, her arms wrapped around him.  He pried away, and knelt to hug her, glad that they were both alive.  He embraced Matilda as well, but the magister interrupted.

            “Touching,” he mused.  The siblings looked up at him.  Lysander held his sisters tightly.  “Now, you have seen they are both all right.  The ship will depart in three days.  I suggest you prepare for it.”

            Lysander stared at him.  “I’m curious to know what you would have done if I hadn’t found your note,” he spat.

            “I would have sent you a more obvious one,” Danarius answered, and Lysander wondered what that meant.

            Lysander leaned his head against the wall of the cabin, and thought about Issie.  He had gone back that night and got her doll, and begged with the magister to let him give it to her.  The man had ultimately relented, with great reluctance, but it had been Hadriana who, interestingly, sided with Lysander.

            “A little girl needs her doll,” she had said.

            “Fine,” the magister said.  “You take him to them.”

            She lifted her head high.  “I will.  Come.”  She had turned on her heel and he had followed her out the door.

            “Thank you,” he said after a while.

            “I’m not doing it for you.  It’s for your sister,” she said.

            He paused.  “Did you have a doll at her age?”

            She stopped walking for a moment, and looked back at him, her eyes full of hurt.  It took him by such surprise that he froze in place, shocked.  “Once,” she said, and looked away.

            “Did something… happen?” he asked hesitantly.

            She paused.  “I found out I was a mage,” she said softly.  “I burned it—by accident.  My mother refused to get me another one.”

            He fell silent.  “Please take care of them,” he pleaded.  “They…  I’d do anything for them.”

            The apprentice looked away.  “I’m glad,” she answered softly.  “And don’t worry about them.”  They walked on, in relative silence.  Hadriana let him have a long, tearful goodbye with them, and he was forced to leave.  Hadriana pushed a gold coin into his hand.  “From Danarius—as a matter of goodwill.”

            He wanted to say something, but stopped, thanked her, and walked away.  He slept little that night, and woke early.  He ate, and washed, and sat and stared at the wall, able to do nothing.  The ship would be leaving soon.  He went back to the manor with questions about the voyage.  Hadriana was there to answer all of them, and he left again, after she let him see the girls once more.

            He wandered the merchant district, and bought a decent pair of boots for himself.  His leathers would be fine, but his boots were worn out.  He took what was left of his savings, and bought Matilda a dress, and Issie a dress.  On his way out of the market, he spied the doll in the blue dress, and bought that too, but as he held it, he thought about Hadriana—how sad she had looked.

            He returned to the manor again, and the servants were just as displeased with him as before, but Hadriana greeted him and even smiled when she saw him.

            Somehow, he found himself smiling back, and was reassured when she promised, again, that his sisters would be fine until he returned.  He gave his gifts to his sisters, and Hadriana walked with him back through the manor.

            “I’ve never met anyone like you,” she said gently.

            He blinked.  “What do you mean?”

            She tried to smile, but it didn’t quite touch her eyes.  Her eyes only seemed sad.  “Your family means the world to you—I see that.  I just…”  She sighed.

            “Do you… not have a family?”

            She shook her head, her curls bouncing.  “Not anymore,” she admitted softly.

            He looked at her.  “I’m sorry,” he said, and meant it.  No one deserved to have their family taken from them.  No one deserved to be alone.

            She looked up at him, and she still looked sad, but somehow surprised.  “You… you mean that,” she said in wonder.  She frowned, and crossed her arms.  Their footfalls echoed in the large room as they passed through it.  “If… Issie were a mage—I’m not saying she is—but if she were, would you feel the same way?”

            He didn’t even have to think about it.  “Yes.  She’s my baby sister, and I love her—no matter what,” he told her.

            Hadriana looked up at the sky through the glass roof overhead of them.  If Lysander didn’t know better, he would say that she was holding back tears.  They came to the end of the room, and down a short hallway to the entry room.  “I’m jealous of her,” she admitted, and turned away.  He watched her go, and walked back to his “hovel”.  She was right—it was a hovel.  He sighed to himself.

            Hadriana had assured him that provisions would be provided on the ship, and the gold was therefore of no real value to him.  He had had nothing for years.  What was this last bit of money?

            So, the morning  before he was to leave, he made one last purchase, used the last of the money to make a payment to the debtors, and came back to the manor, but asked to see the apprentice.  She took him to his sisters without even asking why he was there.  He left the package in the hall, and hugged both of them goodbye.  They had a somewhat tearful farewell, but he had to leave them all the same.  He picked up the package once the door closed, and looked at Hadriana.  She was frowning at him curiously.

            He handed the package to her, smiled softly, and said, “This is for you.”  And he walked away.

            That evening, he had found Hadriana sitting on the bench inside his hovel, tears in her eyes as she thanked him.  He had gone with her back to the manor, insistent that it was dangerous for a woman to walk there alone, even a mage.  The end perhaps was inevitable.

            In the morning, he had confessed, “I don’t want to do this.”

            “Hmm?” she had inquired sleepily.

            He shook his head.  “Go after that elf.”

            She paused, rubbing the sleep from her eye.  “Be careful.  Don’t let him touch you.”

            He stopped for a moment.  “I’d heard.”  He looked down.  “But he’s gone through so much.  I _know_ that Danarius abuses him.  Can’t he just leave him alone?”

            Hadriana looked away.  “It would injure his pride.”

            Lysander looked back at her.  “Is that really all it is?  Wounded pride?”  He snorted.  “This is stupid.”  He shook his head.  “He should just leave him be.”

            The apprentice was silent for a moment.  “Maybe,” she relented.  She looked up.  “Any slave who manages to escape probably deserves to be free.  But Danarius would disagree.  He takes it as a personal insult.”

            “I doubt the elf meant it to be insulting,” Lysander said bitterly.  “No one deserves what that man put him through.”

            Hadriana raised an eyebrow at the comment.  She looked down at her hands.  “When Danarius dies, I inherit everything.  Would it make you happy if I let Fenris go?”

            Lysander looked at her.  “Yes,” he whispered.

            She smiled back at him.  “Then I will.”

 

            When the ship sailed again, Fenris found himself grateful to leave, and strangely at peace too.  He felt most comfortable while he was moving.  While he was moving, he knew that he would be harder to track, harder to find.  It eased his troubles, for the most part.  The ship made a stop or two more in Rivain before it was hit by a storm.

            The storm ran the hull into shallow, rocky water, and it came limping into the nearest harbor, in Antiva.  Captain said that it would be nearly a month before they could be on their way again, with the repairs waiting to be done.  He said it angrily and with feeling, and lots of swearing, but the reprieve was not unwelcome by the crew.

            Kylie’s money, by now, would normally have been near-extinguished, but the Captain had been glad to have a mage on board when it ran against the rocks.  She had been working endlessly to keep the ship floating, like everyone else, but there was more a mage could do.  When water started leaking in, she could turn it to ice as it did.  As a result, the hull was cold and frigid, but it wasn’t sinking.  It did, however, need constant repairs, which she gave it, but she was not inexhaustible, nor was her magic, and so she was paid for her efforts.

            Antiva, in a manner of speaking, reminded him a bit of Rivain, and also a little of Minrathous.  True, the mage-masters were absent, but dirty politicians, he was finding, were everywhere.  Antiva also had no exact form of government, which he found quite odd, and was oft reminded by the smugglers to be on his guard while they were there.  No government meant that Antiva was governed primarily by its “merchant princes”, which meant that it all depended on their good graces—and who could throw the most money at the Crows.

            People, he found, were always suspicious of him on several different counts.  The first and foremost, because he was an elf.  The second, because of the lyrium.  The third, because sometimes they seemed to guess his origin:  That he was a runaway.  Maybe it was the clothes, or his accent.  Maybe it was the way he acted or presented himself, or spoke—he wasn’t certain, and his uncertainty only seemed to make it more apparent to others.  He wasn’t sure if he should feel ashamed of his past as a slave, but, even if he should be, he wasn’t—not really.  It wasn’t worth being ashamed of, or trying to hide.  So many people tried to hide that which pained them most.  There were things he would always hide, but slavery wasn’t one of them.

            He had noticed that both in Rivain and Antiva, Kylie had always found admirers.  She knew how to charm, and how to present herself.  She knew how to win people over, and she used it to her advantage, always.  Sometimes, her admirers would treat her with food, with dresses, jewelry, flowers.  They would shower her with these things, based solely on her looks.  Whatever they saw, Fenris didn’t see it.  He supposed he had just known her too long, and still thought of her as a little girl covered in mud.

            It was why, after all, he couldn’t kill her when he knew he should.  He thought about it all the time—about how she was a mage, and all the evils she could commit.  But, he had to admit to one truth she had told him:  “Anyone could have done what I did that night.  It didn’t require a mage.  Or a human.  Or a woman.  It could have been anyone.”  It wasn’t anyone, but that wasn’t the point she was trying to make, and her point was valid.  She had done nothing that involved magic.  It hadn’t been for magic.  If anything, she had seemed to want to destroy the magisters.

            It was so difficult, sometimes, to examine his hatred.  His hatred felt good.  It felt righteous, and just, and he needed it.  He needed his hatred, or he might not go on.  He felt like there was nothing in his life to live for sometimes, except to feed his own hatred.  The hate kept him going when nothing else would.  Sometimes, alone at night in the dark, the lyrium shifting in his flesh—he could feel it every second of every day like some kind of hyper awareness of blood moving in his veins with each heartbeat bringing a new wave of pain—he didn’t know what to do.  Sometimes, he felt like there was nothing that he could do.  He sometimes felt like he should just give up.  Danarius would send hunters, or the Imperial bounty hunters would come.  He could just let them collect him.

            Sometimes he wondered what he would do when the time came.  Would he fight them?  Or just go quietly?  Living like this was so difficult.  It was hard to ration his coin, and the work was more demanding.  He wasn’t used to it, and certainly wasn’t prepared for any of it.  Being a slave meant guaranteed meals, clothes, a bed—for him at least.  Danarius had always pampered him.  He had _always_ known that, but he had never quite realized exactly how _much_ Danarius had pampered him until he began to work.

            It had been years since Hadriana had sent him to the field, and a part of him had forgotten how difficult it had been, which only saddened him to think about.  So many people would never escape that torment and back-breaking labor.  They were bred in it, birthed in it, and would die in it.

            He was guarding the warehouse Captain had rented out to store their supplies.  There were always two of them at a time, and he paced around the building, and the other guard leaned against the door.  In an hour, they would switch.  Dwarves, Fenris was finding, made better company than any human he had ever met, and cared little for how pointed his ears were.

            A bird sat perched on a rooftop, watching him as he paced round in circles.  It seemed intent, and he was reminded of the bird on the side of the road in Seheron, who had watched him the same way.  It preened itself on occasion, but mostly it watched.  It made no sound, and only watched with muted interest as he walked.  The fifth time around, and it still hadn’t moved much, he stopped, and looked at it, a frown adorning his features.  There was just something wrong about that bird, but he wasn’t sure what it could possibly be.

            _Maybe,_ he thought with some sarcasm.  _I’m being paranoid, and I need to sleep more._

            Both of those things were probably true.  It was so hard to sleep without any medication or alcohol, and every day he knew the hunters could be upon him at any time.  Every passing hour meant they could be getting closer.

            He made another circle around the warehouse, this one slower than the others as he forced himself to calm down.  He even stopped and chatted with the other guard for a bit, then continued.  When he came back to the door, he saw Kylie there with a small basket, smiling and laughing with the dwarf.  She turned when she saw Fenris, and her face lit up with a grin.

            He walked to the other two and she wasted no time holding up her arm.  “Look—one of the merchant princes gave it to me.”

            He glanced at her wrist.  Around it was coiled a dragon sculpted in gold, its eyes twin sapphires.  “You have many gifts like that,” he pointed out needlessly.  And she sold most of them, for that matter.

            “It’s only a matter of time before one of them asks to marry you,” the dwarf told her seriously.

            But Kylie waved the matter off.  “Even if they do, I’ll just leave.  Anyway, the dwarves are headed to Ferelden next.  I’m going to sell the bracelet, though—and head to Orlais.”  The dwarf expressed his wishes of good fortune to her, and she thanked him for it.  She looked to both of them, and back at Fenris.  “What will you do?”

            He sighed, because he really had no idea.  “I still don’t know,” he admitted dryly.

            She sighed.  “I wouldn’t hate the company, but I’ll have enough problems with Templars in Orlais,” she said.  “Anyway, I’m leaving next week.  Thought I’d tell you.”  She smiled apologetically at both of them, and handed the dwarf the basket.  “I brought you both lunch, though.”  She flashed another smile before she darted off—likely to convince more men to buy her nice things.

            The dwarf immediately opened the basket, and the pair divvied out the food.  They ate mostly in silence, broken by the occasional comment, and Fenris went back to patrolling.  The crow had flitted to another rooftop, but still easily within sight.  Childishly, he thought about throwing a rock at it—he disliked it staring at him.  As if it knew what he was thinking, it squawked and winged away.  It circled the building once, and flew out over the city.

            Fenris wished it were so easy for himself.

 

            They had been in Antiva long enough for the boat to be repaired, and Fenris was kept busy helping carry the crates back into the hold.  Kylie said her goodbyes to everyone, and saved the elf for last, mostly because he looked busy to her.

            “I have something for you,” she said, and reached into her pack, and removed a small, slender bottle.  It was filled with a dark liquid.  “It should get rid of the pain—for about twelve hours.  But never drink more than a spoonful at a time, okay?  Too much can hurt you.”

            He took the bottle from her, and his face was unreadable, all except his eyes, which betrayed how tired and in pain he was.  She imagined he would immediately go off to swallow a bit of it.  “Thank you,” he said, looking back at her.

            She shrugged one shoulder.  “I was thinking about you is all.”  She frowned.  “I don’t imagine we’ll see one another again, and I know you don’t like me—but…  Well.  I hope you live your life however you see fit, and I hope you find your happiness by doing so.”  She had rehearsed it.  It sounded rehearsed, and there was no saving it now.

            He hesitated, and said, “Kylie.  On the ship to Seheron, there was something you wanted to say to me.  What was it?”

            She blinked.  After all this time, she had almost completely forgotten what she had found buried in those notes.  She looked down, and back up.  “I think you have a living family member,” she said, but frowned.  “The notes weren’t exact—they mentioned a blood link with you, and it’s cryptic, but I think it means you have a living family member, probably one of my uncle’s slaves—and more, someone who would have been there when the Ritual was being performed.”  She paused.  “It doesn’t mention what happened to them—at least not as far as I read—but they might still be alive somewhere.”  She frowned.  “I just… I would have wanted to know.  Sorry—I guess I forgot until now.”

            Fenris was shocked for a moment, then quiet.  He seemed for a moment like he might say something, then stopped, as if reluctant.  Kylie didn’t care enough to try to drag the comment out of him if he didn’t wish to say it.  If he wanted her to know whatever he was going to say, he would just say it, after all, so she put on her best smile.  “Goodbye,” she said instead, and decided that it was better this way.

            “Goodbye,” he echoed.  She turned and walked away.  She would be less conspicuous this way, but she still felt kind of sad to leave the ship, the smugglers, and even Fenris.  She had given little gifts to most of the crew, and Captain too.  She enjoyed gift giving, after all.  And she still helped the poor when she could.  It saddened her, how much hurt and loneliness was in the world.  She saw so many children begging in the streets, so many hopeless eyes and joyless faces.  It gladdened her to see hope touch the eyes of the hopeless when she gave them food or clothing.  She never gave them money, but she would give food and clothing, and took a special joy in giving it to them.  Helping others fulfilled her in ways nothing else ever had.

            She had been gone from Tevinter for almost a year now, summer just ending.  Strange, she barely missed it, save for her siblings.  The spring and summer months had been amazing, onboard the ship.  She would treasure those memories, always.

            Waiting to board her own ship, she watched another dock, and a blonde young man walked onto the deck, and looked out at the city.  She saw wonder touch his features, but he also seemed sad to her.  Had he left his family, his lover maybe?  That seemed sad to her too.  She kept walking on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! We got to see Hadriana behaving like a decent person at last!


	74. Decisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hadriana must make a decision about her future, and the slavers formulate a plan.

            Hadriana sat in her quarters, and knew she had other things to do.  Danarius had been heaping more and more responsibility on her, and she had to prepare for further testing for admittance to the Circle as a full-fledged magister.  The final test was in two weeks’ time.  It had been all she ever wanted, and she knew she needed to study and prepare for it like she had for nothing else.

            Yet, for all that, she was finding it difficult to concentrate.  She sat on the sofa, and held the gift in her hands.  It was the most beautiful porcelain doll she had ever seen—in the sort of dress she would have died for as a child.  Looking at it made her smile, and all the more because it had been given to her by someone who had given all he had.  A gift was a fine thing, she supposed, from a wealthy man—but such a gift was rare and precious when it was from someone who had so little as that young man.

            It was just a doll, but it was the most precious possession she owned.  She rose from her seat, and carried the doll to its shelf, and placed it there.  She glanced back at it once as she went to the innocent-looking tea tray.  The tea was safe enough, but the little bottle beside it, she just didn’t know what to do with.

            She paced back and forth in the room, and still had no conclusion.  It had been a month since that night, and her moon’s blood still hadn’t come.  It could be a fluke, but she doubted it.  She picked up the letter again, and sat in a chair as she read it, again.

            Lysander had written to her.  At every stop, he sent another letter—two letters, she amended.  One for his sisters, and one for her.  She made sure his sisters received the letters, too, and while the younger sister, Issie, struggled to read at all, Matilda seemed to do well enough.  Ordinarily, Hadriana would have left the pair to sit for months in the guest room, under lock and key, but instead she walked around the manor with them, and listened to them talk, and occasionally asked questions.  She brought them outside a few times, and Issie especially liked that.  She had played with her dolls—one old and one new, in the grass.

            The mage knew she should just leave well enough alone, but she thought about that handsome blonde boy and just couldn’t quite manage to.  It was silly, really.  She would have thought she was beyond such nonsense, that she had more important things in her life.  Yet she still kept thinking about him, and even worried.

            He seemed anxious, in his letters.  He worried for his sisters, and for his own sake.  He worried if he were doing the right thing.  Hadriana went to her desk, and stared at the blank parchment, but the letter would not write itself.

            She dipped the pen in the inkwell, and decided to start with a greeting, but felt flustered at that too.  What did she say?  _Dearest Lysander._   She crossed it out and tried again.  _My love_.  She crossed that out too, and half a dozen others.  She threw the parchment away, and got a fresh sheet.  She stared at it, and closed her eyes.  How did he begin his letters?  _Shamelessly_ , she mused.  She picked up the first of them and reread that, then set it down.  Perhaps she should be just as shameless.  She started again with a greeting, and this time, decided to leave it.

            _My Dearest Lysander,_

_I hope this letter reaches you well.  I wish I could give you more insight on to the elf’s mindset and motives to help set your mind at ease, but I sadly cannot.  He used to be very obedient and dutiful—something has obviously changed, but it still stands that he is very dangerous to everyone around him.  He simply cannot be allowed to roam free and unchecked.  Better that he dies than is let loose upon the world.  Beyond that, you must look after yourself—and my prayers go with you, always._

_I think about you every day, usually several times a day.  I worry for your safety—and I have never worried for anyone else the same way.  I wonder, sometimes, what that means—and what it means when I am not afraid of it._

_By the time you come back, I will be a magister.  It is all I have ever wanted in my entire life, yet for the first time, I have doubts if it is what my heart truly desires any more.  I am anxious now, when I think about becoming a magister, where before I did not possess such anxiety.  Rather, I had been excited, but now I am excited and happy when I think of you.  What, then, does that mean, my love?_

            She hesitated.  Dare she go on?  Should she mention it?  She touched her stomach, making a face.  Should she tell him?  Or should she swallow the contents of that little bottle?  She didn’t know.  She set the quill down, and stared at the parchment, wondering what Lysander would want.  She stared at the tea tray, her arms crossed, and uncertain as ever of what to do.

            She wished there was someone she could ask—anyone who would know what to do.  What was the right thing to do?

            Any normal person might have gone to a Chantry seeking guidance, but the Maker had never heard her prayers before.  Why would He listen now?  Moreover, why beg answers from divinity when, according to its very doctrine, He was the one who had “blessed” her with this dilemma in the first place?

            She rose from her seat and picked the porcelain doll off of its perch again, staring into its lovely painted eyes, as if the doll would come to life.  When she was a little girl, she used to imagine that her doll really was alive, and when she was asleep or wasn’t looking, it would come to life, and when she woke or returned to the room, it would return to its place as fast as lightning.  It seemed silly now.  Her sisters had been the ones to tell her that.  They may have been teasing her, but she wondered if they had ever believed it.  She wondered if other people had ever believed it.

            She sat back down, hugging the doll to her chest like a child, and wondered what Lysander would want.  And when she knew what he would want, she knew what she wanted too.

 

_I often find myself dreaming about our future.  I hope and pray, as always, that you return quickly, but if not, I will have something waiting for you when you return.  And though it can be the work of moments for it to begin, it takes months to form and grow._

_When you return, Danarius will restore all of your old estates and assets at my behest, and I think the time will be right to resume your family name—a prestigious name and if you permit, one I would like to bestow upon our child._

_I miss you.  Return to me safely and with all due haste._

_Yours always, Hadriana_

            She read what she had written as she waited for the ink to dry, and nearly tore it in half.  But, no.  It was everything she wanted to say to him, though some of it she could never bring herself to say in person.  She needed to tell him.  She sprinkled sand over the words, let the sand cascade down into its glass case.  She folded the letter neatly, and placed it inside its envelope.  She set the envelope down, and delicately plucked a handful of wax beads, and placed them on top of it.  She held her hand over the wax, and whispered the incantation.  The wax melted into a hot pool.  She drew her hand back, and sealed it.  She was having her own personal seal made, but for the time being, she used her master’s.

            She left her room, carrying her letter, and gave it to a servant with proper instructions for delivery.

 

            Finding the elf wasn’t the problem, Lysander was beginning to realize, as he sat with the others—slavers and bounty hunters all—in the gloom of the seedy-looking inn.  He nursed a chipped pewter cup of something they claimed was ale, and listened to them talk.  From what they said, the trick would be luring the elf into a trap, or finding him alone and springing it on him.  Regardless, it involved a great deal of stalking, watching and waiting, apparently.

            There was one elf in the party—a very jaded fellow who simply didn’t seem to care about the matter at all.  The entire thing left a sour taste in Lysander’s mouth, but the elf just acted methodically about it.  At first, Lysander had thought the elf may be a slave to one of the others, but that theory was quickly put to rest when a brawl broke out on the ship between the elf and a couple of the humans.  One of the humans had a broken jaw by the end of it, and the other a broken finger.  The elf suffered a few bruises, but was overall too quick to bring to much harm.  The mage traveling with them had fixed the wounds, and all three of them endured a long lecture from the second in command of their little troupe, because the leader didn’t talk much.

            If the young man recalled correctly, the elf had said to the him at the end of it, “Go fuck off.”  The two humans he had been quarreling with earlier chuckled.

            The man had been quite shocked to hear those words from a mere elf.  “You…  You can’t talk to me like that.  I’m _human;_ you’re an _elf_.”  It had been almost a protest.  Everyone else had simply gone silent, wondering what would happen.

            The elf had already been walking away, so he turned on his heel, his long coat swirling about his knees.  He gave a pleasant yet somehow cheeky smile and replied, “Oh, I’m so _sorry_.  I meant to say, ‘ _please_ go fuck yourself, _master’_.”  In the stunned silence that followed, the elf had simply walked away.  And somehow—no repercussion that Lysander had seen—probably because everyone, including their leader had laughed and now the elf seemed to get along with even the two he had been fighting.

            Lysander had made an effort _not_ to learn any of the slavers’ names.  He didn’t want to know them, and was content to stay a stranger himself.  He assigned them nicknames of his own—things that were mildly amusing to him, but nothing he would dare call them to their face.  They knew him as “boy” and “mercenary” and it had been good enough for him.

            The door opened, and two of the others joined them—the elf from before, and a man who Lysander suspected had been a thief before this.

            Thief said, “Our runaway is staying at an inn at the docks called ‘ _The Seahorse’_.”  He paused briefly, making a face.  “Seems he’s employed by a group of dwarves.”

            The elf barely seemed to be listening as he sat down and started polishing one of his blades, but still he added, “They’re smugglers.”  Daggers inspected the blade.  “He’s almost never alone—they work him too often to have much leisure time.”  He raised an eyebrow.  “However, they are heading to Fereldon.  It would be a simple matter to sail ahead, a few tips to the proper authorities—and they could all be imprisoned for smuggling—including… the runaway.”

            The rest was simple.  Fereldon was facing a Blight right now—it was high risk for the dwarves, but with a high pay.  Alternately, the authorities seizing their ships would be a decent pay off for the crown—and if a few men wanted to pay for the elf’s crimes of smuggling, who was going to argue that at such a crucial time?

            It was simple enough, really, but it involved a great deal of patience—and the slavers had little of that.  There was some expected arguing, a few suggested alternatives—none of which were as safe or as well thought out as what Daggers suggested.

            None of them ever spoke Fenris’ name aloud.  It was easier not to think about the moral implications of what they were doing.  Some genuinely didn’t care, and others were cruel about the prospect, but most, to Lysander, were numb to it.  They detached themselves by not thinking of the slaves as people—as creatures possessing names and histories.  Fenris was simply “the elf” or “the slave” or, most frequently, “the runaway”—and sometimes a combination of those.  Lysander supposed that it made it easier that way.  Most slave owners, he had learned, never bothered to learn their slaves names—it kept it impersonal and made them think of their slaves more like objects or animals.  That Danarius knew his household slaves by name meant something nearly unspeakable, something that made Lysander ill to consider.

            He heard the door to the inn open and close, but didn’t see which patron had left.  His eyes flicked back to the half-empty mug of ale.  He was none too anxious to sail again, but it seemed like they were leaving in the morning.


	75. The Streets of Despair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The smugglers catch wind of the slavers' plans and keep Fenris away from them.

            Milon walked briskly down the street, his hood pulled up to shadow his features.  After what he had just heard, he knew he dare not linger, nor let anyone see him.  He had gone to the inn on the arm of a whore, and had come down the stairs in time to hear the word “smugglers”.  Being a smuggler, he had stopped, and listened, hidden behind the wall, and all the while praying to the Ancestors that the men would not turn and look.  They hadn’t.  They spoke softly, but the walls were thin even so.  And they were careful in what they spoke of, but they could only be speaking of Fenris.

            He had to hurry, and hurry he did.  He made it to the _The Seahorse_ and roused Captain from his pallet with an almost frenzied shake.

            “What is it, Milon?” he demanded groggily, sitting up and rubbing an eye with the back of his hairy hand.

            Milon looked on anxiously, and Captain’s anger faded at the worry in the other’s eyes.  In a hushed whisper, he told Captain all that he had heard.  Captain was not so much worried as enraged.

            “We will act as if nothing has changed,” he told him.  “You will tell no one.  Not even Fenris.”  The Captain’s lips pressed into a thin line beneath his fearsome beard.  “But we’ll make sure that elf is so tired that he drops every night, and if he wants to go out alone…  Don’t let him.  Tell him he needs to guard the warehouse or something, but I never want him alone.”

            Milon nodded fiercely and swore that he would do this.  If Fenris knew, he would fall to one of two instincts, and Milon was not certain which would be the worse of the two.  One, is that the elf would run—which meant that the dwarves could not help him, and the elf might just end up running into a trap.  Two, is that the elf would choose to attack, and, once more, the dwarves could not help him.

            But if they waited, they could give him more help than he needed, and ample more than he would ever ask for.  Moreover, it was safer to pretend, and safer to simply reroute their course.

 

            Two days later, Milon breathed in relief to see the slavers’ ship depart, but he knew there could be those watching all the same.  As a precaution, he went to the local bounty office, and checked a list of bounties.  Fenris had not made international level yet, but he was aware that it was a possibility that he might one day.  It didn’t hurt to look.

            They had “accidentally” scheduled Fenris to work two shifts, one after the other, while the slavers were in town, and the day they departed and were on the docks all day, Fenris was safely asleep, and there were plenty of the dwarven smugglers nearby.  Only Milon and Captain knew, of course, but it was an easy enough task to arrange that Fenris was never left alone.  The elf may have suspected something amiss, but there was never quite enough evidence to question it.

            A few days before the ship was finished with repairs, Captain and Milon both agreed that it must be safe for the moment.  They had both been looking, and asking, and there was no sign of the slavers any longer—the Tevinters had moved on.  They both breathed a little easier for the elven hireling.  Let it never be said that they did not care for their own.

 

            Fenris was slightly annoyed at the “schedule errors” of late that had left him exhausted and frustrated all week long, and after a long half-dead sleep, he was feeling restless and confined in the rooms at the inn, so he decided to walk along the pier.  He had no desire to stray far; he didn’t know the local language.  Sometimes, he didn’t have to though.

            A pair of women he assumed were whores were looking at him—a middle-aged dwarven woman and a pock-marked human.  They were whispering to one another, and a part of him wondered what they said, and another part knew instinctively that they were talking about the lyrium.  When he passed them by, his suspicions were affirmed when they shrank away from him, rather than call out to him as they did the sailors.

            The fishing ships would be docking in an hour—he could see some of them in the bay.  If he wanted to avoid the horrid stench, he would do well to leave.  He turned and walked up a narrow path that was only a street by courtesy.  Laundry hung on lines, from window to window, high above his head.  Two half-naked children ran laughing through the mud ahead of him, and disappeared down a side passage.  He sidestepped the mud, and then a pile of dung.  He continued to walk, mindful of where he stepped.

            He saw a half-starved dog, flea-bitten and so thin he could count its ribs.  It was gnawing on an old scrap of leather, and had a wild look in its drooling eyes.  He meant to pass by it, but it tried to bite him as he passed.  He wondered if it was somehow sadder that the animal was too weak to manage the act.  It made him wish he had food for the poor creature.

            He continued to walk, away from the pier and the smell of the sea and the day’s catch.  The other smells of the city were often just as bad though.  In Antiva, they did nothing to try to hide their putrid stench with incense.  Rather, the tanneries, the midden heaps, the dead bird on the street—all their stench coalesced into a fetid whole.

            Fenris came to a wider, more open street, and walked, and listened, watching always.  A beggar with one arm cried for pennies.  No one even seemed to notice him.  Fenris didn’t have to know the language to know what the man said.  The language of begging was as universal as war.

            _Maybe my life could have been worse_ , he admitted to himself.  _Or maybe it was worse._   The worst part was not knowing.  He had no point of comparison.  Danarius had hinted that he had known Fenris’ mother.  That part still made his heart drop into his stomach to think about it.  What had happened to her?  He’d never know.  Danarius might have told him one day.  Annalkylie had mentioned a possible relative—a “blood link”.  He did wonder…

            “Perhaps one day, if you are very well behaved, I’ll tell you about your mother,” his master had said—years ago.  His tone had been something akin to a person talking to a dog.  But it was all the elf had, and he had to know.  He dare not ask, but he wanted to know so badly.

            It was plain to him that Danarius had owned him since his childhood.  But had he been born into slavery?  If Danarius knew Fenris’ mother, that seemed likely enough, but it was still uncertain to him.  He wondered what had happened to her, his mother.  _Dead, probably_ , he thought dryly.  _Or sold._   Maybe even both—who could tell?

            Danarius had once commented that he had bought him, but that didn’t mean he had been born free either, and there was no way to know if his master had been lying to him.  If he had learned nothing as a slave, it was that people lied.  If he hadn’t been born a slave, then what did that mean?  Danarius had also told him that he was from Seheron.  Had he been a slave in Seheron?  Or simply sold from there?  Had he and his mother been plucked from the alienage there, and sold?

            He couldn’t recall ever having been to an alienage before, nor was he inclined to see one.  He didn’t care.  The elves there were better off than those in slavery.

            Fact of the matter, he didn’t even know _where_ he had been before the Ritual.  Had he lived in Minrathous?  Or Vinewood?  Neither?  Since he had woken in Vinewood, that seemed to be the obvious place, but _Danarius_ lived in Minrathous.  He didn’t even know where the Ritual had been.  Probably in Ath Velanis.  Most experiments were conducted there.

            _I used him in my experiments_.  _He worked in Ath Velanis._

            Experiments… and it had made Vairin go mad.  Was it possible?

            A group of nervous, giggling children were looking at him.  Street urchins, by the looks of them.  He continued on, but one of them was shoved forward, and the boy trotted up to him, and said something in a language Fenris didn’t know.  The elf shook his head, and didn’t know how to tell him that he didn’t understand the Antivan tongue.

            The boy tried again, even walking in front of him, most urgently.  Fenris sighed.  “I don’t know what you’re saying,” he tried to tell him.  Something dawned on the boy then, and he shouted something back at his chortling friends.  A girl ran up to them.  Her knowledge of the King’s Speech was rudimentary and halting, but it served.

            “Is real?” she translated, pointing at the tattoos.

            “It’s lyrium,” Fenris found himself answering, while trying to walk past the pair, but they kept pace with him.  The girl translated to the boy when he tugged at her dingy sleeve.

            “Tattoo?”  She made a vague gesture.  “A needle!”  He didn’t know what she meant, or was trying to say.  She seemed frustrated.  “It… hurt?”

            He almost laughed.  “Yes,” he answered simply, and wished very much that the two urchins would just go away.  He kept an eye on both their hands, though.

            But with that, the pair bid him farewell, and went back to their friends.  Some kind of childish dare, he supposed.  Go talk to the weird-looking foreigner—why not?

            Fenris looked back at his surroundings, watching the people pass by and go about their business.  He watched a dirty pickpocket cut someone’s purse, and steal away into a dark alley.  He watched a woman selling vegetables, and a man haggle over the price of a chain.

            He wondered about his father sometimes too.  And his grandfather, mentioned once years ago.  Had he ever known the man?  For a slave, his master had certainly kept track of his pedigree.  Of course—if he had been born and bred for the coliseum or the fighting pits, that was often expected.  The more detailed the records, the higher the price they could put on his head, sometimes literally.

            Danarius had often brought Fenris with him to the coliseum, and wagered on sweaty, bloodied slaves fighting in the sands below.  He hated the coliseum.  It embodied everything that was wrong with the Imperium, all in one place.  The magisters flocked there, the common people went to watch others die for their amusement.  Criminals often met their execution in those sands.  One of the worst things he had ever witnessed was a group of slave children being thrown to a pack of wolves.  Each had been covered in a different sauce, and wagers were made on which would be eaten first.

            A magister had said, “Seems an awful waste.  I could’ve used them in the mines.”  He laughed.  The man had mines and a quarry, and was known as being one of the major suppliers of coal and stone in half the Imperium.  He was also known for making children do most of the work of mining, because they had small nimble hands and could fit into the smaller tunnels.  Fenris had been to a stone quarry once—when Danarius was looking at it as a potential investor.  His master had looked at the eggshell stone brought from the earth, but Fenris had looked at the hungry, sullen faces of the slaves working the quarry, each of them with a look about them as if they had lost all trace of hope for anything better.  If his heart were not already broken, he had thought that day, it would break.

            Danarius had said, “They were plucked off the streets this morning.”

            “Street urchins?”

            “Pickpockets and thieves, more like,” the man’s wife said, a slave fanning her.

            Sometimes Fenris still felt like he could hear those children’s screams, backed by the amused laughter of the crowd.  He had cried that day, when he crawled desolately into bed, because no one else would cry for them.  No one would mourn their young lives lost in the name of amusement, but he did.  He cried for each of their lives gone, and he cried at his own helplessness.  There had been nothing he could have hoped to do to save them.  He couldn’t even save himself.

            Annalkylie had always helped the poor, and he had never seen her at the coliseum.  He had really thought…

            But she had turned out just like all the rest of them, hadn’t she?


	76. Autumn Storms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A storm wrecks the smuggler's ship, and Fenris is captured by the slavers.

            “Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t Fereldon in the other direction?” Fenris inquired of one of the sailors aboard the ship.  He had noticed a few hours ago that they were going west instead of south and east.

            “We changed course,” he said with a shrug, and spat over the side.  “Captain’s orders.”

            _Odd_ , he thought.  Or maybe it wasn’t.  For all he knew, it was quite ordinary.  None of the crew seemed to think much of it, but it seemed to him that one place was like any other to them, so long as they could sell their wares, they didn’t much care.

            Still, weeks later, when they docked in Orlais, they made Fenris stay on the ship.  “No one cares about dwarves, but you speak like an Imperial,” Captain had said, jabbing a finger at him.  “And _no one_ in Orlais likes Tevinters.  So stay here and guard the cargo.  We’ll only be here a day or two before we head back up the coast.”

            So Fenris paced about the ship restlessly, bored and wanting to go see the city, but unable to.  He looked out at it though, and watched what people the harbor brought in.  The Trade Tongue was becoming more natural to him, but he still thought mostly in Tevene.  Captain made _sense_ but he really could have just kept his mouth shut and no one would know the difference.  Or would they?  He wondered if it wasn’t just because of the lyrium.  That could be, too, he supposed.

            It still seemed unfair—especially when the fishing ships docked.  He felt like he was suffocating from the stench.  He supposed there were worse things.

 

            Two weeks at port, and the slavers began to grow suspicious that something had leaked.  Lysander watched them, suspecting one another, quarrelling.  They even questioned him, to which he had answered, “I can’t go home without the elf.  Why do you think I’d let the bastard go?”

            And they had left him alone, and eyed one another, and watched.  The slavers quarreled, and accused one another, and in due time a fight broke out between Thief and Toad.  It started with yelling, then it broke out in a brawl and Daggers kicked Toad in the back of the head.  When Toad came at Daggers with a knife, Thief ran him through.  It wasn’t long before another fight broke out, though—this time between Billy Goat and Fool—this one began with drinking.  Billy Goat broke a chair over Fool’s back and, while no one died that time, Fool may never walk again.

            Port was not a good place for the slavers, together.  By the third week, and still no sight of the smugglers, they sat down together, and debated over what to do, under the strict clause that no weapons would be drawn.

            Lysander wasn’t exactly listening.  Mostly, the debate was between Billy Goat, Thief, Daggers, and Griffin.  Leader was silent as ever, watching, and seemed to be in deep thought.  The others put in the occasional word, but really only one thing was agreed upon:  They were running out of coin.  They had sent word to the magister, and the reply was yet to come.

            They wondered if they should wait for word, but word may not reach them for weeks yet.  They also considered taking what coin they had left and abandoning the task.  Lysander argued against it with the best of them when that opinion rose.  Some of the mercenaries, though, spat, and left, leaving only the Imperial bounty hunters, and Lysander—even smelly old Billy Goat left by the end of the fourth week.

            “You can’t trust slavers to be honorable enough to follow through with a contract,” Thief had confided in Lysander over a bottle of port.

            “Then why are you?”

            He raised an eyebrow.  “It was either go on this venture, or be removed of my right hand.  Time will tell if I have chosen poorly.”  _It seemed I named him properly,_ Lysander mused to himself.

            Daggers finally came back with a tip, and a letter from the magister.  He was grinning from ear to pointy ear, and it was more malicious than anything else.  The seal was broken, and the elf slammed the parchment down on the table hard enough to make the remaining slavers jump.  “The smugglers tricked us,” he announced.

            “No—really?” Thief demanded.

            Everyone ignored him.  Daggers raised an eyebrow.  Lysander found himself wondering what Danarius was holding over his head, to make him do this too.  “They changed course, and went to Orlais.  By now, they might be heading back.  We can intercept them when they make port again.”

            “Where’s that?”  The elf frowned disapprovingly at Thief.  Thief scowled.  “Am I not allowed to talk?”

            “No,” he said flatly.  Lysander wondered if they had been fighting lately too, which seemed odd to him.  They were almost always together, and usually went scouting together too.  Come to think of it, they hadn’t gone together this time.  Thief grumbled, but no one paid him any heed, particularly Daggers.  “They’ll be stopped in the Free Marches on the way back, but they’ll have to dock once in Ferelden to resupply, and it’s bloody unlikely it’ll be Denerim.  I, for one, am getting quite tired of their little ship.  I say something tragic happens to it.”

            There was nothing else for it, and everyone else was quite tired of the meddlesome smugglers as well.  With them out of the picture, nailing Fenris down, at least, would be easy.  Caging him might be another story, but Melons had a plan for that as well.  Lysander had even seen it, in the hold of the ship.

            A cage with bars as thick as his wrist—heavy and iron, with a lead core, but even that wouldn’t really defend against Fenris’ power.  It was experimental, but the lyrium runes on the bars would be the real cage, and a heavy dosage of medications to keep him sedated, just in case.

            “Does anyone know which city they’ll be resupplying in?” Melons piped up.

            “Not yet,” Daggers admitted.  “Give me a day; I’ll find out.”  Lysander had no idea where he was getting his information from—he imagined the docks.  The commissioners maybe, clerks, other sailors, other smugglers, but mostly perhaps the buyers.

            That was met with some disapproval, and complaints.  Daggers sighed and got up, likely off to do more digging.

            “I’ll come with you,” Thief offered, rising.

            Daggers shot him a nasty look, and Thief slowly sat back down.  “What’d you do to him, man?” Melons asked him, gesturing in the direction the elf had gone with his clay cup.  Some of the liquid spilled onto his round belly, for which he had earned the unspoken nickname.

            Thief looked sullen, and picked up the parchment left on the table.  “I beat him at chess,” he said without feeling.  It was a terrible lie.  “Can anyone here read?”

            Lysander said, “I can.”  Thief handed him the parchment, and Lysander scanned it, before he read it aloud to the company.  It was from Danarius, but he recognized it as being Hadriana’s handwriting.  He was giving them a sum of money, which they could pick up from the bank.  There were five names, and only five, that would be acceptable to go get the money and at least two had to go to collect it.  Lysander was one of the five, and Thief was another.

            The two quietly left to collect the sum, the leader of their troop angrily leading them, for he had not been mentioned.  Leader was a quiet man, barely speaking at all in fact—owing mostly to him missing a portion of his tongue, which wasn’t something he spoke about, even when asked… and it was unwise to ask.

            Lysander suspected that the reason Leader wasn’t mentioned was because he wasn’t one of the people being forced into this.  Danarius had written a nice list of those who were:  Lysander, Thief, Fool, Patches, and Bird—roughly translated from their real names, respectively.  Well, Fool couldn’t walk despite the mage’s best efforts, Patches was preoccupied with a whore, and Bird had flown away a week ago.  But that made him wonder about Daggers.  He was an elf—how could he be a slaver?  It was wrong, even more wrong than a human doing it.

            When they collected the sum, Lysander handed it over to Leader wordlessly, and he looked over it before he shoved it in his pack safely.  Lysander did not worry if he would run off with it; the bounty hunting was the man’s life, and he had signed a contract.  To break it meant he could not work anymore, and to steal payment and break it meant to be hunted himself.

            It left Lysander to walk back with Thief alone.  “Why are you here?” Thief asked him, out of the blue.  A mangy dog shat in the street.  Barefoot boys hit each other with sticks playing at being knights in the alley.  The autumn leaves littered the ground, and the locals said it would snow soon.  The Tevinters, used to warm weather and perfumed streets, hated it here.

            “I signed a contract.”

            “You hate it,” Thief told him flatly.  “You hate everything about it.”

            Lysander was quiet for a moment, wondering if he could trust the thief.  He had one of those faces that blended into a crowd, one of those instantly likeable voices, and a smile that would charm a beggar from his coin.  “The magister threatened me and my family.”

            Thief nodded appreciatively.  “I see.”

            The young man was silent for a moment, glancing at Thief.  Thief had a kempt short beard, and eyes like two pools of chocolate, and looked more Rivaini than Imperial, with his darkened skin.  He also spoke with a peasant’s accent, slurring some of his words, and he was illiterate.  Probably grew up on the streets as a pickpocket.  “So what’s really going on between you and—“  Lysander almost said “Daggers” but he had to stop and think of his real name, and couldn’t remember it.  “The elf.”

            Thief frowned.  “Aramael?”

            Lysander nodded.  “What’s going on between you two?”

            Thief raised an eyebrow.  “I beat him at chess,” he said, the lie coming out more smoothly this time.

            The lad scoffed.  “What are all the rules for the knight?  In chess, I mean.”

            An awkward pause ensued.  “It… moves in a… particular pattern,” he said haltingly.

            Lysander pursed his lips.  “I see.”  He glanced at him.  “Liar.”

            “It does though.”  It was almost a question, and the other laughed aloud.  Thief was silent for a moment.  “It’s none of your business.”

            But Lysander heard all about it anyway.  Late at night in the cabin, a day later when they set sail again.  He shared it with Thief, Daggers, and Melons.  Melons had fallen asleep at the table, drunk, and he was so fat no one was inclined to move him, so there they left him.

            Yesterday morning, Daggers had informed Leader of the ship’s destination—a little place, barely a port, in western Fereldon.  Well, they had decided that trying to catch it there was a waste of time, so they had opted for its next destination, which was Nevarra, or the Free Marches, if the weather was very poor.

            He woke without moving or opening his eyes, and first noticed the two arguing in hushed tones.  He could only catch snatches of conversation here and there.

            “… If you would just…”

            “It’s folly…”

            It became more and more heated, their whispers harder to discern, but Lysander could sense the heat of them, before he heard a different sound entirely.  Something familiar and…  One eye opened, and he glanced toward the back of the cabin.  Daggers had pinned Thief to the wall, and at first Lysander was alarmed, then just disturbed.

            Thief struggled at first, then he embraced the other, the kiss deepening with the heat of their anger.  Lysander wished he hadn’t woken up, and suddenly wished he hadn’t heard any of it.

            They broke from the kiss, and just resumed arguing again, like it had never happened.  He rolled his eyes.  They were a little louder this time.  “After this, just come away with me.”

            “Where would we go?”  That one was Daggers.  “You tell me.  Where would we go where you wouldn’t be looked on with disgust for being with an elf—and a man.  _Tell me where_.”

            The floorboards creaked when Thief stepped toward him.  “Anywhere.  A… a fucking island—I don’t know.  Anywhere.  I’m sure we could find somewhere—somewhere secluded.  _Away_.  Away from… from fucking everything.”  Lysander wondered if the man were either delusional or simply desperate.  Or very possibly in love—which meant both.

            A pause.  “So that when people do find us, and they will, I’ll have nowhere to run, and they’ll kill me?”

            A shocked pause.  “You can’t…”

            “Oh?”  Daggers scoffed.  “When I was a teenager, I knew two women—not personally, but I knew where they lived.  One was human, one an elf…”

            “But they were women,” Thief objected.

            Daggers made a noise of complaint, and he heard a muffled sound he knew to be another kiss.  The argument simply resumed again.  “The human was a Circle mage from Qarinus—First Enchanter, gave up her post,” he added.  That seemed to settle the matter.  Lysander heard more noises he could associate being made with a mouth against flesh, but Daggers was still talking.  “They tried to go away too.  Mmm.”  A pause, some heavy breathing.  “They waited until the mage was out of town.”  There was a loud clank when something metal hit the floor—a belt buckle?  “They found the elf’s body nailed to a fence post.”

            A stunned silence.  Lysander’s stomach clenched—either from the additional noises he was hearing, or the story, he could not say.  “That won’t happen,” Thief whispered.  His throat sounded dry.  “We’ll go farther…  No one will ever find us.  No one will ever know where we are.”

            “You’re an idiot,” Daggers whispered in the most affectionate tone possible to speak such words.  “Ah!”  He didn’t know what the yelp was about, and distinctly did not want to.  Lysander wished he could just fall back asleep instantly.  “Mmm…  But it’s not just humans that are the problem, my love.”  Something about his accent…  It had changed.

            Thief made a low moaning sound.  “Elves too?  Maker, Ara, why can’t we just be together?”

            “I am very pressured…”  There was a pause.  “… to have children, you know.”

            “Because…?”

            “Yes.”  Lysander wondered what that meant.  Elves were pressured to have children—their own kind pressured them to reproduce, and of course so did their masters.  “And… when I free her, I’ll have to…  I mean, it’s the only logical thing to do.  We’re the last…”

            “Ara…  You can’t,” Thief whispered, and sounded brokenhearted even to Lysander’s ears.

            There was more noise like clothing rustling.  “I have to.”

            “Then…  Just let me come with you.  That’s all.  You can still…”  He sighed.  “I’d be fine with it, really.  Just… come back to me when it’s done.”  _Yep_ , Lysander decided.  _In love._ “I’ll…  I’ll help raise your kid.  Ara, I’d do anything for you…”

            “You’re so stupid.  So…”  More kissing.  “Fucking…”  A muffled moan.  “Stupid.  Mmm.”  He heard the sound of clothing rustling again.

            Thief complained, “Lysander is _right there_.”

            “He sleeps like a dead man,” Daggers muttered.  “So just shut up and fuck me.”

            Lysander’s eyes squeezed shut, listening to them argue again, this time about sex.  A losing battle—by the sound of it, they were both naked soon.  Lysander wished he could close his ears the same way he closed his eyes:  Soft muffled moans, sucking kisses, the sound of flesh against flesh, the wet sound of one of them fucking the other, the wooden posts on the cot creaking against a backdrop of their heavy breathing, and a few whispered words Lysander did not catch.  He imagined this was not the first time they had done this, even with him in the room, if they knew how he normally slept.

            _A thief,_ Lysander thought, bemused, _needs a pair of daggers the way a fine pair of blades beg for a hand to wield them._

            When it stopped—a quick traipse in the dark was all it was—Lysander, vastly annoyed, muttered just loudly enough for them to hear, “Next time fucking warn me—I’ll leave!”

            “Shit!”  Thief.

            “Fuck!”  Daggers.

            Lysander felt immensely pleased with himself, chuckling quietly.  Decent revenge, he supposed.  He heard quick footsteps, and then Thief kneeling by the bed, looking up at him.  Lysander stared at him, confused.  The man looked genuinely concerned.  “You can’t tell anyone,” he whispered.

            Lysander looked aghast.  “Why would I…?”  He could only imagine what would happen.  The racism was bad enough, and two men…  _Good enough to fuck, but not to love_.  “Maker, I…”

            Daggers walked by, flipping something toward Lysander, and then walked away.  “For your silence,” he whispered.

            Lysander sat partway up, and looked at the single silver coin lying on his bed, a bright glinting circle on the linen sheets.  Thief looked at him pleadingly.  Lysander noticed that both of them were still naked; Thief had a tattoo of some kind of weird, skinny lizard on his chest.  Lysander looked from him to Daggers, and back, and didn’t know what to say.  He had never intended to tell anyone.  He had never intended to cause trouble for them, or anything else.  He didn’t care if they wanted to be together; he really didn’t.  Such things were not to his taste, but if it made them happy…   It would be less awkward if they were both clothed.  Or if Daggers didn’t just stand there, very casually, completely naked, glistening with sweat in the dim light.  At least Thief had the decency to crouch and kind of hide himself.

            “I…” Lysander stammered, unsure of how to put his thoughts to words.

            Daggers raked his hand through his hair.  “Do you need more?” he whispered, pinching the bridge of his nose, then covered his eyes with his hand.  Thief looked away, and even in the dark of the cabin, illuminated only by a single taper, Lysander could see his face turning red.  Daggers’ complexion was pale with worry.

            Lysander picked up the coin, and didn’t know how to tell him he didn’t need anything at all.  “It’s…”  He stopped, and tried again.  “I just…”

            Daggers made a face, and went to his pack, and began angrily rifling through it.  Thief looked back at him, his eyes wide and pleading.  Daggers was younger than Thief, but Thief seemed like the younger of the two in the way he behaved—or maybe the elf was just more worldly.  Daggers heaved something at Lysander, and it missed his face by a scant inch—and he knew if Daggers had wanted to hit him, it would have hit.  The object landed on his cot with a dull thump, and he turned and looked at it.  A small leather purse.

            Daggers was shaking with rage; Lysander could see it in his gray alien eyes.  “Take it,” he hissed.  “Take all of it, human.  It’s all your kind has ever done.”  And Lysander heard the elf’s accent clearly for the first time—carefully concealed, and carefully hidden, but there when he was upset, and heartbreaking for anyone to hear it:  Dalish.  What had happened to him to make him end up here?

            Lysander looked at both of them, aghast.  What was his silence costing him?  What was he doing?  He grabbed the purse, and rose, and shoved the purse and the silver coin back into the elf’s hands.  Daggers stared at him, watching him like an animal in a trap watched the hunter.  “Keep it,” he whispered.  “All I ask is the same silence if I ever need it.”

            The elf’s fingers curled around the purse, and he looked away.

 

            Fereldon was damp, cold, and all the people there smelled strongly of dog.  It took Fenris half a day to decide that he didn’t like it much at all.  The dwarves insisted quite strongly that he needed to see the rest of Fereldon before he judged it—the people and the big cities.  But even then, when he inquired, they admitted that the cities were not grand places.  Fereldon was a simple country, with simple people.  They ate simple food, and lived simply.  To Fenris’ eyes, they ate stew that was so boiled it was nearly flavorless, their clothes were as drab as the mud that seemed to perpetually muck up the streets, and the people were as grim as he had ever seen.  The town they were in seemed to have all the stink of a city with open sewers, but with the added bonus of having streets as muddy as any country road after a spring rain.

            He also was not seeing them at their best, what with all the talk was about the Darkspawn in the south.  Some of the people were refugees, fleeing from the creatures, and the towns they had come to were port towns amassing refugees trying to escape the country, which owed to some of the general filth he was sure.

            Minrathous had never really been… home exactly.  He had never really thought of anywhere as “home” to his knowledge, but there were things he missed—secretly.  Things he would be loathe admit, things he thought about late at night when he shivered in the rain, guarding the ship from thieves.  Eight hours of sleep most nights, hot baths (he couldn’t remember the last time he had had a proper bath), three meals a day, and… the certainty of knowing he never had to carve out his own future.  His life was utterly in someone else’s hands, and there was a particular stress of it being in his hands that he had never known before.  He was responsible for his actions, for his life.  No one made his decisions for him or told him what to do—outside of some guard duty and lugging cargo, and even then he didn’t _have_ to do that; he could walk away if he wanted to.  It was sometimes terrifying to think about, after years of it never being his responsibility.

            They said that, when Andraste freed the elves and they left on foot for the Dales, many turned back, choosing the certainty of slavery over the rocky road to freedom.  He understood their choice.  Sometimes he wondered if he would not have been one of the ones that turned back.  Danarius never would have kept him out in the cold like this, and Minrathous stunk—any city smelled foul, he learned—but the incense masked it and the streets were never befouled with the shit and mud that was so plentiful in Fereldon.  Still, there were other places besides Fereldon.  He didn’t mind Antiva, even if he didn’t speak the language.  Rivain had been fascinating too, and maybe the Free Marches would be better.

            It would be more familiar, anyway, down to the architecture:  Cities that were now free from the yoke of the Imperium.  Yes, he wanted to go there.

            Before the first snow, the dwarves sailed for the Free Marches.  Fenris was on deck at the time, and he slowly began to grow suspicious that he never would have known the why of anything, had he not been.

            They began to sail into port at one of the cities, and Captain looked out on deck.  Fenris had happened to glance in his direction at the time, or he never would have seen it.  The captain’s eyes went wide, and he saw surprise, then anger, and finally a bit of fear, when he began roaring to turn around.  Fenris had looked back at what the man was looking at.  Fenris could not have told one ship from another, for they looked very much the same to him, but this one looked familiar.  The figurehead, he could glimpse as the dwarves worked to turn the ship around, grumbling all the while, and it was unique enough to remember having seen it before.  The figure was a worm-holed maiden with her arms outstretched, and turned into dragon’s wings that flanked the ship.

            Where had he seen that ship before?

            Captain ordered him below decks to help with some menial chore, and he wondered if he were not just getting him out of sight.  A few days later, and Fenris could see another ship following them, and gaining on them.  Captain was as skilled a sailor as they came, but the other one was a much faster galley.  They would be upon them soon, and as it approached, he could see the figurehead.

            What was going on?

            Captain and his first mate were in a heated debate inside the cabin, and the other dwarves were anxious, but no one seemed to know exactly what was going on.  The rumor was pirates, but who knew?

            The door opened, and Captain ordered Fenris inside.  The elf was nothing short of confused, but he had a sinking feeling in his stomach about it.  Could it be Imperial bounty hunters?

            His fears were confirmed shortly, and Captain was as frank about it as ever.  “We’ve been avoiding them for a couple of months now,” he said, glancing anxiously toward the door as if they would burst in at any moment.  “Looks like they might catch us though.”

            Fenris was silent a long moment.  They had never told him.  He supposed it was pointless to be angry about it now, but he would have liked to have known.  “You should just turn me in to them,” he said quietly.  He didn’t want anyone else to die.  These dwarves, for the most part, were tradesmen and smugglers.  They were not warriors.  He looked at them.  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

            The captain sighed.  “We didn’t want you to run, and we thought we could lose them—we even did, for a while.”

            Fenris stared down at the floor.  They were right; he would have run.  The moment they got into port, he would have run.  And then what?  He didn’t know.  He would be on foot, have no idea where he was going, and just run in any direction—which was a bad idea.  Furthermore, he would be abandoning the only people willing to help him.  They were probably right not to tell him, but that did not excuse the behaviour; he had a right to know if he were in danger.  He looked up.  “You still should have told me.”

            Both the dwarves were quiet for a moment, and then began to argue with him, though they all knew it was the best possible outcome for all of them.  Captain was silent for a long time, though.  “When they catch us,” he said slowly, and glanced toward Fenris.  “And they will, rest assured…  When they do, perhaps we can work something out.”

            Fenris raised an eyebrow.  There was no where to run, and he couldn’t hide.  The open sea had always made him nervous, because of that, but he had thought they couldn’t catch him if he kept moving like this.  He had been wrong.  “Yes,” he said bitterly.  “Give me to them, and they won’t kill you.”

            Captain looked like he had half a mind to smack the elf upside the head.  “This is a smuggling ship, after all.  And mercenaries are a fickle sort of man.”  He meant to bribe them.  “I owe you a bit of coin.  The rest you will have to work off, but I will be fair about it.”

            Fenris only shook his head in despair.  He didn’t know that they could be reasoned with.  He didn’t know that they could be bribed, or anything of the sort.  “I’ll be in the galley,” he muttered.  Outside, the sky was dark and it had begun to rain.

            Below deck, Fenris had begun to drink, and drink.  He contemplated throwing himself into the sea, and knew he couldn’t.  He thought about trying to kill as many of the slavers as he could before they brought him down, but that felt hollow too.  If he went with them, head low and sullen, he would live.  He knew he wanted to live.  Beyond anything, he had always been certain of that.

            He didn’t know who he was, didn’t know his name, his family, his history, but he had always known he wanted to live, and he held on to that desire, because when everything else was stripped away, that was all he had.

            The ship began to rock and sway, and even through the haze of drink, he knew a late autumn storm was brewing.  Maybe it would keep the galley away for a while longer at least.  He held out little hope for it, though.

            Truth be told, he held little hope for anything at all, least of all his sobriety.  Some hours later, he knew the storm had escalated.  The shouts from the sailors, the way the ship swayed.  He could hear lightning as the storm raged, and he hoped the galley would sink and end his current problems.  And if the smuggler’s ship sank, well…

            He drank.

            The boards rocked and creaked, and the wind howled, and men cried out.  He kept himself in a corner, and kept himself from being propelled about the room by the force of the ship by pushing his feet against one of the bolted down benches.

            He drank himself into a stupor, and only continued to drink.

            Fenris must have passed out, because he woke, surprisingly intact but bruised, on the floor of the galley, and thought it was vaguely amusing that that was what the slaver’s ship was.  Why call the different things by the same name, anyway?  Possibly, he was still a little drunk.

            He thought it best if he get an update on that (the whereabouts of the galley, not how sober he wasn’t), but decided it may be wiser to stay put, when he noticed the storm still raged.  He found more drink, and went back to it, hoping it would chase away his headache.

            He drank himself through the storm, and listened to the cries, the water, the howling wind.  He heard a terrible cracking sound and instinct alone told him it was bad.  One of the dwarves came down, and Fenris asked him what it was.  The dwarf was pale and shaking, and drank a lot before he confessed, “The mast is broken.”

            Fenris drank more, and shivered, and wondered if he were going to die.

            By the evening of the following day, the storm’s rage had ebbed to a gentle annoyance, and Fenris, still a bit intoxicated, went on the deck to look at the damage it had wrought.  Three men overboard, nearly everyone with injuries, but the galley was nowhere in sight.  The Waking Sea was narrow, but they had been blown so far off course that they were not certain of which direction to go, and the skies had been black for so long, who could tell where they were?  There were no stars out to navigate, no sun to light their way.  They could only wait for morning, and hope for the best.  In the meantime, Fenris tried to shake off the drink guiltily, and helped as best he knew how to bandage wounds, and pick up slack around the wreckage of a ship.

            The dwarves were in poor spirits, and everyone was worried.  Little was said, and much was done.  For the moment, there was food, and drink, and Fenris was kept busy enough helping to tend to those that were worse off than he.  He knew little of caring for wounds, but he could follow instructions well enough, and that was all it came down to.  Tensions were high, and by sunrise, they at least had some idea of where to go.

            They sent out the longboats, and tugged the ship with them, which seemed to accomplish nothing when it came right down to it.  Everyone hated it but without the stars to guide them, they had no way of knowing if they could even make it to shore in the boats, and that was the worst part.  And they had to try.

            When the sun rose, they headed due north, hoping it was to the Free Marches again, but it was impossible to say if Fereldon would not have been closer.  It was three days before the frigid rain let up enough for them to tell their location by the stars, and even then, they had to wait for nightfall, and when the dwarves swore, Fenris again wondered if they were going to die here.

            When the hunters came, it was almost a relief.  An end was always a relief after a struggle of any kind.  Fenris waited in the galley, drinking again, and sullen as ever.  All was very quiet when they boarded the wrecked ship, and he could hear the Captain talking to the slavers.  No, not slavers exactly, from the sounds of it.  Just bounty hunters, willing to take the crew and captain and the cargo, for a very high price.  They found Fenris in the galley, too drunk to stand.  Two of them had to carry him out.  He didn’t struggle, didn’t say a word, but they put him in a cage regardless, and he sat in the corner, and somehow it all felt very nostalgic, and he could not say why exactly.

            There was a pile of rags in one corner, a chamber pot in another.  He could see his sword in the hold, through the bars, with the rest of the smuggler’s cargo.  The smugglers themselves avoided him, and when one did venture near him, they avoided eye contact.  Perhaps it was guilt, he couldn’t say.  He sat, and stared at his hands, watching the glow of the lyrium through the gloom of the hold.  He studied the bars, and wondered if he could put his fist through them.  They had lyrium etched into them too.  It had to be an expensive cage.

            The ship docked a week later.  The dwarves, ever smugglers, had been giving him liquor upon request, and he was too drunk to care about anything, but Captain had whispered, “If you can escape, we will help you.”  The hunters dropped the dwarves and what they did not take of their cargo in a Free Marches city, and then were quickly on their way.

            But Fenris had been too downhearted to care.  He was going back to Tevinter, back to Minrathous, back to his master.  Maybe it was where he belonged.  He didn’t know.  He felt like he didn’t belong anywhere.  How can you belong anywhere when you don’t know who you are?

            He found solace at the bottom of a bottle, and a couple of the hunters were even sympathetic, and didn’t at all mind bringing him rum.  A young boy in particular looked nothing but guilty whenever he came down to bring him meals.  The hunters took turns of it, and the sailors flatly refused to come near someone “etched with such a dangerous material”.  There were slaves somewhere on the ship, but for the most part he didn’t see them either.

            Fenris didn’t care.  He was miserable, and missed his sword.  He slept most of the time.  There was nothing else to do.

 

            Fenris lifted his head when the door opened.  He blinked against the dim light of the lantern, watched the light fall across the floorboards.  He couldn’t see who it was past the rows and stacks of boxes and goods, but he listened to their footfalls.

            Whoever it was, they tripped on the last step, the slaver letting out a cry of alarm, and nearly fell.  There was some amount of swearing and his current guard, a large man with a big belly, sat up.  “Asher?” he demanded.  “You’re late.”

            “Damnit—ow,” Asher complained.  “I think I stubbed my toe.”

            The larger man rolled his eyes and picked up his axe.  “Just don’t let it get in the way of guarding our… _troublesome_ prisoner.”  The term was a slight, because Fenris had not been even the slightest bit of trouble.  He had been perfectly mellow and compliant throughout the entire voyage—and drunk.

            The man walked past the other slaver, and Asher limped over to the cage.  He plopped down on a crate, grimacing.  “Why does a stubbed toe hurt so much?” he whined.  Fenris looked up at him briefly.  It was that Rivaini-looking bounty hunter.  So, his name was Asher.  When Asher grew bored, he paced restlessly, and tinkered around with the stuff in the hold.  Fenris had seen him steal things before, and assumed that he must be a thief by trade, and the habit was hard to drop. 

            Presently, Asher was going through the collection of pickled foods.  “Pickled herring, pickled trout, pickled bass, pickled surprise fish, pickled—Is that a fish eye?  That’s disgusting.”  Fenris wanted to gag at the thought.  _Please_ , he pleaded silently.  _Don’t open those._   “I’ve heard the best meat in a fish is around their eye sockets though…  But _ew_.”  Asher was always talking to himself, and frequently joked about it with the others, that Fenris could see.  “What else is here?  Pickled pickles, pickled tomato, pickled eggs, pickled radish—pickled plums!”  He grabbed the jar and hopped back onto the crate.  “I fucking hate sailing, and I am never eating anything pickled ever again after this.”

            He reached into the jar and popped a plum into his mouth.  He ate about five of them before he glanced at Fenris.  “Want one?” he asked him.  Fenris didn’t even look at him.  Asher shrugged and continued eating them, before he once again grew bored.  When Fenris looked up again, the slaver had set the jar down and had two of the plums between his fingers, one in each hand.  “Andraste, we find you guilty of insurrection and heresy, and we sentence you to _death_!” he cried in a fake hissing voice.  Fenris stared at him as if he were insane.  This one in a high pitched, squealing voice, “We will never be silenced!”

            The right plum, “We sentence you to death, now you have a choice—leap into the pit, or be pushed!”

            Asher happened to look up to see Fenris staring at him.  Fenris was drunk, but he wasn’t drunk enough to accept Asher’s ridiculous behaviour as normal.  “I am an adult,” Asher insisted with all due seriousness.  Fenris nodded slowly in a way that not at all accepted this fact.  “Don’t you judge me.”

            The elf raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.  _This_ was one of his jailers.  He wanted to slam his head against the bars.  He had let himself be caught by someone who _talked to pickled plums_.  The door opened, and Asher’s eyes widened.  He popped both plums in his mouth, and screwed the jar closed.  He shoved the jar down between two crates, and lounged on the crate as if he had not just been eating and playing with plums.

            The stairs creaked as the new person walked down them, and Asher rose when he saw who it was.  “Something wrong?”

            “I missed you,” the other confessed, a male voice.  The other man walked toward him.  In the light, Fenris saw that it was an elf, but obviously not a slave.  The elf was too confident and comfortable to be a slave.  That made him angry.  Elves being slavers just seemed wrong to him.  How could they?  It betrayed everything they were, everything their sad history was.

            Asher walked away, following the elf around a row of boxes, and Fenris could tell what was going on by the sounds he heard.  He leaned his head back against the bars, and his eyes closed.  He wondered what it was like to have sex, to want someone and have them want you back the same way.

            “Mmm.  And the Imperials, once again, conquer the elven nation,” Asher murmured with a laugh, but Fenris had sharp hearing.  And wished he did not.

            “I’m going to hurt you,” the elf hissed back.

            “Then I’m just going to keep you pinned like this until I’m hard again…”

            After that, the elf came down frequently on Asher’s shifts, and he eventually learned the elf’s name was Aramael, and they would fuck like rabbits.  If Fenris did have any interest in trying to escape, it would be in their routine sexual escapades.

            On one such time, they were in the act, and the door upstairs opened.  Fenris smirked to himself, wondering what kind of trouble they would get into.  He heard the pair scramble to get their clothing back in order.  Aramael hid while Asher rounded the corner, his hair in disarray and his clothing slightly askew, but it was just that blonde boy, and Aramael came out of hiding.

            The boy looked at both of them and sighed.  “You two are going to get in trouble one day,” he muttered, lifting a sack of flour from the floor.  “Be more careful.”

            The pair flushed, but of course went right back to where they were once the boy had gone.  Fenris hoped that they did get in trouble one day—the elf in particular, who would not even look at him, which told him that Aramael was guilty about it.

 

            On the voyage, Lysander eventually got both Thief’s and Daggers’ stories.  Melons frequently drank himself unconscious, and it left the other three to talk, so they talked.  There was little else to do on the ship.

            Thief had, in fact, been a thief.  His father was an ex-Rivaini pirate, his mother a Tevinter whore.  One day, his father had pulled up his pants and realized he was in love.  Thief admitted that he might be another man’s son—bloody unlikely, considering his looks, but it was hard to say with a whore.  When he was three, his father simply disappeared one day—might be bounty hunters, might have simply felt the call of the sea again, but he disappeared soon enough.  Later, his mother contracted a disease and passed away, leaving him penniless on the streets, so of course he learned the arts of a cutpurse and petty thievery.

            He was here because of the higher rate of pay, and a contact of his had set him up with the position, saying that they needed someone of his profession, just in case.  It was either take the contract, or have his hand removed.

            Daggers had been more hesitant, only giving his past once Lysander reluctantly shared his own.  He had been born Dalish, raised Dalish, and thought he would always be Dalish, but his Keeper was taken away by Templars when he was very young (he admitted that that had been a nasty business, but refused to comment further, mostly because he had been so small at the time that he didn’t remember it).  His mother and he escaped the slavers that descended upon him, and he lived for a while, but the Keeper’s First had been killed in the struggle (he had to explain all the terminology to the lad).  Without a mage, it was hard, he had said, but they survived, until the slavers came again.  Lysander had thought for certain that Daggers had simply been caught by them, but he said that wasn’t the case.

            “I was out hunting,” he admitted.  “Trying to, anyway.  Like a coward, I saw what was going on from the bluffs, and I watched, and did nothing.”  He was silent for a moment, before going on.  “I felt like I couldn’t go to the other clans, knowing what I had done—or hadn’t done.”  He looked away.  “So I learned to hide my accent, and somehow…”  He stopped speaking, unable to go on.  He looked away.  Somehow he had ended up taking Imperial bounties to get by, and hating himself for it.

            “Don’t Dalish have tattoos?” Lysander asked foolishly.

            “It’s a sign of adulthood,” he told him, his accent for once quite plain.  Thief touched his arm gently, and Daggers leaned into his touch.  “I was fifteen when my clan was destroyed a final time.  I wasn’t… ready.”  He shook his head, and seemed like he might say more, but stopped, and he didn’t need to say any more.  Lysander could guess the end:  He didn’t deserve the markings any longer.

            Daggers also blatantly refused to guard their Fenris wolf, so Thief always took his turns to avoid conflict, which over a time only made the other hunters annoyed with the both of them.  Daggers had confided in Lysander, privately, that he was afraid of what he would do if he and Fenris were ever alone—namely, free him.  Thief and Daggers’ relationship, Lysander noticed, only grew more strained the closer they became to their destination.  They passed by the peninsula, and stopped to resupply.

            Thief and Daggers would argue from time to time, yet they always found their way back into one another’s beds.  It was sad, really, the more Lysander thought about it.  Once they sailed into port, their relationship would be over, and he knew they cared about one another—maybe even loved each other.  But their relationship was a social faux pas at the best of times, and they both knew it.

            Lysander knew in his heart this was wrong—bringing the elf back to Minrathous.  No one deserved to be treated like that.  No one.  He went down in the gloom of the hold, and looked at the elf through the bars.  “We would be in Minrathous in four days,” he said quietly.  “But that last storm blew the ship off course--and against a reef.”  Another pause as he pushed the tray through the slot in the cage.  Fenris never responded.  He never said a damned word, not in all this time.  He would look at him sometimes, and he had the sad, soulless look of a man who had lost everything precious to them.  It would be easier if he didn’t try to speak to Fenris.  Easier if he had never looked at his face, never stared into his sage eyes.  But, he owed it to Fenris to look at him, to memorize him, to remember his face and what he was doing to him.  If you were going to take a person’s freedom away from them, you owed it to them to watch it happen.  You owed it to them to not look away, and you owed it to them to remember them.

            He would remember the colour of the elf’s eyes when he could no longer remember his parents’ faces.

            Lysander didn’t know how he could ever live with himself.  He went back to his room, and read Hadriana’s letters.  She was pregnant, she had said in the last one.  He had been gone so long, he expected to see the child by the time he got back.  She cared about him.  Maybe she would take care of his sisters if anything happened to him.  He was almost home, but still…  He had seen the wreckage of the smuggler’s ship.  It could have just as easily been them, and during the storm, he had believed it would be.


	77. Fine Lines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The slavers are attacked by pirates, and Fenris finds an opportunity to escape, and get some information while he is at it.

            Fenris woke with a start, blinking away the water in his eyes.  Someone had thrown a bucket of seawater on him.  The big man with the rotten tooth was grumbling about how Fenris stank.  The elf frowned at him, and nothing more.  He had been sitting in this cage for weeks, unable to bathe.  Of course he stank of sweat and dirty leather.

            “Your master sent something for you,” the man said, and dropped a box with a loud clatter outside the cage.  Fenris said nothing, as usual, and only looked on.  There were two other slavers—that was what they were to his mind but he thought bounty hunter was technically more accurate—and they all looked nervous.  They always looked nervous when they had to open the cage door for any reason.  But Fenris was too sullen, too drunk, and too tired to do anything.  The one that did not speak had the keys.  The elf sat in the corner, on top of the dirty rags, and watched them do the minor cleaning they did.  One of the others plopped a bucket of cold soapy water down, and told him to wash. 

            “I can’t do this with my wrists in shackles,” he said, his voice hollow.  They argued to themselves in low whispers, then one of them bade him to put his wrists through the bars.  The men talked amongst themselves as he did, and he watched them idly.  The shackles clicked open and the man held them while Fenris undressed, slowly.  He rubbed his wrists where the cuffs had chafed.  The water was cold, the soap abrasive, but given the circumstances, he couldn’t complain.  When he finished, they opened the box, and dropped a pile of cloth and leather on the floor of the cage.  It clanged shut and locked, and the elf sighed.  He dressed but slowly, and he had an idea they would take his old clothes and dispose of them, and there was one thing he wanted from them.  Before he had quite put on all the new garments, he knelt by the pile of old clothes and searched, and finally removed the little carving.  He looked at it in silence for a moment.  He had been staring at it a lot lately, as if willing it to unravel its secrets to him.  It never did though.  The carving was as silent as his lost memories.  All the same, he would lament its loss.  It fit into one of the bags on his belt, which all seemed to be empty for the moment.

            When he finished, he obediently put his wrists back through the bars, and waited for the shackles to snap shut again—a good, obedient, perfectly tame slave.  No reason at all for them to be as afraid of him as they seemed to be.  His armor had been stripped from him weeks ago, and they had stashed it beside his sword.  Sometimes, he would stare at where he knew it was hidden, longing just to hold the weapon again, to touch its familiar, comforting hilt.  It was his, very much a part of him and who he was.

            That night, he poured the alcohol onto the floorboards when the blonde boy had gone.  It was good to be sober, he reflected, even if it meant little.  The boy was, recently, the only one to come down regularly, and he did so sometimes up to three times a day, and chatted, not freely exactly, but more as if he were nervous to be there, and guilty as ever.

            “The ship is being repaired right now.”  A pause.  “Not in a town or anything.  We dropped anchor near the Arlathan Forest—had to.  There were Qunari, so we had to run…”

            That was interesting.  Fenris blinked.  “A second reef in the same fortnight,” he said quietly, and the boy blinked in surprise when he said anything.  Last night, the ship had made a horrible grating sound amidst the howling of the night winds, and some of the sailors had been rushing back and forth in a panic.

            The boy gave the most forced smile Fenris had ever seen.  “Yeah.  We were running from a Qunari ship—better the reef than the Qunari, I guess.  It scared everyone pretty bad, but I guess we’ll be okay—just need to repair it.  I don’t know what that entails.”  The way he spoke was curious—sometimes, he would slur his words like a lowborn peasant, and other times, he pronounced things as clearly as any highborn noble’s brat.

            The repairs entailed quite a bit, apparently.  The blonde whelp occasionally mentioned some work going on on-shore—some contraption they slapped together to hold the boat, and Fenris was left on board in the cage while they hauled it to shore, which was mostly the work of the slaves on the boat, Fenris excluded.  With so much going on, no one could be spared to guard him at all times, particularly not when he had put up no reason for them to be so watchful.

            Being on the ship while this was happening, and being unable to see the goings-on was mildly terrifying; he could hear it grating on the sand, feel it being hauled upward, and it was not at all comforting to not feel it rocking slightly in the waves.

            He could hear the work being done, though, and the boy said that it looked pretty nasty; they could not get to all of it before they hauled it out of the water, and the sailors refused to take it any farther before it was repaired.  He commented that he spent most days sawing planks now.  Fenris wondered how long the delay would be.  And if there would be any chance to escape in the meantime.

 

            Fenris watched Asher pace back and forth restlessly, which he had been doing for over twenty minutes, approximately.  He stopped after a while and wandered back to where the cheap ale was kept.  He found a cracked pewter mug and poured some of it in.  He glanced back at Fenris.  “Want any?” he asked him.  Fenris, as usual, did not reply.  “Suit yourself.”

            Asher sat down on a crate, sipping at the contents, and no doubt waiting for Aramael, who seemed to be late.  An hour into Asher’s shift, and Aramael was usually here by now.  The only reason Fenris knew their names, and none of the others, was because they talked to one another often, usually while they were being intimate.

            Asher had finished his mug and resumed pacing when Aramael came down.  They embraced, and whispered for a while, and, Fenris was surprised, did not have sex.  Rather, Asher flopped down on the floor, his back against a stack of crates, and Aramael laid down with his head on his thigh.  Asher idly played with his hair, and they talked for a while, and Aramael fell asleep for a brief time.

            Fenris wondered what was going on that Aramael didn’t want to have sex.  It was out of character, and most out of the norm.  Had something happened?  He wasn’t too keen on getting back to Minrathous as soon as possible, but he disliked them being marooned as much as the sailors did, if for different reasons.  Shipwrecked was bad enough, shipwrecked in a foreign country with pirates nearby worse still, but all of those things, with himself shackled and trapped in a cage, was even worse.  He stared at his sword, well out of reach but tauntingly within his range of sight.

            In the past, he might have simply phased through the bars, but when he tried and the lyrium blazed like a second sun, the shackles on his hands glowed too, the lyrium etchings on them reflecting his own, and they did not fall off of him.  When he touched the bars, they would glow the same, and were just as real to him as when he was relaxed.  He did not try that again, but it did alarm his guard.  He would need to find a more conventional way to escape.

            Aramael and Asher were talking, and he had ignored most of their conversation, as it was usually just drivel and teasing, but sometimes they would play cards, and Aramael would occasionally teach Asher how to play chess.  Aramael had gotten up, and the two were facing one another.  “… C’mon, where are you from?” Asher said, smiling.

            Aramael smiled back.  “Minrathous.”

            “Liar.”

            “I’ve lived there most of my life,” the elf countered evasively.

            Asher sighed.  “I mean, where were you born?”

            “Middle of nowhere,” he said with a smirk.

            Asher rolled his eyes.  “I was born in Carastes.”

            “Never been there.”

            “Don’t.”  They both laughed.  “You ever been to the Arlathan forest?”

            Fenris looked up to see Aramael’s sun-kissed cheeks pale.  His silver eyes looked ghostly, even from this distance.  “I know the forest… very well,” he whispered.  It was dark, but he could see his breath frosting.  It was definitely winter, and it was getting cold.

            Asher looked concerned, and placed his hand on his lover’s shoulder.  “Hey, you okay?”

            Aramael blinked, and shook his head.  “Fine.”

            “So, there are Dalish in the forest?” Asher inquired.

            The elf looked at him, and laughed.  It was the most gloomy laugh Fenris could imagine—a sound that was more sorrow than joy, a laugh meant to keep one from crying.  It was tinged with desperation, laughing harder when the sorrow could not be masked, and the laughter gave way to tears as the sadness swallowed him.  Asher pulled the elf close, and Aramael fell against him, sobbing into his shoulder.

            “There’s Dalish in the forest,” he sobbed, his voice barely audible, and gave an anguished cry against him.  Something personal, Fenris assumed.  It was so hard to see all the slavers as people, but they were.  Individuals with lives, families, interests, and thoughts.  It was so much easier to think of them as a mass whole, a hive mind creature existing only to imprison and enslave him.  The raw display of emotion made him uncomfortable, both as a witness, and because it shattered the illusion that the slavers were not really people.

 

            The captain squinted off into the distance, along the coast.  She shaded her eyes, and frowned at what she saw.  She snickered.  From the flags, an Imperial vessel, getting emergency repairs.

            Isabela was half-tempted to leave it, but she wondered if they had slaves onboard.  Just the thought of it made her stomach clench.  Disgusting.  The Dalish in the Arlathan Forest would not take kindly to them if they found them either.  She had heard a rumor some years back that the Dalish were never sighted in or near the forest any more.  She wondered if they had moved on, or just became more evasive.

            It was a galley—it could actually _be_ a slaving vessel.  She had her First Mate change course, but hug the coast, and make as if to pass it by.  It was dangerous venturing into the Imperial-Qunari war zone, but sometimes it was well-worth the risks.  Her ship was currently laden with a healthy amount of plunder from their most recent expeditions.  Even if the slaving vessel had nothing but flesh on board, it would not be a worthless pursuit.

            So they went ‘round the coast, and waited for the cover of night.

 

            The sailors watched the vessel sail by, and there seemed to be a pregnant silence as it passed.  Lysander quietly asked if there was anything significant about the ship, to which they only replied, “Pirates.”

            But the ship had passed them by.  It must be obvious they didn’t have anything to steal, right?  The sailors still posted a watch that night, and Lysander could not sleep.  He got up in the empty room.  Melons was asleep on the deck saying he liked the cold—it was a clear night—and Daggers and Thief had slipped off somewhere; Lysander had not seen either of them in hours, come to think of it.

            He pulled on his clothes, and carried his sword, the leather belt wrapped around the sheath.  The watch stopped him at the rope ladder.

            “Where you going?” the sailor challenged him, his breath frosting in the cold air.

            “To take a piss.  Shove off,” Lysander said, his lips pressing into a thin, grim line.  The sailor studied him a moment.

            “Watch out for Dalish—we heard there’s a clan somewhere in the forest,” he said.  It was good advice.  Lysander climbed down the ladder.  His boots had barely hit the sand when the alarm sounded—a loud, pealing bell.  He turned around, and looked out around the forest, expecting the elven hunters to come melting out of the darkness like phantoms, but the forest was still.  He looked to the sea, and saw nothing from this side.  He peered around the other side, and paled when he saw it.  The ship the sailor had identified as a pirate ship hours ago… it was sailing right toward them.

 

            Sweat beaded on their hot skin, their bodies desperately trying to get as close to one another as possible.  Theirs was a desperate, doomed passion that they clung to with the fierce tenacity of a starving wolf that had tasted blood.  The embrace was all the more heartfelt because they both knew their time together would be short, and grew shorter still with every passing day.

            Aramael turned his head.  “Wait,” he said, his moan dying on his lips.  His lover peered at him curiously.  “Do you hear that?”

            He kissed his bare neck, and his tongue trailed along his pointed ear—something that normally made the elf’s toes curl, or at least elicit some kind of noise of approval.  “I hear you _not screaming._   You promised you wouldn’t muffle it tonight—I’d say you’re getting self-conscious.”  And he hadn’t.  Oh, when he had promised him that he was a screamer, for the longest time, Asher had not believed him.  He did now.

            The elf glanced back at him and scowled, then paused again, a finger to his lover’s lips to silence him.  “ _Listen_ , you idiot.”

            “I’m tired of you always calling me names,” Asher mumbled.  As ever, the elf ignored him utterly.  “I don’t hear…”  He froze, eyes widening.  “The alarm.  Shit!”  Had Fenris escaped somehow?  _Bloody hell_.

            Aramael cursed in elvish with feeling, then added, “Get off me.”

            “I want to come first.”  Aramael glared at him, and Asher climbed off of him sullenly.  “Someone else will catch him before we make it back,” he muttered, but Aramael was already getting dressed.  Asher watched him, his eyes roving far below his face.  Sweat made his skin glisten in the moonlight, and it was the best perfume he had ever smelled.  Aramael’s body was lean muscle, sculpted and acrobatic, limber, and… absolutely gorgeous.  He had been half in love with him from the moment he saw him, and when he first saw the man naked and wanting him, his heart had been a lost cause:  It had belonged wholly to Aramael.

            “I love you,” he told him, staring up at him.

            The elf paused, and looked back at him, his steel-coloured eyes softening into a liquid silver with the heat of his emotions.  “You mean everything to me,” he whispered, and they kissed—briefly—before resuming getting dressed.  The elf was still buckling on his twin daggers when they started walking briskly back to camp.  When they heard shouting, the pair hurried, and when they heard the clash of metal on metal, they started running.  Aramael was faster, and got ahead of him, but the elf had stopped once his feet hit the sand.  Asher nearly knocked him over.

            “What…”  Then he saw the pirate ship, his mouth dropping.  “No.”

            The elf looked at his lover, torn in indecision.  The pirates, they could both see, had already stormed the ship.  Theirs was still out in the deeper waters, their longboats having been what had taken the ship on the shore.  Some fighting was going on in the sand, but most of it was on deck.  Aramael shook his head in disbelief.

            Asher started to go past him, to help, but his lover clenched onto his arm.  “No,” he whispered.  “We’ll both die, and… _I can’t lose you.”_

Asher looked from his lover to the ship, torn between his heart and the contract he knew he had signed—that they had both signed.  But if the ship burned, who would ever know they had fled?  Who would ever tell a different tale, that they had not simply survived the pirates somehow?  Who could ever say otherwise?

            “The ship is burning,” the elf said, unnecessarily.  “The pirates will kill everyone.”  He looked at him, and shook his head, as if he couldn’t bear to say the rest, but it was clear they were both thinking the same thing.

            Asher touched his shoulder.  “Do you mean—“

            The elf pointed, the motion knocking his lover’s arm away without thought.  To Asher’s surprise, that motion hurt more than most sword wounds he had taken.  “Look!” he cried.  The pirates had spotted it before those on shore had—and they were ringing their own bell to call them home.  Tevinter sails were on the shore, attracted by the fire when the sail had caught in the fighting.

            The pirates were fleeing now—carrying whatever they could carry.  The pair melted back, into the gloom of the forest, but no farther.  Asher felt Aramael’s fingertips lightly touch his arm before the elf walked quickly away, back toward the ship.  Asher watched him go, and watched all of his dreams fall to ruins.  In that one moment, before the sails were in view, Aramael had been willing to believe in Asher’s dreams.  In that one moment, he had insisted they were a possibility, and then once reality hit again, he had abandoned them.

            The man felt his heart breaking.

 

            Fenris heard the sharp peal of the iron bell, and woke with a start, and wondered what it could be.  What danger did they face, and he unarmed should it come to him?  _No_ , he thought, staring at the lyrium.  _I will never be unarmed._   And then, a thought unbidden, _Like a mage._   Is that what Danarius had been trying to create?  He had been trying to breathe magic into a non-mage, and…

            He lost the thought when he heard the shouting, and he rose to his feet.  The chains about his wrists clinked as he wrapped his fingers around the heavy iron bars, straining to see through the darkness, and struggling to hear through the timber of the ship.  Men were yelling, probably dying, the sound of steel against steel, and he smelled burning , and that was more frightening than anything else.  If the ship burned…

            He had witnessed burnings before.  The Imperium still used it as a capital punishment, and Danarius had stood present over more than one of them.  He remembered how the greasy prisoner had been lashed to the post.  He remembered the flames licking his legs, and the sound of his screams, the scent of burning flesh and hair.  Dimly, he could even hear the pop of fat as it boiled in his living flesh.  Eventually, the flames consumed his screams, and the silence only seemed to make it worse to witness.  The body had been a charred, blackened husk of a thing, barely recognizable as a human.

            The lock on the hatch above snapped and he backed away from the bars, willing the lyrium to be as dim as possible.  He crouched low, knowing there were walls of cargo between him and the hatch, but he also knew if they were looting, it was only a matter of time.  He listened to their voices and shouts—much of it in a language he recognized only after hearing some of it—Rivain.  They found the casks of wine, and started hauling that out.  One of them came back farther; Fenris could hear him.  His heart pounded in his chest, and the man just came into view when the other men gave cries of alarm, and the pirate turned and ran back.

            There was fighting, a clash of steel.  Fenris wished he could see it, could be in it.  Battle was where he felt like he belonged.  It was… what felt right to him.  He missed his sword.  The skirmish was a lively one—he could tell.  From the sounds, it was two against three, and he could count when someone died.  The fighting went ‘round, and back beyond the walls of cargo.  The fighting stopped, and Fenris could smell blood and viscera, the stink of shit, which was unavoidable.  One of his captors stumbled forward, barely into view, then leaned against the cargo, breathing hard.

            Fenris looked up.  “I can fight,” he insisted.

            The man eyed him warily, hefting his big axe.  It had bits of brain and blood on it.  “Yeah, but for who?” he said, looking at him with disdain.  The elf fell silent.  The man took a long breath and heaved himself back up, charging back up the stairs.

 

            Lysander had climbed immediately back up the ladder, and been just as immediately ordered below decks.  He had protested at first, and then told he needed to guard the captain’s daughter.  Understanding immediately occurred to him.  She would be a prize for the pirates.  They would use her, and then kill her.  So, he sat in the least assuming quarters, the door locked, all the furniture pressed against it.  The two sat in silence on the floor, watching the door, and one another, and sometimes the tall tallow candle.  Once or twice, the door was tried, and then the raiders passed it by.

            He heard a man scream just outside the door, and leapt to his feet, but knew he could do nothing.  He waited, and the screaming stopped.  The door jiggled, and then the lock turned.  His eyes opened wide, but the door didn’t budge when the person tried to open it.  He heard a woman’s swearing, and then some shouting.  It was an impressive feat of strength:  The door and all the room’s furniture were simply swept aside.  The Tal-Vashoth glanced inside to Lysander, snorted dismissively, and eyed the captain’s daughter, then said something to the person next to him.  An attractive Rivaini woman sauntered in, confident and in control, even spattered in blood.

            She eyed both of them, and raised a blade in Lysander’s direction.  “Gold and jewels—now, or your life, boy.”

            “I don’t…” he stammered, wondering what the best course of action would be.

            She looked to him again.  “No, you wouldn’t have anything.”  She glanced at the girl, and passed her over.  No prisoners, then?  If the woman was the captain, he doubted she would abide rape, though.  Or maybe she was just the sort of vile woman who would.  Lysander stepped toward the one he needed to protect.  The woman captain raised an eyebrow, and her gaze caught on his sword.  She held her free hand out.  “I’ll take that.”  She pointed to his sword.

            His eyes widened.  It was the last and only thing he had left of his family, what should have been his inheritance, and his past.  He could have sold it years ago, if he had had the heart to.  It was fine steel, expensive, perfectly balanced.  It had been crafted with love and care by a master smith, and made for his great-grandfather.  It was all that was left of his family’s history.  His hand went to the hilt, clenching it so tightly his knuckles turned white.  “No,” he said, his voice half in panic from it.

            She nodded, and shrugged, and as she walked away, jerked a thumb in his direction to the big Qunari.  She breezed past her fellow pirate, and Lysander watched in silent horror as the giant hefted a great axe that had to weigh as much as the young boy did.  The girl let out a wail of terror, and cringed against the wall.  Lysander drew his sword, his stomach tightening in anticipation of his own demise.

            The Qunari came toward him, and swung.  The blow would have cleaved the lad in two, but he leaped backward at the last moment, his back thumping against the wall.  The giant swung again, and that time, Lysander ducked.  The blade whistled above his head, and he could feel the wind from its passing.  The room was too small for such a weapon, though, and it sunk deep into the wood.  The Qunari swore in his mother tongue—or that was what it sounded like--and Lysander raised his sword, and prepared to strike, but the Qunari jerked to the side just as quickly as Lysander had.  The Qunari abandoned trying to free his axe, and deftly avoided the blade.  They danced about the room, and Lysander saw the girl run.

            The Qunari unarmed, it would seem that the giant was at a disadvantage, but he was more experienced and better trained.  He wove around Lysander like a dance, and the boy only grew more and more tired.  Sweat beaded on his skin, his palms sweaty with it.  Every swing tired him more, yet he dare not stop.  To stop would be to die, or surrender everything he had left of the future he should have had.  He couldn’t do that.

            Something flew through the air, striking the Qunari on one of its long pale horns.  Both the combatants stopped for a moment.  It was the stupid girl—she had run, but she had run to grab something to help.

            She had lobbed a plate at its head with surprising accuracy, and she held a heavy iron pot in her other hand, ready to throw that too.  Lysander prayed she wouldn’t miss, and swung his sword again.  The Qunari backed away from it, his fingers wrapping around his axe.  He turned, and the big weapon came out of the wall with a terrible groan.  The girl shrieked, and the pot flew through the air.  She vanished before it struck the Qunari in the back of the head.  _Nice shot_ , Lysander thought.  The Qunari stumbled, clearly dazed.  Lysander brought the sword down.  The Qunari spun to the side, dropping his weapon.  The blade missed anything vital by a hair’s breath, cleaving into his shoulder.  With all his strength, Lysander yanked the blade back.  Without it, he was lost in more ways than one.

            Blooded, the Qunari bellowed angrily, and came toward him.  Lysander struck, and dare not let the giant gain a hold of the axe again.

            But he was tired, and scared, and not as well trained.  The Qunari kept coming, and Lysander tired with every swing, every dodge, every heft of the sword.  And still he kept going.  The Minrathous boy lost ground, and stumbled backwards, falling against the wall.  _I’m going to die,_ he thought placidly, and wondered why he wasn’t in hysterics at the thought.  But there was simply no time left for hysterics—the panic had yet to settle in his mind. 

            The Qunari spun back toward him, great axe hefted and ready to strike.

            _So,_ he thought.  _This is how I die._

            The Qunari’s legs buckled, and he fell.  Heart pounding furiously in his chest, Lysander watched him fall lifelessly to the floor, and looked up to see Daggers, very casually inspecting his blades, as if killing a man meant nothing to him—which it likely didn’t.  The elf glanced at him, and then moved on, never a word passing between them.

            Lysander looked back to his fallen foe.  He had seemed so ferocious and frightening just moments ago.  Now, the Qunari just looked sad and broken, two deep wounds in his back where Daggers had plunged his blades in—he had gone for the kidneys, it looked like.  Lysander had heard that it caused so much pain that the victim could not even scream.  He escaped the scene of death before him with little more dignity than the frightened girl who had fled before.

 

            Fenris heard more shouting, and wished he knew what was going on.  The fire had evidently been put out, because he didn’t smell it anymore, which was a relief at least, but the fighting was still going on.

            Someone fell with a cry down the stairs.  There was more fighting, and he heard someone dying.  Someone hurried around the corner, and Fenris recognized the blonde boy with the odd speech patterns.  The boy seemed visibly relieved to see him—still in his cage.  He swallowed, swiped sweat from his brow, and turned around, then gave a cry when more of the pirates came down and spotted him.  In a small area, he kept them at bay, until more of the sailors arrived to beat them back.  No one died in that round, but they chased the pirates out of the hold.  Some things were not worth dying for, after all, and that was what it came down to.

            One of the slavers, though, did not chase after the pirates with the blonde boy and the others.  It was the axeman from before, who knelt on the floor not far from Fenris’ cage.  The elf watched him, and wondered.

            The man leaned his head back, and bit his lip as he tried to breathe.  Fenris saw blood on his lips, and when he looked, he saw what could be a deep slash across his beer belly, but it was dark even to an elf’s eyes.  He dropped the axe.  It clattered to the floor, and the man wheeled backwards, as if terrified of something Fenris did not see.  Then he did.

            Lured by the violence of the night and the blood, and possibly the mage as well, a shade had come—all hunger and intent to devour.  If the mage had been the one to summon it, it could still not tell friend from foe.  The shade loomed toward the man, and struck.  The man’s life was snuffed out instantly—all he was gone in a freakish instant—and the creature did not even seem to see Fenris, so intent was it on its prey.  It fell upon the big man ravenously, its teeth shredding flesh and leather alike with no knowledge as to the difference.  It gnawed its way through a fleshy arm, and snapped at the bones.  They popped like dried twigs.  Fenris saw every detail, in the dark, his eyes wide with terror.  Every instinct he had screamed through him to run—but he was trapped.

            There was nowhere for the elf to run to.  Nowhere to go, and how could he defend himself against something like that, trapped in this cage as he was?  He must have made some small noise of terror, for the creature stopped, blood covering what passed for its face, a long strip of meaty flesh dangling from its jaws like a kitten with a mouse.  Its hungry eyes fixed on him, and it seemed to have forgotten its meal as it spied fresher meat.

            Fenris felt the icy hand of panic grip his heart.  No weapons, and the demon had killed the man as if it were nothing.  It was less than three paces away from him, hesitating only because of the lyrium on the bars, which seemed to be the only thing it really understood.  It moved around the bars, watching Fenris all the while.  If the creature had a scent, he could have smelled it--it came so close.  Fenris did not realize he had backed instinctively away from it until his back thumped against the lyrium-etched bars.

            The lyrium in his skin was glowing in response to the threat he felt, and his bare skin brushed against the iron bars, against the lyrium.  The cage lit up instantly, and the demon shied away.  Fenris’ fingers curled around the bars, willing it to glow brighter.  The demon whispered—tantalizing and seductive things—but the voice was always just a fraction too low for him to understand beyond the chorus of the lyrium’s song.

            Unmoved as Fenris was by its seduction and dark promises, it howled in fury.  The cage bars shattered in the rage of its passing, and it moved as if to devour him.  Fenris reached both his hands toward it as it came at him, the lyrium bright enough to light up the entire room.  His hands reached into it, and he felt instant cold, an unreal feeling, and something… familiar.  Then it shrieked, and was gone.

            He sagged to his knees, breathing hard as if he had been running.  He had thought…

            _I’m tired of being terrified_ , he thought.  _I’m tired of not knowing if I am going to live or die.  I am tired of feeling like any moment could be my last._   And if someone had asked him in that moment if he wanted go back to Minrathous, he would have said yes, and gladly.

 

            The sound of her own ship’s warning bell pealed, and Isabela called off the raid.  Some of her men and herself ran into the hold to take what they could before they made good on their escape.

            She gave a quick glance-about for anything of value and gave the order to take the wine and rum.  There was a case of lyrium behind one of the barrels, and she grinned at her luck.  The men hurried out, and she was quick at their heels, barking orders.

            She fought her way through the sailors and slavers alike—even the slaves, she was disappointed to note.  Too well brainwashed and subdued to grasp freedom when it beckoned.  Those people both sickened her and saddened her all at once.

            She saw that the cargo was loaded, and took a quick tally of her own dead before they escaped quickly back into the sea.  They hauled the ships on deck, and all the while, the Imperial ship came closer, its oars bent into the water.

            Her own ship was moving before the longboats were fully secured, but it was close.  Her quick ship skipped past them, stealing away into the night.  There was a heartbeat or two where she held her breath, wondering if they would pursue, or see to their slaving comrades.  The Tevinter turned, and gave chase.  Isabela grinned to herself.  This was what life was all about—risks.

            They could outrun them, she knew.  She had outrun Imperial ships before—even their mage’s fire.  They chased them well into the sea, but her vessel had lost them by dawn, and only then did she see about the cargo.

            Not a bad night, she thought, eying the heavy crate of lyrium.  She pried off the lid with a crowbar, peering at the softly glowing liquid metal.  She lifted one of the small bottles.  These were highly illegal.  She was almost doing the slavers a favor by confiscating them.  They would sell well on the black market—mages and Templars alike.  They had lost some good men, though, and she lamented that.  Still, not a bad night and the thing about pirates was that they were easy enough to replace.  The Qunari, not as much, and Isabela certainly felt the void of the giant’s loss, but this was why they were pirates, after all.

 

            The cage was ruined, and the other hunters had considered it a bloody strange occurrence that Fenris had not ran, but the elf seemed oddly reluctant to pass by a particular spot right in front of the cage door where the bars had shattered, even after the bodies and the mess had been cleaned up.  An iron ring secured the shackles, though, and Fenris sat strung up to a post in the hold, his arms above his head, and would be miserable if he wasn’t so numb.

            They had taken heavy losses the night before.  Melons had died—it had taken four sailors to heft the big man out of the hold.  Lysander was doing many of the sailor’s chores too—there was little choice.  The mage had been so badly injured that no one dared to make her heal anyone, so they had to make do with bandages and herbs until further notice.  So it fell to him to mop up the hold of the blood and shit, and the elf watched him as if studying him.

            It had been a long night, and all Lysander really wanted to do was collapse in bed, but there was too much work to be done.

            He yawned, and went to fetch another pail of water.  He dumped the bad water, and got fresh water—sea water would do—and went back.  Everyone was hoping the Tevinter ship would be back to lend them aid, and it seemed likely enough, given the circumstances.  They needed it.  If the Dalish ever wanted to attack them, this would be the time.

            A sailor died of his wounds by morning.  The mage went two hours later.  When the captain of the ship died by mid morning, the sailors fought amongst themselves for half the day.  The hunters tried to stay out of it, and the sailors took the last surviving longboat, claiming they would be back with supplies.  Lysander didn’t think anyone believed them though.

            The ship that had saved them from the pirates still had not come back.

            He stayed in the hold the rest of the evening, pacing back and forth, conscious of the elf watching him as he did it.  Then he heard the clash of steel, some shouting, and he heard the elf chuckle as if amused.

            Lysander was half-tempted to walk over to him and kick him.  The door burst open, and he jumped, hand going to his sword.  It was Leader, bloodied and angry as hell.  “Boy!” he shouted, pointing at Lysander.  The boy cringed.  “You’ve been hiding down here.  Did you know about the mutiny?”  His words came out slurred, for the piece of tongue he was missing.

            He paled.  “I…”

            Leader drew his sword, and Lysander’s jaw dropped.  The big, tall man came toward him with the intent of his death.  The blade was in his hand before he had made the decision to fight back.  And he fought, and remembered all he had learned fighting the Qunari.  The blades sang their sweet song of steel as the duelists danced about one another, each looking for an opening, and each just as determined that there would be none.

            They pushed back and forth, they spun around one another.  Blades clashed and echoed.  Teeth gritted, muscles taut and coiled.  They sprang and lunged, ducked and wove, and still one did not gain the upper hand.  Lysander pushed Leader back suddenly with a hard swing, which he blocked, but the force of it knocked him back a pace.  The elf struck his leg out, sending Leader toppling.  He did not drop his sword, but Lysander sprang forward with a cry, and brought the blade down into the man’s  throat before the other could react.  When everything stopped, and he realized what he had done, he shook his head in horror.  He had never meant…

            He didn’t want this.

            He had never wanted any of it.  He took his sword, and stared at the body, then fled.

 

            Fenris studied the body with cold indifference.  Once he had been led out of the cage and shackled, he had begun to think more clearly.

            The last thing he wanted was to be a slave again.  And if he did not act, that was all he could ever be.  It would be easier to stay where he was, go back to Danarius.  Easier, but not what he wanted.  Not at all what he wanted.  He had tasted freedom, and he would not give it away for slavery.  He knew it would be hard, and he knew he might regret his decisions one day, but it _was his decision to make_.  And not someone else’s, and that made all the difference.

            He could have kicked the blonde boy instead of their leader.  The blow had been calculated, and he only made the decision to do it after he had spied the keys on the man’s belt, keys he knew would open the shackles.  Furthermore, if he were going to free himself, he would rather go up against the boy in the fight instead of the slaver leader; the boy was just that—a boy, half-trained and ignorant.  Better to let the more experienced man, with the keys, die now.

            He pushed the corpse with his feet, rolling it onto its side.  The man had pissed himself when he died, so he was careful about it.  There, the keys.  Arms locked as they were, he could never hope to reach them though.  He frowned, wondering how he could work that out.  It was hard to do, but he managed to pull the corpse a bit closer with his feet.  He cursed often and with feeling as he worked his toes into the man’s belt buckle, slowly feeding it out of it.  He pushed it apart and pulled out the belt.  The keys fell to the floor as he did.  He dropped the belt with a thunk, listened, and pulled the keys closer, then wondered how he was going to get them into his hand.

            He sighed deeply, and spent about ten minutes trying to get the ring between his toes, and then to one of his hands.  He succeeded once only to drop them while he was finding the right key, then had to begin again.  The body was beginning to stink too.

            He was rewarded for his efforts with a satisfying clicking noise as one cuff opened.  He hurried with the other, and listened again.  He went back to where he knew his sword to be, rummaged around a bit, and removed it.  He took the time to put on his armor too, deciding that he might need it.  Feeling whole again, his jaw set.  He felt like he owed a thing or two to those hunters.

            The first of the hunters he saw he killed systematically, angrily.  He followed sounds, and looked on deck.  There was a group of about five of them left, all arguing and bickering.  There was that blonde boy, and the elf—both of them were apart from the main group on opposite sides.  Fenris stood in the shadow and debated what he should do, which was precisely when the elf, Aramael, turned and saw him.  “Oh, shit,” the elf exclaimed.

            The others were quick to arms, but Fenris was faster.  The first one had a spear, which his sword cut in two, and then he cut him in two.  Another man had a mace and shield, and they spun and danced for a while, and a third man approached him—Asher, he recognized--and he met both of them.  The blonde boy came too.  The first to go down was the man with the mace—Fenris knocked him backwards, and he fell over the railing.  That left…  For a moment, he only remembered the two, then as he twisted to one side, he felt a blade slice shallowly across his bicep.  The lyrium brightened, and powered his swings.  Aramael was quick—quick enough that it was near-impossible to hit him, but he was lightly armored and hadn’t been expecting to deal with anything like what Fenris had to offer.

            Fenris swung, and the blade slashed downwards.  If the elf were any slower, it would have cleaved him neatly in two from shoulder to opposite hip.  Instead, it sliced into him, and the elf’s legs buckled, and he fell.  The Rivaini-looking man gave a horrible cry of anguish, and instead of facing Fenris, ran to the elf.  Fenris was confused for a moment before he remembered that the pair were lovers, and then turned back to the blonde boy.  He struck him with the pommel of his sword, and the flat of it as he brought it down.  The boy lost his sword and fell.  Fenris glanced at his blade and picked it up, then slammed the blade down through the boy’s left arm, grating it into the wooden planks below him.  The boy screamed, and then sobbed.

            Fenris looked back at the pair.  The man looked up, but as if he didn’t see anything.  His eyes were wet with tears, and he was cradling the elf, who seemed to be shallowly breathing, blood trickling from his mouth.  He was whispering something to the other, and the man turned to him, holding him tighter, begging him not to die, and then kissing him as if it were a fairy tale and it would make him recover.

            Fenris had seen so much tragedy and death that he was unmoved by the scene.  He pulled the blade to the man’s neck.  “What does Danarius want with me?” he demanded.  How could he do all this just for one escaped slave?  How?

            The man looked at him, then back at his dying lover, and Fenris knew he would get no answers from him while he held the dying elf.  He gripped his hair in his fist, and threw him backwards.  The elf gave a gasp when he fell, the human a cry of pain.  He looked at the silver-eyed elf, his face lanced with anguish.  Fenris stepped between them, eyes narrowing.  “Answer me.”  He was dimly aware of the human boy whimpering where he had left him.  _They have names; they’re people,_ a tiny voice inside him insisted.  _Histories, a past, families—His name is Asher.  And Aramael.  Lysander.  They never even wanted to be here._ Fenris ignored the thought.

            “I don’t know!” he cried.  “Do you think he tells _me_?”

            Fenris stared at him, wondering how far he could believe him.  “Tell me.”  He took a step closer.

            The man shook his head.  “I don’t…”  He tried to think, but didn’t seem to remember anything.  He couldn’t think of anything.  His life began and ended with Aramael, and everything else was a blur.

            “Think _harder_ ,” the escaped slave hissed.  “Your lover is dying, so think _very hard_.”

            The man only shook his head again.  “This was supposed to be the last time I did this.  I wanted to leave.”  A tear rolled down his face.  “I wanted to leave with Aramael…  I wanted…”

            Fenris reached down, his fingers almost lovingly against the man’s throat.  “What.  Did.  Danarius.  Say.”

            The man stuttered.  “He said…  He said…  I can’t… remember… what he said exactly.”  And Fenris’ fingers trailed down to his chest, the gauntlets breaking the first layer of skin, making the human flinch.  The sun glared coldly down upon them, the sea breeze was chilly.

            “Are you certain?”

            The man looked at him.  “I…  He just said… to bring you back...  That’s all I remember, I swear.”

            Fenris ripped his heart open, and the two lovers died within feet of each other, nearly in the same handful of seconds, but eternally out of one another’s arms.

            He went back to the whimpering boy.  “Why are you on this expedition?  You’re no bounty hunter.  I’ve seen you before.”  Fenris stalked around him, and knelt in front of him.  The boy made a whining noise that ended in pained whimpering.  Fenris was unmoved.  “Do you remember more than he did?”

            The boy thought desperately for a moment, biting his lip.  “Just to bring you back.”  He blinked away the tears in his eyes.  “I swear.”

            Fenris searched his eyes, but knew that could not be true.  He was lying about something.  He needed to find out what.  He nodded, as if he believed him.  Casually, he reached forward and pulled out the knife at the boy’s belt.  He inspected the blade briefly, and went to his pinned arm.  He held the blade over his smallest finger.  “Do you remember anything more?”

            His eyes widened in horror.  “No…  He really just said to bring you back—“  His words ended in an ear-piercing scream.  Fenris barely glanced at the severed digit.  He moved to the next finger systematically, and asked again.  The boy was whimpering anew, begging him to stop. 

            Fenris remembered all the times he had watched a slave raped.  He remembered all the times he had seen them whipped.  He asked again, his voice as gentle as a mother to her babe, “What did he say?”

            The blonde boy thought again, sweat beading on his skin.  “Bring you back…  Something about how much money he spent on you…”

            Fenris made the smallest cut on his finger.  “Oh?”

            The boy grimaced, a bit more whimpering.  “He said the lyrium was expensive, I think…”

            “Why do you look familiar?  Who are you?”  It was bothering him.  Where had he seen him before?

            The boy looked at Fenris desperately.  “Danarius killed my father in a duel.  _You_ killed my father in a duel,” he reiterated, tears dripping anew with an old hurt.  “We lost _everything_.  Please don’t kill me…  I have two sisters.  Without me…  I don’t know what they’ll do.”

            Fenris remembered him—vaguely, but he remembered him.  It had been years ago, but he did remember the tallow-haired youth with nothing left but his father’s sword and two sisters, asking what he should do.  It sickened Fenris to think that the boy, who should by all rights despise Danarius as much as Fenris did for destroying his life, had instead opted to work for him.  “You never should have left them,” Fenris told him, and sliced off another finger.  The boy screamed, and Fenris waited until he was finished whimpering.  He was very patient about it.  At least that answered that question, but the elf had heard enough sob stories.  He had seen worse.  He had seen slaves at the auction block.  He had seen slaves killed for amusement of the crowds.  Just because the boy had suffered some hardships was no excuse to go slaving.  It was sickening.  “What else did Danarius say?”

            He sobbed.  “He… wants…”  He was sobbing so hard that it was hard to understand him.  “Please, I just need to go home to my sisters…”

            A moment of silence.  “You can go home to your sisters.  Just answer me.”

            He looked back at him, and hope glimmered in his eyes.  He bit his lip, his hand bleeding from the stumps of his fingers, blood dripping down his arm.  Danarius had cut Fenris when he used blood magic.  So had Hadriana.  “He said…”  He tried desperately to recall the conversation.  “Something about bringing back your corpse—all of it.”

            The elf blinked, uncertain that he had understood him correctly.  He had not been expecting that.  “You’re… certain?”

            Lysander flinched, and whimpered.  “…  Something about skinning you…”

            Fenris paled.  He wanted… to kill him?  He had always thought…  He had been his personal pet, his favourite, for so many years…  How could he want him dead?  Had he displeased him so much?  Humiliated him and wounded his pride by running away?  Now he would rather his pet wolf dead than back with him.  The slavers had only kept him alive because a body rots and he wanted the lyrium back.  It was like a slap in the face, like learning that someone you had truly believed wanted you, in truth wanted you _dead_.

            And once they got to Minrathous, Danarius would have killed him?  The elf looked out at the sea.  He had thought…  Going back to Minrathous and being a slave was one thing, but going back to be executed, possibly tortured…

            The silence had lasted longer than Fenris realized:  The boy whispered, “Why do you hate me for what I did?  What makes you better than me?  You killed my _father_.  You killed…”  _So many people._

            Fenris felt angry.  “At the behest of my _master_.  You _chose_ to go slaving.”

            The boy closed his eyes, and whimpered again in agony.  But agony was a familiar feeling to Fenris, and he held no sympathy for such temporary woes.  “May all your sins be justified,” the boy gasped.

            He looked back at the boy, and watched his suffering.  He ended it quickly, and left the bodies where they lay.  He went down to the galley, but ignored the liquors and wines; they had done no good for him on the voyage and would do no good right now either.  He ate, and made a pack with as much food as he could carry, then walked around pilfering gold from dead men, and climbed down the rope ladder on to the cool sand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sincerest wish is that at least one person reading this is appalled and speechless.
> 
> I did really like Asher and Aramael... Their bitter end was hard to write, but worth it. Lysander had some pretty epic last words, too.
> 
> In my defense, it is in the game: Fenris is very blunt when he admits to torturing slavers for information. It had to happen.


	78. Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris struggles through the Arlathan Forest in the winter.

If there were truly Dalish in the forest, Fenris had yet to see them, and he had lost track of how many days it had been since he had gotten lost in it.  He could not tell one tree from another, and they all looked so similar…  He half-swore he was going in circles, but the only thing he really knew was that he was lost since he had walked away from the shore.  That had been a bad move, and now he didn’t know if he could ever find it again.

            It had been getting colder too, especially at night as the autumn wore on into early winter.  He was frequently cold, and half-starved, and doubted himself more and more often.  Was everyone who wasn’t a slave this full of self-doubt?

            More than once, he had stumbled into a hunting shade—ravenous and half-insane.  It was becoming less terrifying, and more routine really.  He could hit them until they faded away—he wasn’t certain “died” was an accurate term.  He knew that the Hundred Pillars were to the west and south of where he was—that would mean Tevinter—and the White Spire was supposed to be somewhere along the coast, if he traveled eastward—which would mean Antiva--but the forest was high and thick enough that he could not see the mountains.  He had no idea which direction he went, or where to go, so he simply wandered, and hoped he was going the right way.

He wondered if he really were going around in circles.  Sometimes, he felt like a particular tree might look familiar, or a stone, but in the end he knew that he could not tell one tree from another really.  He knew fruit trees because his master had some.  He knew magnolia trees because he had one of those too, walnut, and a couple of weeping willows, but that bit of knowledge exhausted his forestry skills.  Oftentimes, in the night, he would simply give up, wonder if he wouldn’t just become a hermit, lost in the woods for all time, and die.  In the morning, he was hungry and miserable, but really didn’t want to die in the forest alone like this.  To someone else, perhaps the forest was not the bleak, desolate place he took it for.  Maybe there was food to be found and a life to be lived, but for the life of him, he did not see it amidst the trees.

            If it were up to him, he would avoid such places forever.

            Fortunately, he had paid _some_ attention when Ashaad or Zekiel had been lecturing to Shaislyn about edible fruits, nuts, and berries.  He should have sat in on more of those lectures, come to think of it.  He had never even imagined though…

            Hungry, tired, and cold, he pressed on.  Sometimes, when he saw demons, he was only half-certain they truly were, and not some trick of his feverish mind.  It could be the hunger, or the thirst.  Maybe it was the cold?  He couldn’t tell.  Over time, his toes became numb with the cold.  In the morning, there was frost, and his breath misted in the morning air.  It warmed slightly by noon, but the chill never left the air.  The evening was only colder still, and he woke still exhausted, shaking and weak.  He found a stream, and drank, and quenching his thirst only awoke his belly, reminding him that he couldn’t remember his last proper meal.  He only grew truly concerned, though, when he started to feel warm, despite that he could see his breath.  That evening, it began to snow.

            He didn’t dare to stop, even when the snow fell as if it would never stop.  Not when it piled up around him, coating the trees and the earth.  It would have been beautiful—no, it _was_ beautiful—except that it would be the death of him.  He was so tired.  If he just slept…  Just for a few minutes.  He could curl up under one of the evergreen trees—their branches caught most of the snow.  It wouldn’t be for very long—just a few minutes.  Or maybe, if he were to just sit down for a few minutes...  His legs ached, and it was just so cold…  But he worried that if he rested, he would fall asleep, and to sleep would be to die.  He worried about frostbite, about dying of hunger or any number of other things.  He was not fit to fight wolves if they came, let alone demons.

            He felt fevered, his throat sore, his limbs lead with the cold.  The snow looked soft and cushioned.  If he could just lie down…  Not sleep, just lie down for a moment…

            He stepped on a sharp rock, flinched, and shook the thought of lying down away.  If he were to rest, he would die.  If he had been taken back to Minrathous, he would die.

            Maybe not?  What if Danarius had just been angry when he said that?  Surely…  Maybe… if he had begged enough…  _If I sucked his cock enough_ …

            It was strange.  He had always been his master’s prized possession—always.  He had known he was a slave, but he had been… different.  Or he had thought he had been.  But in the end, he was just a slave after all.  He could be replaced, just like all of his other slaves.  To learn that Danarius had intended to kill him…  The thought made him uneasy.  It left him with no choice except to go forward.  He could never go back, never.  To go back was to die.  To be captured was to die.  He had not realized that before, and so it had not frightened him in quite the same way.  What if he hadn’t run all those months ago?  What if he had stayed?  He wouldn’t have killed him if that were the case, would he?

            _But why?  Master, why do you want me dead?  What… have I done?_

            He shook his head, trying to will away the impulse to please his master.  _He wants me dead.  If I really wanted to please him, I would kill myself and make sure he got the corpse._

            The thought was enough to keep him going, but not enough to steady his worries.  Danarius wanted him dead.  He had never felt so lost and abandoned.

            Soon, all thoughts of whatever Danarius wanted, or even what Fenris wanted, fell to the wayside, replaced by thoughts of the cold, or in no thoughts at all.  It took all his will just to keep walking, putting one foot in front of the other.  He could not remember ever being so cold.  The ache of the lyrium he barely noticed at all past the cold—too numb to really feel it.  But the ache was probably what saved him time and again, when he stopped, when he stumbled, and fell in the snow.  The ache was enough to keep him awake, to remind him that he was alive and had to keep going.  It was the only time he was grateful for the pain, because without it, he would have stopped.

            Winter in Minrathous meant a warm sun with a cool, ocean-kissed breeze blowing in from the north.  There would be plans for Wintersend, his master would want to attend the tourneys.  In winter, the slaves did not have to work as hard; there was no planting, no plowing, no tilling of the soil.  There was some basic tending to the fields, but that was all.  The household slaves’ chores never ended, but that was to be expected.  Fenris’ role never changed day to day.  It was monotonous.  Boring.  But he had never been hungry—Hadriana’s pettiness aside—never been so exhausted he thought he may drop, never cold, scared—yes, but not often and almost never for his own well being.  What he would give for a hot bath right now, a cup of hot tea, stew…

            But the night wore on, and the snow deepened.  He had been walking through an endless snow for what felt forever.  He was numb and frozen, snowflakes on his clothes, his hair, and eyelashes.  Lips were blue, skin was like death itself, and all around would be dark, except for the glow of the lyrium, which reflected in the snow around him, and seemed to light his immediate path.  _Without the lyrium, I’d still be a slave,_ he thought numbly, and thought of all the things he had accomplished only because of the lyrium in his skin.  Then his thoughts settled again, and he could only think of the cold.

            He stumbled, and leaned heavily against a tree.  He couldn’t say what kind of tree, even if he could tell through the storm.  The grove was neat and orderly, or had been years ago.  Each tree planted evenly apart, each the same breed of tree, as if someone had done it deliberately.  What he didn’t know was that, years ago, that was exactly what had happened.  When he looked around him, he saw something move in the snow, and he turned to look.  It wasn’t there.  He turned again, wondering which way he should go.  He trudged forward, his fingertips brushing snow off of a tree’s low-hanging branch as he grappled for a handhold, something to hold him upright.  He saw movement again, and his heart pounded.  Wolves?  Demons?

            He saw nothing.  He looked around, and all he could see was the forest and the snow.

            He fell in the snow, and barely remembered the fall.  It was so cold, and he was too tired and hungry to go on.  It was too hard.  He couldn’t do this alone.  He couldn’t…

            It was so cold.

            _Cold_ …

 

            Through the snow, the old halla came, knowing it was needed.  The old creature walked, and came upon the Dalish graves, a place it visited often.  Its coat was no longer the careless alabaster of its youth, but had grayed and yellowed with age, its blind eye and limping gait telling the story of the tragedy that had befell this place, all those years ago.

            The animal walked, despite its limp, with a purpose and a grace.  The halla’s one good eye spoke untold volumes of intelligence, of knowledge beyond what a mere animal should know.  It looked through the grove, visiting each gravesite in kind, touching its long horns to the trees.  It had known each elf by name, and it knew each tree by name.  Trees were long-lived, some almost immortal, and in that way, these elves would live forever.

            It strode forward, unhurriedly, knowing it would not be late.  It saw the body, laying in the snow.  It was unconscious, and cold.  The elf was dying of the elements and exhaustion, and his frail mortal body had simply given out.

            The halla moved toward him, through the storm.  It lowered its neck, nudging the elf’s face with his nose.  He breathed, though shallowly.

            The halla nudged his hand, his shoulder, hoping to rouse him, but the elf was unconscious.  The halla nuzzled against his face, trying to give what comfort the animal knew how to.

            It lay beside the elf, laying its long neck over his body, his head nestled against his chin, and waited.  The halla closed its eyes against the wind.  It was too cold for the halla too, but he had a thick winter coat, and this elf had nothing.

            _She_ had said that _he_ was important, that he had unspoken potential.  _She_ had said that he held a hope for elves, and she did not want him to fade, not yet.  _She_ had spoken to the old halla, and beseeched him to go to the elf.  The halla had responded, _He does not know you, my lady._

            And she had looked sad, _But I know him, and I cannot go myself any longer._

            So of course the halla had bowed low to Ghilan’nain, and went to help him, knowing that the act would cost him his life.

 

            The wind howled, and when his sage eyes opened, all he could see was snow, and he wondered how it was that he was still alive.  Something touched his arm, and he thought it must be an animal.  He tried to move it away, and only fumbled.  His hands were cold and icy, and he thought he must be dying.  Would it be the fever that killed him, though, or the cold?  He wondered…  Or maybe an animal would eat him first.  He was so numb, would he even feel it when it started to bite?  Absurdly, he wondered if the animal would die from eating the lyrium.

            The thing that had been nudging him came into view.  The snow distorted the features, but he saw a freckled girl with stringy ginger hair pull his arm up around her shoulders.  She was speaking to him gently, but he could not make sense of the words.  She pulled him to his feet, chatting amiably all the way.  He concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, leaning into her warmth.  She walked with him, and half-carried him until finally she set him down.  He peered numbly around the shallow cave.  There was a small fire burning merrily within, and the girl helped him remove the gauntlets.  He caught a glimpse of her mismatched eyes, her pointed ears.  Was she Dalish?  He was so fevered that he did not see her tattoos until she laid him down, speaking soothingly to him all the while, with the sort of familiarity that suggested she might have known him.  He felt a weight over him, and saw her pulling a heavy skin up to his shoulders.

            He wanted to ask her name, but he was so tired…

            He woke sometime in the night.  The wind was still howling, but the fire was warm.  He saw a man this time—an elf with auburn hair, tending the fire.  There was a bow and quiver on his back that he wore with a comfortable familiarity.  He wondered where the girl had gone, and wanted to ask.  He tried to rise, but the man reached out, a hand against his chest.  With surprising strength, he pushed him back down, firmly but gently.  “Rest now, my son,” he said.  Fenris assumed that it was just some generic term, but still he wanted to ask the man questions.  Where was he, for one.  Why were they helping him, for another.  And, were they really Dalish?  The man didn’t have the tattoos, though, so that was curious.  But the unknown elf smiled down at him with all the love and adoration of a parent, before Fenris slipped back into unconsciousness.

            He woke once more to the sound of a falling tree, jumping in surprise.  He felt someone comb his pale hair back off his brow with soft hands.  He opened his eyes, and looked into elven hazel eyes—not the mismatched ones of the girl before, or the grass green of the man.  Who was this then?  Her dark hair framed her face, and she hummed to herself as she gazed down at him, like a mother tending her child.  “Shh,” she hushed him, stilling him, and he found himself wanting to listen to her.  He was so tired, and his eyes slid closed again.  “Sleep, my baby.  You’re safe now.”  He listened to her gentle humming as he drifted off to sleep.  It felt like he had heard the tune somewhere before…

            The darkest part of night came, and someone held his hand.  The fire still burned, and he turned to look.  The elven girl smiled shyly, her eyes two drops of golden honey.  She looked familiar…  Where had he seen her before?  “You are sick,” she told him.  “You need to sleep.  I’ll be here.”

            But she wasn’t there when he woke again.  None of them were.  Where had they gone?  He looked around the small cave.  The fire had burned itself out.  He walked to the entrance, finding that his fever had broken sometime in the night, but it had left him hungry.

            He didn’t see anyone outside either.  Frowning, he went back in, shivering.  There was a bit more firewood in the cave, and he started a fire again.  The light revealed a skinned rabbit on a spit, waiting to be cooked.  His stomach growled, and he figured out the spit quickly.  It was all he could do to keep from eating it half-raw.

            Still none of his strange rescuers appeared, and he wondered why that could be.  He wondered if they were really Dalish.  It seemed likely enough, given everything, and they had all been elves too.

            Fenris fell upon the rabbit with a vengeance the moment he felt it was done enough to eat.  Feeling better for the first time in ages, he walked back to the mouth of the cave, and looked at the fallen snow.  A chill ran up his spine as he did, for partly covered in fresh snow, were but two sets of tracks—both leading into the cave, and none leading out.  He searched the cave again, but found it too shallow to have any hiding places.  Had he hallucinated all of that?  And somehow, in his delirious and fevered state, he had somehow managed to get himself here, skewer a rabbit, and collect firewood?  Then how did that explain _two_ sets of tracks into the cave?  And what about the four elves he had seen?

            There were no answers forthcoming, and the entire event was too strange, possibly even frightening, to contemplate.  Had those visions…  Had they been hallucinations?  Or demons?  Had helping him been a way of trying to seduce him?  He suddenly wanted nothing more than to be away from this place.

            As he walked, he found prints in the snow and recognized them as a shod horse’s, and decided to take a chance and follow them on the assumption that someone else might have a better idea than he of where they were going.  He saw a man in armor, carrying a sword and shield, astride a large destrier.  A human man—a mercenary maybe?  Out here?  He was wearing heavy plate and he recognized the style of armor as Imperial, and he could be a knight.  What was he doing all the way out here, alone?

            “Do you know the way out of the forest?” Fenris asked him, walking up to him.

            The man’s sun-darkened complexion seemed out of place in the snow, his hair the golden color of fall leaves.  Despite the strangeness of his appearance, he was amiable enough.  He smiled pleasantly, and pointed off down a path Fenris had not seen before.  “Follow that path.  You’ll be free of the forest by sunset.”  The sun was out, and the snow was quickly melting away.

            Fenris looked down the path, then turned back to the man to thank him, but it died on his lips.  The man had simply… vanished.  Fenris looked down at the footprints in the snow, and shivered; it wasn’t from the cold.

            The man and the horse had vanished, but the prints in the snow had not.


	79. Vindicated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris stops over in Brynnlaw, and then heads south through the Drylands on a caravan.

                Two weeks since he had escaped, and Fenris had finally made it to a town, exhausted—physically and emotionally.  Even days later, he found it difficult to imagine that he had seen…

                _Ghosts_ , he thought.  _Or demons_.  Was there a difference?  He wasn’t sure, and he was certain he didn’t care.  He _supposed_ that, in a light, they had helped him, as far as he could tell anyway.  What did that mean?  That they were planning something worse?  Or…  Had the demons looked at him and measured his soul, and found it broken and bound, and wanted nothing to do with it so had sent him on his way?  Or, worse, was he, in reality, still trapped somewhere in that forest, freezing to death, and he would never know?  Or was he lost somewhere in the Fade and didn’t even know he had died?

                He found a shabby inn, and fell into a creaky cot in a small closet of a room.  He slept like the dead, and woke considerably more sobered.  No, he wasn’t lost in the Fade, and this was reality and not some demonic trick.  He was really here—wherever “here” was.  He assumed he must be somewhere near or in Antiva, judging by the accents, but close enough to the Imperium to mirror some of the architecture, especially in the older buildings.

                A quick peruse around the inn, and a glance outside, told him that he was in Brynnlaw, just south of White Spire, which he could see from the town.  Their close proximity to Tevinter meant that many of the locals knew enough Tevene to communicate, but he decided to stick to the Trade tongue anyway—it was easier.

                He ate like he had survived a famine, and to be fair, he was famished.  He had made it out of the forest like the specter had said, sure, but he had to abandon the road the next afternoon when he spotted what could only be a slave caravan traveling up it.  He was in no condition to challenge them, no matter how desperately he wanted to, no matter the sorrow he felt for the people chained up and in cages.  The slaves born in the Imperium and the free citizens who sold themselves were treated the best; they were slaves who worked in households, tended gardens, raised children, fought for the Imperium, and any number of other common tasks.  It was the freeborn, captured slaves from outside Imperial territory that were sent to mines in chains or to the fields, shackled to a plow and carefully watched.  They didn’t live long.

                Fenris had only gotten lost again once he left the road, and it had taken him far longer than he cared to admit to find it again.

                The elf considered his next course of action.  Antiva was all well and good, but he was a bit nervous about Brynnlaw being so dangerously close to the Imperium.  A forest and a mountain range just wasn’t enough distance for Fenris.  He felt like he should move farther away.  Logically speaking, there would be fewer Imperial hunters the farther he was from the Imperium.

                Every glance his way made him nervous.  How unassuming had the hunters been?  He couldn’t even trust elves—Aramael’s presence had stung worse than the others.  Anyone might point a hunter his way, and anyone might _be_ a hunter, watching him.

                He found himself looking around him constantly, using what he had learned as a bodyguard to observe those around him, watching for anything out of place.  If he wanted to travel further, he supposed he must walk.  But walk _where_ , exactly?  South, he supposed, obviously.  He was not exactly pleased with this notion.  Even with just the coast as a destination, it was a _long_ way to walk, and a fair portion of that path was through desert.  Perhaps…  If he could book passage around the coast…  But he was in no hurry to get on another ship again, and he was certain he did not have the coin for it anyway.

                Which, again, left him with walking.  He was tired enough, however, to judge it prudent to stay for at least a couple of days to try to rest and recuperate from his ordeal.  As misfortunate would have it though, a sudden storm kept him trapped for an additional three days, as the roads were flooded.

                Fenris heard himself sigh on the third day of straight rain, watching it fill and overflow the gutters from a dusty window in the common room of the inn.

                “You’ll miss the rain when you go through the Drylands,” a grizzled old man commented.  Fenris glanced toward him.

                “What makes you think I’m not going east?” he said, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

                The man paid him no heed.  “More money if you go south,” the man said with a brusque nod.  “If your master is a smart man, he’ll go south.”

                The elf bristled, then calmed.  At least the man wasn’t one of the hunters, he didn’t think.  “I’m not a slave,” Fenris said, rather than take offense.  It felt… freeing… to say aloud.  Alien, though, and how strange it sounded to him must have showed.  He wanted to scream it, suddenly.  To laugh and sing it, to proclaim to the world that he wasn’t a slave--not anymore.  It would take some getting used to.

                The man blinked.  “Oh, I’m sorry—I just thought…”  He looked at him, and shrugged.  Fenris wondered what that could mean.  Did he… _look_ like an Imperial slave?  Did they have a particular look to them?  _I have no idea—I’ve never been out of the Imperium, not truly._ Disregarding the previous travel; he had never lingered long in one place.He supposed his clothes were Imperial make, perhaps—the lyrium for another.

                Fenris shook his head.  “No offense taken.”

                The man shook his head a little.  “You’ll die out in the Drylands alone, mark my words, elf.  Suppose you could always get onboard a caravan.”

                “Slavers,” he said with obvious distaste.

                The man gave another shrug.  “For the Crows mostly, but it goes both ways.”  He nursed his mug of ale.  “Of course, there are other caravans too.”  He glanced at Fenris’ sword.  “Assuming you can make yourself useful.”

                Fenris considered this bit of advice.  He hadn’t even thought of trying to get a job to get southward, but it was a good idea.  “Thank you—I’ll look into that.”

                When the rain finally let up to a light drizzle, he wandered out of the inn, carefully avoiding the larger puddles, and walking primly on his toes through the wet.  Barrels were being covered, now filled with rainwater.  He supposed this city was dry for much of the year.

                It had been nearly two years since he had been in Minrathous.  He thought about all of his travels, the places he had been, the people he had seen.

                Now that he thought about it…  The elves in the Imperium were all inherently good-looking.  He supposed centuries of selective breeding did that to them.  Most elves in general, he had found, were not as ugly as a human could be, but the Imperial elves were… well, attractive.  Bred to be attractive, he guessed was more accurate.  Bred to be fair of feature, have rarer hair colours, pretty eyes, good skin, well-formed—and stronger.  They needed to be, to work the mines and fields, and fight.  In Tevinter, one could guess an elf’s general birthplace based on the way they looked.  The ones of finer features were often descendents of household slaves, the types used for serving, basic chores, bleeding for blood magic, whoring, things like that.  The ones who were taller, who were bred more for their physique, were generally from the countryside.  What did that say about him, he wondered?  He had never thought very much about it, but there was a clue in there somewhere.  Well, his hair colour was… odd.  Maybe that was part of the selective breeding, but there was his height to consider…  Danarius had hinted that he might have been a gladiator.  If that were so, perhaps his lineage was…

                But who could say?

                He was lost in his thoughts, and when someone grabbed his arm roughly, he jumped in surprise as he was pulled around.  He mentally cursed himself for not paying attention to his surroundings.

                “There’s a bounty on your head,” the man said with a superior smirk.  “Come with us, and there’ll be no reason to hurt you, slave.”

                _He wants me dead_.  “How much is it?” he inquired, curiosity getting the better of him.

                “100 sovereigns alive,” someone behind him said.

                “Don’t _tell_ him,” the first man snapped.

                “What?” the other demanded.

                Fenris scoffed.  Only 100?  He felt offended.  “How much dead?”  
                “50,” the second man answered automatically.  The first shot him a nasty scowl.

                The elf made a face.  Danarius wanted the pleasure of killing him himself.  _Torture_ , he imagined.  “How much does my bounty go up if the hunters keep dying?” he inquired, before he ripped out the first man’s throat.  His sword was in his hands in moments, and the melee was a brief flurry of weapons.  He stepped in an ankle-deep puddle, and groaned inwardly as he deflected a slash.  He dodged a blow from a shield, only to be struck by the pommel of a sword.  There were four other hunters in total.  There weren’t enough of them.

                He cleaved his way through them like a dancer on a stage, stepping gingerly over a body on his way back to the inn.  He had better be leaving before someone complained about this.

                He heard a clapping sound from a nearby ally.  He frowned, turning to look.  The grizzled old man from before was applauding him.  “Good show, lad.  Fancy a job?”

                The man was a certain Mesere Anastas, an Imperial by blood and a merchant by nature.  He told him, matter-of-factly, that he was happy to conveniently overlook Fenris’ fugitive status, and the bounty, if he would guard his caravans through the Drylands.  It was too good of an opportunity to pass up, and when Anastas told him he would pay him too, he happily accepted.

 

                Mahkerin came to a stop—like a doe in the forest--and listened.  A twig snapped, a small thing and not uncommon in a forest.  A nearby grouse gave a raucous cry of alarm to alert its fellows as it tore away from the underbrush.  The elf watched it go, and pretended not to take any more note of it than a startled bird that had in turn startled still other birds.  Birds were easily startled creatures, and it was not the first time Mahkerin would thank the feathered folk for it.  He walked on, but slowly, aware that he was being followed.  He moved expertly through the thicket, barely making a sound and leaving scarcely a trail to follow, so light were his steps and so expertly placed.

                He heard a rustle of foliage, and spun toward the assailant.  He dodged and struck with his staff—giving the canine a sharp smack with the hardened wood.  The wolf whined and backed away, shaking its head as if dazed.  He raised an eyebrow at the animal.  “I could hear you,” he said amiably, his tone that of a teacher admonishing his student.  “It’s a wonder you come back with anything at all.”  The wolf lowered its head, whining.  The elf sighed, and inclined his head back toward the camp.  “C’mon, then.”  The wolf padded along beside him.  “ _Did you catch anything?”_   That part was in elvish, curious to see how much the wolf would understand.

                It glanced at him, and seemed to be piecing through his words carefully, then gave a very un-canine nod of the head, then sniffed the air, and dashed forward high-spiritedly, leaving tracks and crushed flora in its wake.

                When Mahkerin arrived at camp, he was greeted with the half-elvhen boy rather than the wolf.  It was impossible for him to think of Shaislyn as being both.  He thought of all of the boy’s several different forms as being separate entities from himself, and could simply not grasp how Shaislyn insisted they were all _him._   Shaislyn the half-elf did not go about devouring raw rabbit or marking his territory with urine, but the wolf did.  The half-elf did not eat worms but the sparrow did, and so on.  Shaislyn had insisted, over and over again, that this sort of thinking was exactly why Mahkerin could not shapeshift.  Shaislyn had tried to explain that the greatest fear in shapeshifting was not in turning into the creature or being able to turn back, but overcoming the desire to _never_ go back.  Mahkerin could not understand that concept in the least, and they had gone ‘round about it for hours before. 

The boy repeatedly would say, “Being a sparrow or a dog is no worse than being a person.  It’s just _different._ If I could shapeshift into a tree, I would feel the same way.”  It was the boy’s beginnings of wisdom, and Mahkerin bordered on the brink of understanding such wisdom, but often was too attached to being an elf—a _person_ —to really believe in it.

                But perhaps it was simply difficult for an oldster like himself to take instructions from someone who was barely ten years old.  He had found the boy…  Well, no.  More accurately, he had found the _wolf_.  He had found a wolf, a year back, stuck in a hunter’s trap.  It had been in obvious pain, bleeding and hurt.  Ordinarily, it would not be right to approach such a dangerous beast when it was in pain, but the creature had stilled at his approach, sniffing him, and when Mahkerin had come as close as he dared, the creature had looked at him pleadingly, and knelt down submissively.  Mahkerin had freed it, and it had limped out of the trap, and Shaislyn’s spell had immediately fallen apart.

                The boy had been bleeding just as the wolf had, but somehow not as much.  He had explained that he had tried to change back, but his wrist was considerably more tender than the wolf’s, and that had been a very bad idea.  Mahkerin had healed him, and somehow Shaislyn had ended up being his constant companion for the past year.  Dare he say it, he liked the boy, even if he were half-human.

                It shamed him to admit it now, but he had disliked him on principle at first, because of his questionable heritage.  But Shaislyn had a charming smile, was starved for affection and attention, and tried hard to please, and the older mage had relented.

                But he had still not answered all of Shaislyn’s questions.  “It’s been over a year,” he said, in the King’s Speech.  At the elf’s flat look, Shaislyn switched to the more musical notes of the elvhen, even if it were harshly accented by his oh-so very Seheron-Imperial voice.  “ _It’s been a year.  We have evaded or killed_ Templars—“  There was no proper elvhen equivalent of the word. _“--in that time, and I understand that we are both mages, but you are Dalish and have no clan.”_

Mahkerin nodded sagely, and sighed.  Perhaps it was time.  “ _I will tell you.  Help me with supper first.”_   Shaislyn did not pry, but went about his chores, even if a bit quickly.  The boy kneaded the travel dough and shaped it, then placed it on a flat stone slab by the fire so it could rise—not as nice as a real oven, but he could not carry around as much with him as he would like.  Shaislyn was always bugging him to buy a mule or something, but he was more than reluctant about that.  He sometimes joked that Shaislyn could—perhaps—shapeshift into a mule, if he liked, and carry such things.  That had always ended the argument.

                When the soup was warming, the pair sat down, and Mahkerin turned to the half-human.  “ _A long time ago, my clan came across a group of_ Templars _.  They seemed… while not pleasant, at least tolerant.  But they returned some days later, and if I did not go with them, they would kill us.  So I left.”_

Shaislyn blinked slowly as he processed this.  “ _What were the_ Templars _like?  And the tower?”  
                _ Mahkerin shook his head a little bit in despair.  “ _Awful.  Unbearable.  The mages are abused during the best of times and never allowed to leave.”_

Shaislyn’s fingers tightened.  “ _I would leave,”_ he insisted.

                Mahkerin looked at him for a long while.  “ _They create phylacteries, and will find you—always.”_

Shaislyn laughed then.  “ _No one can cage a_ shapeshifter.”  The last word was in the Trade tongue—there was not a proper elvhen equivalent to that word either.

                _“But they can leash one._   _And they will always find you.”_ A pause.  “ _And they will kill you when they find you without even a thought.”_

The boy’s eyes shifted away, and he seemed more solemn than usual.  Of course, the older elf had spent a lot of time with the boy, and Shaislyn…  Shaislyn was almost always solemn in one way or another—even if he actively pretended to be happy—all the anger, bitterness, and grief were really only just buried under the surface.  In more ways than one, the pair were equally matched:  Mages, vagabonds, and everything they had ever known and loved had been taken from them.

                “They are hunting you.”  Shaislyn tilted his head.  “When they find you, they will kill you.”

                “And you, most likely—given your abilities.”

                Shaislyn seemed thoughtful, but fell silent.  The next morning, they moved on.  Mahkerin sent Shaislyn to scout, and the crow winged away and returned some hours later, advising Mahkerin to turn south, which they did.  There were Templars in the west—or people that Shaislyn said were “most likely” Templars; they were wearing cloaks and he couldn’t see the armor.

                “ _How has it taken so long for them to find you_?” Shaislyn inquired.

                “ _Before I fled the tower, I cast a…  Well, a misdirection spell on my phylactery_.”

                “ _How did you manage that_?” Shaislyn asked, ever curious about strange spells.

                “ _Blood is just a piece of a body, when it comes down to it.  And misdirection is a simple enough thing.  I just made this one… last a bit longer_.”

                “ _Is that blood magic?”_

                Mahkerin did not answer, which was answer enough for Shaislyn.  It was one of the reasons the Templars would kill him.  But he had given them many reasons over the years.  The spell had worn off just over a year ago, and luckily he had Shaislyn with him now, and the boy was more than useful for finding Templars.  It was good to have a companion anyway.

                Shaislyn laughed suddenly.  “ _Is that why you got lost so easily, too?”_

 _“I relied very heavily on the position of the stars and the sun,_ ” Mahkerin answered, and the boy laughed again.  The spell had to go both ways, or it would not have worked.  Besides, that was why Mahkerin knew that the spell had finally failed.

                “ _Why don’t you just rejoin the other Dalish?”_

A pause.  “ _I would not bring the Templars down upon them, given a choice.”_

Shaislyn stretched.  “Where is your phylactery?”  He dropped into the King’s Speech once he had stopped thinking about what he was saying.

                The Dalish gave a small sigh, feeding a twig into the fire.  “Orlais.  In Val Royoux.”

                Shaislyn gave a slight nod of his head, as if not really listening.

                Two weeks later, the pair picked off the Templars—there was no other option any more at that point and they could not outrun them.  They had no grand battle over it—nothing so stupid as to challenge a Templar to a proper fight.  No, the pair simply killed them.  They killed them in their sleep, they killed them when they squat, when they ate, and disappeared into the wood when the alarm sounded until the last of them fled from him.  The wolf ran the last Templar to the ground, jaws clenched around his face, and with a growl, crushed it.  The wolf lapped the blood, as if considering the taste, and nosed at the man’s pocket.

                Mahkerin found the gold and silver with ease, and took the man’s knife as well.

                The wolf stalked around the clearing, growling nervously.  Mahkerin looked at him inquiringly.  What was going on?  The wolf’s ears laid back, and the elf reached for his staff.  Mahkerin heard the horses before he saw them.  Bandits, soldiers, Templars?  The wolf disappeared into the wood to check, and Mahkerin melted into the shadow of the trees, and moved away.

 

                Mesere Anastas had decided to wait for the rain to stop, and they were stuck another couple of days.  Of course, those initial “couple of days” had turned into weeks.  Anastas always had some business to attend to, some minor crisis to divert, so things were stalled, seemingly indefinitely.  Fenris was bored.

                Anastas kept busy most of the day, but let him know that he wouldn’t forget about him, leaving Fenris to sulk about the inn.  Something about the way the rain kept falling was depressing, as if the sky were weeping.  He usually thought that rain—water in general—was soothing, but this rain never seemed to stop.

                He looked out at the muddy roads, listening to the noisy inn.  A woman walked by on the street carrying a toddler.  She took care to skirt around the puddles, carrying the hem of her dress to keep it out of the muck, but in places, she would sink to her ankles.  A flash of an image—holding someone’s hand, the sound of horses and armor, rain pouring down, the mud over his ankles…  He blinked, jerking away from the window, then stared harder at the woman, willing more of the image to come, but it didn’t.  And, as is the way of half-remembered things, he struggled to recall the details.  Who’s hand had it been?  What kind of armor, or what were their banners?

                He sighed, and moved away from the window.  He wandered away through the common room.  A group of men were playing at dice rather loudly.  A robust woman carried a tray of drinks.  A bard was singing a bawdy tune in her honour in a well-practiced baritone.

                The group of men all let out a shout, and one of them laughed.  It was sudden enough that he looked toward them, only to ascertain that it was only about their game.  When he looked back, he nearly ran into Sasha, the innkeep’s clumsy 20-year old son.  The young man jumped back, face flushed with embarrassment.  He had a ruggedly handsome face, and the beginning of what promised to be a beard one day.  His hair came down to his chin in dark locks, and his skin spoke of some Rivaini blood farther back in his family line, mixed in with the Antivan.

                “Sorry!” he exclaimed.  “I’m always running into you.”  He sighed, flustered.

                Fenris actually laughed, because it was true.  He nearly ran into him at least twice a day, actually.  And Fenris wasn’t so sure he would entirely mind if he ran into him a little more often.  “And everyone else,” he added.

                Sasha’s face heated.  The way he hunched made him look smaller than he was, but he was a big man; easily head and shoulders over Fenris, with a broad back and muscular arms.  “And doorways, and every piece of furniture, and walls—poles too,” he agreed.  _I’d like to run you into every piece of furniture,_ Fenris thought, almost against his will.  “You should see all the bruises.  My legs especially are always so banged up—you wouldn’t believe it.”

                _I’d love to see your bruises too…_ “Try not to hurt yourself,” he told him, stepping aside to let him pass.

                Sasha muttered a quick promise that he would try, and started to walk by him, then paused.  “How long’ll you be here?”

                Fenris blinked, and assumed he was only asking because he was, well, the innkeep’s son.  “Until the rain stops, I suppose.”

                Sasha nodded, but as if he were only halfway listening.  “First Day is next week—if you’re still around…  Will you be going to the festival?”

                Fenris hadn’t even really thought too much about holidays in…  He had never thought very much about holidays.  With the dwarves, they had been traveling so much, he had not thought too much about it.  Danarius had usually attended the Wintersend tourneys, and of course Minrathous had always celebrated the holidays, but Fenris had nothing to do with such things personally.  Holidays were things for friends and family—he had neither.  “I’m not sure.”

                Sasha made a face.  “Well…”  He flushed again.  It was kind of endearing.  “If you’re still around…  Maybe I’ll see you?”

                He actually smiled up at him.  “Sure.”

                Sasha smiled back, and quickly moved away.  Fenris started walking again, and stopped, glancing back at the man as he bumped into a table.  The corners of his lips tugged into a smile at his clumsiness.  Had he been… hitting on him?  It was kind of reassuring to know that some people could look past the lyrium, if so.  Nicer still, because Fenris thought he was attractive.

                Fenris, still bored, went up to his small room, and spent over an hour meticulously polishing his sword.  He had taken it to a blacksmith the day before for sharpening, so was careful around the edges.  It was a simple, fairly mindless task that kept him occupied, and it was at least useful.

                When he finished, he set it aside, and flopped over onto the bed.  He listened to the rain, and closed his eyes, inhaling deeply.  He could smell the wood fire from below, and he heard the music too.  The patrons downstairs erupted in laughter suddenly, and some clapping, so he assumed the bard had sang something funny. 

Sometimes, he could find an odd job doing this or that—hired muscle or whatever.  Sometimes, Anastas asked him to guard something while it was moved about, but most of the time, he just waited for his new employer to leave.

                He shrugged out of his tunic, thinking maybe he would take a nap.  He kicked off his pants eventually too, and flopped back onto the cot.  He preferred to sleep naked, even if he had a change of clothes, which he did not.  Without, it just made sense not to wear anything to bed.  And who in their right mind slept in leathers anyway?

                He stretched, and closed his eyes.  It was relaxing, but he did not sleep.  Rather, he listened to the sounds of the inn, and felt his body relax.  He thought about Mesere Anastas, and wondered what kind of person he was.  He thought about the innkeep, who no doubt suspected Fenris’ runaway status, but said nothing at all about it.  He thought about the cook with the missing finger, and the serving woman down below with breasts as large as his head.  He thought about Sasha, and his eyes opened, then closed.

                His hand on his chest wandered, a will of its own, downwards.  He took a deep breath, and shifted, hands running over himself.  He hadn’t done this in a long time.  There was just no time for it, he supposed.  His tongue wet his lips, fingers ran along the length of him.  He shivered, one eye opening, and listened again.  Had he locked the door?  He looked—yes, he had.  He rolled, biting his lower lip as his hand moved a little faster.  He started to moan, and covered his mouth with his other hand.  He spread his legs, and licked along one of his fingers, pushing both of them into his mouth.  He could imagine what it was like to have someone suck him off when he did that, imagining the sensation of his tongue on his fingers somewhere else.

                He breathed a moan, and moved the hand at his mouth down to the other one, both running over him, the dampness of his saliva coating him.  He wished he had some lotion or oil or something, but this was fine, he supposed, so long as he didn’t make a habit of it.  He used his own juices to coat himself, breathing deeply.  He ran his damp fingers over his testicles, against the cluster of nerves.  He took a deep breath, and relaxed, his fingers trailing down just a little farther, running against himself first, then he pushed inward.  He bit his lip again, and leaned forward.  The angle was awkward, but worth it when he found what he sought.  His toes curled, and he rose to his knees, forehead breaking out in a sweat.

                He never would have thought to try it, except he already knew it felt good when done right, and Danarius had done it to him enough times that he knew what to do to make it feel good.  But he didn’t really associate the feeling with his master.  No, he associated rape with his master.  He associated unwillingness, pain, and the shame of it happening.  And he was doing this to himself, more than willingly, and it had nothing to do with that.

                He wanted someone else to do this with him, to him.  He wanted a person’s mouth around his cock, someone who would caress him, hold him, make him feel wanted.  Another person’s fingers inside him, and eventually—be that person male—their penis in him.  He wanted a man, hungrily, right now a particular one.  A woman, he thought, would be just as nice.  A warm, wet orifice, heavy breathing and a creaking bed either way.

                He came suddenly, with a shuddering sigh, and collapsed backwards, breathing hard, hands falling away.  He laid there, staring at the ceiling, suddenly embarrassed that he had been doing it at all.  He swore, wondering if anyone had heard it.  He cleaned up the mess he had made, and snuggled under the blanket, face red at the idea of anyone having heard him.  The walls here were not all that thick, were they?

 

                The pair waited until the horsemen had gone—just common soldiers, but they had found the body anyway.  Fortunately, they were far away enough from Orlais that these were actually Imperial scouts, and they cared not for what happened to Orlesian Templars.  After all, though he may be a Templar, he was Orlesian in their minds first.

                Shaislyn commented off-handedly that he was going scouting, and hunting, and would meet up with Mahkerin in a couple of days.  It wasn’t odd at all to the elf, for sometimes Shaislyn simply wanted to be alone.  He was a strange child.

                Shaislyn flew away in a flutter of feathers, and swooped wide to the north and once he judged that Mahkerin could no longer see him for the canopy of the trees, he changed course and headed west and south.  A crow flies faster than a horse could run and he made it to Val Rouyaux before sunrise.  He snuck into an inn in another form, barred the door, and slept in a stolen bed for a couple of hours, before he slipped away.  He spent some time circling the place, watching it, and watching the Templars come and go.  The thrill of the hunt chased through him, and dare he say, he liked it.  The crow watched, and learned, and later on a sparrow slipped into the tower.  He observed the Templars and mages alike, interested in the goings-on, and enraged when a Templar, very casually, threw an apprentice to the floor, and spit on him.  He called him a mage as if it were the vilest of insults, and sneered as he kept walking.  Reminded him of the way Fenris had sneered at him all that time ago, actually.

                Odd, he hadn’t thought about Fenris in months, but when he did, it made him angry.

                Shaislyn sat quietly, and let the rage run its course.  He witnessed other things just as awful, and some more so.  He watched a young mage girl cringe when the Templars came close, saw one backhand her, adding another bruise to her homely face.  Shaislyn watched and followed, anger seething through him.  How could anyone treat another person like this?  He wanted everyone to enjoy the freedoms he had learned.

                He found the place they stored the phylacteries, but the bird could not get inside.  It would need hands to open it, and there was an inscription that a bird did not understand.  He buzzed around it for a while, and, frustrated, sat on a rafter outside it, glaring as much as a bird could glare at it.  He judged he was alone, and slipped back into his normal form, balancing precariously on the beam, thinking he could at least read the inscription in relative secrecy.  His stomach tightened when he heard footsteps, but they were not the heavy armored footsteps of the Templars.

                He leaned on the beam, and watched down below, aware that any sound could make someone look up, and then they would see him—a ten-year old apostate in the nest of the dragon, as it were.  So he was silent as a wolf stalking prey, as still as a frightened rabbit.  He waited, and watched, controlling his breathing to the shallowest, quietest, of breaths.

                The man walked purposefully but somehow as if he did not exactly care.  Shaislyn knew instinctively that there was something wrong with him, and he adjusted his vision to see him better.  The world abruptly changed perspectives, as always, and for an instant he saw from every angle, before he adjusted it, narrowing it so that his mind could make sense of it.  The man’s face was also curiously blank, and he had a strange mark on his forehead—a brand, it looked like.  Which meant…  Mahkerin had described the Tranquil to him before, but he had never seen one.  Tevinter considered the practice barbaric.

                It was.  Just looking at him made Shaislyn want to retch.  A mind, twisted apart from what it had been, warped and gone.  It was worse than slavery—that was a physical thing.  This was a thing of the mind.  It took everything a person was and ripped it so far away from them that they could not even feel what they had once been any longer.  They could not even mourn its passing—and that was the worst part of it.  Shaislyn felt his heart cry out for this man.

                Shaislyn wondered what it would be like to be so blank and uncaring, what it would be like to be so cruelly separated from his gift.  Shaislyn would rather die.  He would rather go down fighting than submit to a life like that, even if it were life.  A life like that would never be worth living.  A slave’s life would be more worth living—at least their thoughts and emotions were their own.

                The Tranquil walked up the steps, and keys jangled on his belt.  Shaislyn watched with interest as a particular key turned the lock.  Sensing no one else near, his being pulsed once with an unnatural light that was gone by the time the Tranquil looked up.  Only a sparrow sat where he had, and the man looked away.  It was not unheard of for a bird to become trapped inside a building, particularly a small one.

                He pulled the heavy door open, straining against it.  It opened as if grudgingly, inch by inch.  Shaislyn darted through it.  The Tranquil slipped through after him, and Shaislyn flew up to the top of the room.  The door, he could see now, was of dwarven make, and just as heavy as it looked.  There were shelves and shelves of vials of blood, and some of them were glowing, others were dim.  The Tranquil carried a heavy book, and set it down on a table.  He ran through the figures, and came to a particular one.  He made a mark in the volume, and then set a new, gently glowing vial down.  They must be alphabetical or something, or maybe by year, or perhaps it was even more complicated.

                _I need that book_.

                Shaislyn swept back down, landing on the floor.  He pretended to search for crumbs, and the Tranquil paid him no heed.  He had another vial to place, and seemed to be having more trouble with that one.  There was a flash of light, and Shaislyn cast in an instant—a simple spell of sleeping.  It would wear off in a few minutes, but he could always cast it again.  Mahkerin had taught it to him out of necessity.  Hexes were a specialty of his, and they were indescribably useful for the cloak and dagger style of fighting he preferred.

                Shaislyn flipped to the appropriate page, hunting for a name, and realized there were dates in there too.  He did not know _when_ Mahkerin had been taken, but he had an approximate date, and looked through them.  There were so many pages of names, and so many different hands to write them.  The Tranquil was stirring again.  Shaislyn cast a hand out without turning his head, and the spell floated down again, dragging him deeper into the sleep.  Shaislyn grinned as he found it, and hurried up the ladder to the appropriate tier.  He selected a dim vial, checked the label, and smashed it.  Now he had to get out of there.  The hard part, he reasoned, was finished.  Now he just had to get back out the same way he had come.  That should be easy enough.

                He fiddled with the door, and got it open just enough to slip out.  As he shut it, he came face-to-face with a Templar.  All the colour immediately drained from Shaislyn’s tanned skin.

                His jaw dropped, eyes widening.  The man’s eyes narrowed dangerously, perhaps recognizing him for what he was—an apostate in a lot of trouble.

                His hand went to his sword, but Shaislyn was faster.  He leaped at him, changing in the same instant and the heavy body of the wolf rather than the young boy landed hard on the Templar’s shoulders, bringing them both down the stairs, tumbling one over the other.  Every effort on Shaislyn’s part was in keeping the Templar from drawing his sword.  They hit the first landing, and the Templar slammed into the wall, and Shaislyn came up on top snarling.  The mage scrabbled with him briefly, slashed across his face.  A sharp pain made him wince, and stagger away.  The dagger was buried hilt-deep in his shoulder, but it had caught on the bone, preventing the Templar from pulling it out and plunging it in again.  He growled, a low, dark sound.  The Templar opened his mouth to call for help, but Shaislyn darted in again, jaws clamping down hard around his throat.  The armor got in the way, and Shaislyn had a mouthful of the man’s beard and jaw too, but he crunched down all the same, and ripped away flesh and muscle.  The man was screaming now, which was just as bad as raising the alarm.  A quick slash to the throat ended the struggle.  Shaislyn looked up, listening.  He could hear running footsteps.  He needed to get out of here.

                Back into his birth form, he ripped out the dagger, and then quickly back into a sparrow.  He flew upwards, and, heart racing, could only watch as two more Templars came charging up the steps, swords drawn and shields raised.

                What they were confronted with was baffling.  It would look just like a wild animal attack, inside Val Rouyoux of all places.  The door would be shut and locked, and there was no sign of the attacker.  But the Templars acted quickly.  One of them barked orders.  The second one ran down the stairs to alert the tower, and the other peered amongst the shadows in suspicion before he produced another key, and opened the door.  He pulled it open only enough to converse with the Tranquil, and surveyed the meager amount of damage, then commanded the Tranquil to stay put.  Shaislyn wondered if it would be best if he flew away, or if the act would draw attention to himself, and he should stay put until they passed.  His fear and racing heart won out, and he hid on the beam, and listened and watched.

                The door closed again, and the Templar’s gaze swept the shadows, but a sparrow was a small creature.  The Templar’s jaw set, as if in anger, then…

                It was like having his soul wrenched away from his grasp, like his mind was being dragged screaming from his skull.  Shaislyn felt himself dumped back into his body, and he could not activate the spell of his vision.  The seconds ticked by, and he knew by instinct that it was only a matter of time before the Templar looked _up._

                What could he do?

                His fingers tightened around the hilt of the dagger, still in his hand just as before he had changed.  Just one of the mysteries of shapeshifting lay in what happened to his body when he became a sparrow or a wolf.  For example, why was he still holding the dagger, and what had happened to it in the interim?  For that matter, what happened to his clothes?

                But he had it, and he knew the Templar had not moved either.  Shaislyn could hunt blind.  He could move blind, run blind, and losing his sight was not the handicap to him that it would be to someone else.

                He moved silently—Mahkerin would have been proud.  He tensed himself, and leaped.  The Templar had not been expecting something to fall on him, but his training had been thorough too, and he had a good two hundred pounds—including the armor--on Shaislyn.  There was a loud crashing noise as the heavily armored man hit the floor, the lighter boy on top of him.  He lost his sword in the initial impact, but he brought his armored fist between the dagger and his neck, and just in time.  Shaislyn jerked the dagger upwards, feeling the Templar trying to get a hold on him.  The human brought his shield up, and struck at the mage.  Shaislyn sensed it coming—and all that armor was not silent either--and rolled to the side.  His fingers found the hilt of the sword, and he brought it into his hand.  He struck against the shield, and heard it dent.  He struck again, but the Templar brought the shield up.  A few more parries, and the shield splintered under the heavy assault.  The Templar’s training had prepared him for much, but he had never expected to encounter a sword-wielding mage that had attacked him from above.  And, perhaps, he was confused as to why a ten-year old was attacking him suddenly.

                Shaislyn thought about all the things he had seen that had made him angry—the Tranquil, the mage that had been spit on, the mage who had been hit, the Templars who hunted Mahkerin.  Why can’t they just leave them be?  It wasn’t a sin to be born who they were, and how they were.  If it were a sin, then this “Maker” that they believed in would not have condemned them from infancy.  Sins were conscious, learned things.  Magic was a gift, a gift to a selected few.  And if the Templars said that some mages were not strong enough to handle their power, it was _not_ the student’s fault—it was the teacher’s.  They just needed to learn different spells, a different path.  That was all.  So what if their ability lay not in elements or healing?  What if their ability was shapeshifting?  Or something new?

                One flower could not be cared for exactly the same as another breed of flower, after all.

                The Templar swore inwardly.  Shaislyn was right in that the Templar had never encountered anything like this before.  He was also right in that he had been unprepared for it—in more ways than one.  Yesterday morning, he had badly sprained his ankle falling down some stairs, and while a mage had healed it, it was still tender and the proper thing to do was to treat it as if it were still injured.  He put weight on the sprained ankle as he stepped.  He didn’t want to kill the whelp—just debilitate him.  They would need to capture him for questioning—if they had a security breech a child could sneak into, they needed to know about it.  The Templar’s leg gave out, and he stumbled.

                Shaislyn brought the sword down again, and the shield broke, the blade plunging into a rivet in the armor, and pierced flesh.  In the instant of shock, Shaislyn drove the dagger with his left hand under the Templar’s chin, burying it fast.  He heard men running and shouting, but they found only two dead men, and never even looked up to see the sparrow fluttering away.

 

                Initially, Fenris had hated the Drylands, for it was so vastly different from anything he had ever encountered.  As the name implied, it was dry and dusty, the wagon wheels constantly raising plumes of sand.  It was hot, and he had never really worn real shoes or sandals, but his new employer insisted, and Fenris was not against the idea of not burning his feet in the afternoon heat.

                They had left several days before the First Day festival, and Sasha had made faces, but had gotten to say goodbye to him, haltingly and like he wanted to say something else, but he didn’t.  Fenris supposed it was just as well.

                Water was rationed carefully out in the Drylands, and he just as much had to guard the precious liquid from his fellows as he guarded from bandits and other hazards.  Anastas had no horses, but mules—stronger and sturdier by nature—pulled the wagons.  Anastas himself either rode in his covered wagon, or atop what he called a _camel_ , which was a strange-looking and somewhat vile creature that seemed to do quite well in this environment.  The other animals in the train were chickens, an obnoxious rooster, two dogs, and an assortment of donkeys.

                Fenris had to tolerate that his employer was a slave owner, but was somewhat satisfied that all of his slaves were treated well.  He had asked a couple of them, and they all agreed that if given their freedom, they would probably stay anyway, and several Liberati _had_.  And Anastas wasn’t in the slave trade, anyway.  No, what he brought to Antiva were silks, furs, tapestries, tusks of ivory, and precious stones and works of metal.  He was a collector of art, first and foremost.

                “Come back with me to Vyrantium,” Anastas had said.  “I’ll show you my art collection.”  He boasted that he had statues dating back past the fall of Amaranthine, paintings older than some countries, trinkets worn by queens.  Fenris suspected that he could count himself as part of that vast collection, if he let himself stay employed by Anastas.

                “I cannot return to the Imperium so long as my master lives,” Fenris said gently.  Anastas had asked him many questions since his employment, so the man knew the situation well enough.

                Anastas had waved the matter off.  “Everyone has their price—I’ll bet I can settle your debt.”

                Fenris had shrugged noncommittally.  “He wants to kill me.”

                Anastas actually seemed pleased by this.  “If he wants you dead, I bet absent will suffice.”  He grinned.  “I’ll pay him off, you can work off the debt.”

                “I’ll… think about it.”  Fenris had no intention of thinking about it; the entire thing was too risky, and he did not think Danarius would just let the matter go for a pile of gold, or even some of Anastas’ artwork.  Danarius had more gold than he would ever spend in his lifetime, and he was more interested in collecting weaponry and old books than artwork.

He liked Anastas; it was hard not to.  He would joke with his slaves, tease the pretty girls, helped one of them struggling with something heavy.  He was not shy about work, and when Fenris asked, Anastas had confided in him, with a wink, that he was Liberati himself.  Fenris had assumed he was Soporati, so this was a bit of a surprise to him.

                “How were you liberated?”

                Anastas laughed.  “My master dabbled in art forging, and I was damn good at it.  He was so pleased with my last painting that he made me an offer.”  He shrugged.  “Nothing spectacular.  Lot of paperwork.”

                Fenris wished it could be so easy for him.  One thing, though, bothered him.  How was it that Anastas could be a slave owner himself, if he was once a slave?  It seemed so perverse to him.  He tried to hold his tongue, but his own temper eventually got the better of him later in the day, as it was wont to do.

                “How can you own slaves?” he demanded, walking beside Anastas.  He was so angry the lyrium pulsed once.  He took a deep breath, and calmed.  “You were a slave once.”  He would never be able to live with himself if he ever became a slave owner.  The very idea was almost a nightmare—becoming something he hated the most.

                Anastas shrugged.  “Wasn’t so bad,” he told him matter-of-factly.  “I got fed, clothed, learned to paint, read—I had nothing to complain about truly.”

                Fenris fumed.  “You just didn’t know any better!”

                He raised an eyebrow.  “I still don’t think it was all that bad—my master found me making charcoal drawings in the street; I was sick and starving, and would have died otherwise.”

                The elf narrowed his eyes.  “And that justifies slavery?” he demanded.  True, his slaves seemed happy enough, and he even freed them sometimes, even the slaves said.  There were Liberati who were once his slaves amongst the train.  But that just didn’t justify it.

                Anastas sighed and considered for a moment.  “Freeing slaves is all well and good, Fenris, but are you suggesting that all the slaves in Tevinter should be freed?”

                Fenris was aghast that he was even insinuating that they _shouldn’t_ be freed.  “Slavery is immoral.”

                The painter made a face.  “Fenris.  It isn't about the morality of the decision, it is simple economics:  If they were workers instead, we would have to pay them.  Of course, each company or private owner is going to pay the bare minimum for the work done.  Furthermore, many of them won't be ‘re-hired’, as it were--and let go with nothing.  Dealing with one problem at a time, we are still faced with the ones who are ‘hired’ on, working for pennies a day.  You can't survive on those wages, and this will only drive them into debt, except they don't have the ability to fall back on selling themselves or their children to get out of it.  And then we have all of the unemployed workers with no useful skills, money, or resources.”  He counted those out on his fingers, and looked at Fenris to make certain that he was listening.  He was, but he only looked on with disgust.  “Now we have a massive amount of poverty in the country, because of all the unemployed workers.  Tevinter is fairly self-supporting, but we cannot logically support this, and it only escalates from there:  High levels of poverty and poor education equate to high levels of crime.  With the problem of theft, possibly even murder, there would be a dramatic call for city guard and defense.  Arrests would be made.  People would go to prison.  Those same people might be stealing food to feed their children, but that doesn't excuse crime; those children will be orphans on the streets and it just perpetuates the cycle.  Then we have massive overcrowding in prisons with the only possible solution to be to either let the criminals go free early or execute them for more petty crimes.  And, believe me, it only gets more complicated from there.”

                Fenris interjected, “But many of them would leave Tevinter—they wouldn’t just be deadweight.”

                Anastas scowled.  “I wasn’t finished, and anyway, that just spreads the problem to other countries, and most of them will be too poor to leave, and won’t speak the language anyway.”

                “That wasn’t what happened when Andraste freed the slaves,” the elf said, but sounded uncertain even as he said it.

                Anastas stared at him, daring him to continue.  Fenris fell silent.  “Will you let me go on now?”

                The elf made a face, and relented.  “Fine.”  He paused.  “But was that what happened?”

                “No, but only because the ones that stayed chose to remain _slaves_.  We’re talking about if it were suddenly made illegal in the Imperium.”  Anastas leaned back in his saddle, shifting his weight in the stirrups.  “Now, going back to those few who were hired on, we presently shell out coin for basic necessities--shelter and food, namely--sometimes clothing.  Some of us even provide health care.  But what happens to those benefits if we have to pay them?  They have to afford rent.  They have to make it to work every day, pay for their own food, clothing, medical care.  Even only paying them a bare minimum, it will often cost more than it is presently.  This means that when we used to pay a sovereign for a tree, we might have to pay a sovereign and a few silvers over the course of a year.  Add all of that together, all around the country, and we all lose money due to this.  With the additional cost of the tree, the price of its fruit will go up.  Some farmers might have to stop caring for all of their trees, making fewer of the fruits available.  With less availability, the prices continue to go up.  When the price of one item goes up, it often affects every other product on the market--ranging from wool to wine.  Why, the cost of paint will go up too, Fenris.  This goes back to the same problem we face with wages; it won't be enough for them to live off of.  Having no other alternative, crime is often their only option.  What, then, would you have us do?”

                Fenris had no answer to give him, and only angrily walked away.  The way Anastas explained it to him, it made sense, and that was what he hated the most about it.  It was perfectly logical, even sensible.  The Imperium’s economy would collapse without slavery.  But… that didn’t excuse it.  No matter how logical it was, it just didn’t excuse the immoral act of enslaving another person.  There just was no excuse for that.

                They stopped for a rest at what Anastas said was an “oasis”.  There were other caravans here, and they set up camp.  Fenris patrolled the perimeter with other guards, and when he was done with his shift, he wandered down to the desert lake.  At first, he had thought the Drylands a harsh, cruel place, devoid of life.  It was hot in the day, and cold at night.  They would rest during the hottest part of the day, everyone including the slaves taking shelter from the harsh sun and sleeping.  They drank hot drinks, which Fenris at first found to be odd, then only refreshing.  He shed his armor for the trip; the metal heating was unbearable, and the leathers uncomfortable as well.  Anastas had gifted him a pile of linens that was more suitable to the environment.

                Day after day, he learned that the desert was not the barren place he had at first assumed.  There was life there, and a life to be lived there.  A couple of the slaves, who had made this trip many times, were happy to tell him all about it.  The human man would tell him about ways to watch for the weather, and was also a good bird watcher, explaining what the signs from the animals meant.  The other, an elven woman, told him about the plant life, and it was like seeing the desert for the first time.  The entire place was beautifully _alive_ , its secrets revealed.  The warm sands were crawling with life here, and he had not seen it before.  He had not believed there _was_ anything here.

                The sun was grueling, its light glaring off of the sun and hurting his eyes, but he learned where to look, and grew accustomed to the afternoon naps, and the hot drinks were revitalizing and made sense.  Sunrise was always an event—beautiful and glorious, and like it was the first sunrise ever to touch the earth.  And when the sun set, the golden orb kneeling to kiss the dry earth with fire, the sands seemed to light, and there was more colour in the glittering sand than the sea.

                Anastas was sitting near the water, his easel in front of him, a paintbrush in his hand.  He had been painting since his childhood, and the strokes were confident and even, but what Fenris liked about his paintings were that he left the people in them.  He chose his compositions well, and everything was always off-center.  Anastas explained, “It makes it feel like you’re there with them.”  Anastas was presently carefully painting in the campfires and the people around the lake.

                Fenris watched him for a while, fascinated.  Anastas glanced back at him briefly, then resumed.  “How do you like the desert, Fenris?”

                “It’s… not as awful as I was expecting,” he admitted.  He was still a bit sore about their little chat the other day, but the painter was such a likeable man that it was hard to remain angry with him—and he had only been trying to explain the problem to him, not justify it.  It was unfair to be angry with someone who was only trying to make him understand another view.

                Anastas snorted.  “It’s beautiful,” he reprimanded him.  “The whole damn world is _beautiful_.”  Anastas painted every time he visited a new place, and sometimes had several compositions of the same place at different times of day, he said, in his gallery. 

Fenris wondered at that phrase, though.  Was the entire world beautiful?

                Seheron, with its fogs, the sun glinting almost pink off of the mist rolling in from the sea, its lush forests rising serenely from the fog, the crumbling ruins of a moss-covered city.  He thought of the Arlathan forest, covered in snow—dangerous and wild, the pure white of the snow and the deep evergreens.  He thought of the deep blues and greens of the sea, the white of the sea foam crashing against the sides of the creaking ship as the sun boiled into the ocean.  He thought of the mountains, the snow on their peaks, standing majestically as if to touch the crystalline sky.  He thought of Minrathous, the way the shadows of the larger buildings fell over the smaller ones, the sunlight framing the darkness.  And, he thought of a young apprentice, tears in her clear blue eyes, as she stood amidst the ruins of a burned building in knee-high weeds, a young girl lost in the ruins of what had been a life.

                Yes, there was beauty in the world.  There was great sadness, and great ugliness too.  All his life that he could remember, he had only ever seen the ugliness and the sadness.  It was good to finally see the beauty in the world, and that was why he liked Anastas, who would paint something beautiful in an effort to make those who do not naturally see beauty finally see the beauty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is really a lot of about Lysander's last words: Justified sins. Shaislyn killed two people. Murder is a sin, but he felt it was justified. Anastas explains the importance of slavery in Tevinter to Fenris, which Anastas describes as a necessary evil, and because it is necessary, it is justified.
> 
> Updates: I did some editing to some previous chapters, and I plan on adding a bit more later on. Nothing you'll be missing for plot really, but some grammar here and there, and a couple paragraphs in part 4, mostly about Fenris learning about his abilities and Danarius studying it.


	80. A Book of the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaislyn unknowingly steals an important key to uncovering Fenris' shadowed past.

                Mahkerin sat in silence while Shaislyn excitedly told him what he had done.  Shaislyn recounted the details, explained everything, and the older elf had nodded when he finished, and rose, and looked at him.  The boy looked back at him expectantly.  Mahkerin, though, was only sad.

                “I can’t take care of you any longer,” he told him, though the words came at great difficulty for him; he had grown fond of the half-human boy.

                Shaislyn stared at him in shock.  “But… I can’t…”

                Mahkerin shook his head firmly.  “No.  I _won’t_ take care of you any longer.”  
                This time, the boy was angry.  “I killed _two_ people—that’s a lot less than we’ve killed before— _and_ I broke your phylactery so we won’t have to continue!”  
                The older mage looked pained, and felt only sadness.  Two people dead.  Two people who had thought themselves safe in their own home, murdered in their home.  Killing people hunting him was one thing—they were after his life and it was simple protection—a small-scale war as it were.  But what Shaislyn had done was nothing short of murder, and he could not abide it.  If Shaislyn had such few compunctions about the sanctity of life, Mahkerin knew that he could not shelter him any longer.  He was not learning the lessons that Mahkerin wanted him to learn.  He was only learning how to kill.

                “You’re a murderer,” Mahkerin told him, his voice gentle.

                Shaislyn shook his head, eyebrows drawn together in dismay.  “But I never…  It was just to make it stop…  I thought…  You’d be safe, and we would be killing fewer people…”

                “There are always more Templars,” he said, voice clipped.  “They follow rumors and trails just as easily.  And they’ll know which vial broke, and who I am.”

                Shaislyn looked down, then back up.  “But… I was just…  I just wanted to help.”

                “You’ve helped enough,” Mahkerin told him.  “You need to go.”

                Slowly, the boy rose to his feet, and looked away.  “But…  I have nowhere else… to go.”

                Mahkerin looked at him for a long time, and the boy shifted uncomfortably under his silent gaze.  “You’re a murderer.  I will not harbor a murderer, no matter the reason.”

                Shaislyn raised his head, his eyes full of the pain of rejection and scorn, then he turned, for he had always known rejection and scorn.  He made the motions as if he were going to run, then his magic engulfed him, and he flew away.  Mahkerin sat back down with a heavy heart.  He had not wanted to do that, but…  Well, he could not let Shaislyn do such a thing.  He could not abide it, he could not condone it, even if he were a child.  No, especially if he were a child.  He wondered how well the boy would do on his own, though.

 

                Danarius had put a lot of thought into this trap.  Trapping Fenris was becoming more and more difficult.  The closest he had come so far was quite some time ago, and if not for a shipwreck and a mutiny, he would have his pet back now.  It was an irritation, to be certain, and if the men were not all dead, he would have them killed anyway.  But between the shipwreck, the pirates, and the mutiny, it had not left very many to guard Fenris.  The elf had made short work of the remains, and it looked like the elf had lost all compunctions about torture.  Danarius wondered, idly, if he himself might be to blame for that.

                Had he made Fenris too much a party to the casual killings and bloodshed?  He had never had Fenris _torture_ someone outright, but Hadriana had made Fenris chop off hands and fingers before, and that was certainly what the elf had _done_.

                He disliked the entire thing rather a lot, actually.  Perhaps when he finally caged the unruly lad, he would be forced to erase his memory again to keep him better behaved.  He had been such a perfect pet for so long too…  Loyal to a fault, perfectly obedient, behaved, well-tempered, and well-mannered.  Even affectionate, in his own half-starved-for-attention-and-desperate-to-please kind of way.

                He should have tested Fenris more, he lamented.  Scholars had paid to study him.  Danarius had written a book about the process, and there were books and studies about its effects.  The Chantry had paid for exclusive rights to him for three years, to study him.  They had been doing the wrong kinds of testing, he knew now.  They should have tried to find ways to _trap_ Fenris, not just to see what he could escape.  So many people had wanted to buy him off of him, and the Magisterium had only regretted that the elf had been so costly, because more like him could turn the tide of the battle with the Qunari.  Because of the rarity, and also because Danarius refused to sell, an ambitious Altus man had once tried to _kidnap_ Fenris.  That had been laughable at best; Fenris was loyal to a fault, and unspeakably skilled in combat—walking through walls had helped the matter, and the lad had only gone straight to Danarius with the incident.  Of course Danarius knew his favourite pet would tell him the truth.  That had been a mess, though—the man claiming none of it ever happened, that he had never made the attempt.  Blood magic was useful for driving the truth from a person, though, and Danarius had the truth in the end.  He had imagined that, when it came down to it, collecting the elf from the Fog Warriors would be much like that. 

                He had been wrong.

Hadriana had wept, he recalled, and held her bastard son close to her.  Something had changed in her the day her lover’s bones were brought back.  The woman had never been kind exactly.  She had always been a bitter creature, full of spite and anger, but now she dreamed of petty revenge.  She wanted to dangle everything that Fenris had ever wanted in front of him, and then tear it from his fingers and destroy it before he could ever hope to learn to cherish it.  It was a dangerous path—one did not taunt wolves, even small ones—but she was angry and hateful enough to do it.  She had never particularly liked Fenris, but now…

                This latest plan had been her own.

                “Let’s use what he wants the most against him,” she had advised, in the pleasant manner one usually held for discussing tea.

                Danarius had smiled back in kind—he did so appreciate his apprentice’s mind.  “And what do you suppose that my pet wants the most?”

                She had smiled sweetly, but in her eyes was the cold glint of murderous intent.  “One of two things.  The first, to know who he used to be.  The second… to remove those lyrium markings.  But which one do you think would interest him more?”

                And so he had painstakingly had planted whispered words, rumors.  He took particular measures and cares, and all of it added up to one thing:  A simply registry.  Hadriana had a copy of the book made, with a few select pages altered—things that could be glimpsed and known.  It helped that Fenris already knew the book existed:  His slave record book that he kept primarily for the coliseum, and breeding purposes.  He could put a higher price on their heads if he could name their lineage.  Boasting that one of them had a famous fighting sire often raised the price on the child’s head, if he could but prove it.  He really should have had Fenris bred. 

                Well, that was something he would be amending soon enough.  He had found a pair of elves—perfect twins—just in flower, and exactly what he had in mind.  While he waited for the hunters to cage Fenris, they worked but the others were given strict orders not to touch them.  He had each of them in chastity belts even so.  He knew it would be… difficult… for his pet to come back to slavery after three years.  Making a gift of the twins to him might ease that, just a bit, and they had been trained.

                However, if Fenris ever managed to get his hands on that book (and find someone who could read it), it would give him his real name, his mother’s name (and where she was buried), his sister… and his nephew, for that matter, as well as his deceased niece.  He could have had the names altered, just not include the information, but then the truth wasn’t real; it would just be a forgery and then he couldn’t technically market it to the slavers as real—there were a lot of legal complications involved, as such things were attempted all the time.  However, he _could_ remove Fenris’ name from the registry as well as the small symbol that would lead anyone back to Fenris’ family.  He also had it translated to the Trade Tongue rather than Tevene, just to make his plan progress faster.

                And so the book was sent out, under the cover of sending the book to slavers to look for likely “breeding pairs”, which is what they pretended to do, all the while letting just the right people glimpse its contents.  And just the right people see the magister’s name on the inside cover…

                All Danarius had to do was wait, and wait he did.  Others went after Fenris, but he refused to personally fund any more of these expeditions.  The bounty would do, and this current bait.

                And even if this latest plan backfired, he really didn’t have the time to devote to a proper retrieval of his lost property.  There were too many affairs of state—riots and political problems, for just the one.

                He stared at the pyre, feeling the heat of it wash over him.  The others stood in silence.  The widow wept.  At least this death he could never be blamed for, for he had been halfway across the country at the time when his horse threw him and he cracked his skull—a tragic and familiar accident.  Still…  It was a sad day when the older brother had to bury the younger.  It had been an even sadder day when they held Annalkylie’s funeral, and the parents had to bury the child.

                Agasius would hold his side of the family’s title now, and it was only a matter of time before he started to want all of Danarius’ side as well.  He had willed it to Hadriana already, with Annalkylie being gone, but that wouldn’t stop an ambitious family member from challenging it.  Hadriana’s claim would weaken if Agasius managed to father a mage too.

                Danarius did not look forward to that, but he knew he would have a brief reprieve at least before that was even a question.  And it would give him some time to think of something.

 

                With nowhere to turn to, Shaislyn had begun to look to his past.  He hunted for names, trying to learn of his mother, his uncle, his father, Vanessa, Lura—anyone.  He hunted and sought and eventually found something.  Or, more accurately, he heard something:  An elven mage, a refugee from Seheron, working as a tailor in Qarinus.  He felt like it was a long shot, but worth it if it could be his mother.  He tried to tell himself that it was likely enough.  How many elven mages had really been in Seheron?  Couldn’t have been many.

He flew there, and searched, and hunted.  He looked with the eyes of animals, and with his magic.  He asked questions, and people would point him one way or another, or tell him they didn’t know or that they did and it would cost him.  Those he always turned away.  He could always find the information some other way, and if he got desperate enough, he could go back to them, though he knew they would raise the price if he did.  He was almost ready to give up on the quest when he found someone of his mother’s description—an elven mage of red hair--in the employ of a magister.

He approached her in his birth body, timidly as he had never been.  He did not know if she would rejoice to see him, or be reproachful, yet still he came.

                “Mother?” he inquired.

                She dropped the bucket she had been hauling back into the well, and spun around.  Her jaw dropped in open astonishment, and for a moment the pair did not move.  Then she strode toward him, and hugged him fiercely to her chest, and he realized that she was weeping.  Why?  She had never cried for him before, had she?  He had never meant very much to her…

                “Oh, Maker, you’re alive,” she whispered, her face pressed into his dark hair.  “Oh, Shai.”

                Tentative at first, he returned the embrace, then held on tighter, his fists clutching her dress tightly, and he knew he was trembling.  He wasn’t alone any more, was he?  She pulled back, holding him out at arm’s length.  “I thought you were dead,” she whispered, swiping at her tears with her sleeve.

                He looked up at her.  “I thought you were.”  He hesitated.  “But I had to know…”

                “How did you make it?”

                He shrugged.  “I don’t really… remember it.  It was over two years ago,” he said, turning his head away, more to hide his expression than anything else.  He didn’t want to talk about it, to anyone.

                She was silent for a long moment.  “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

                But, he learned, it was too difficult for her to keep him clothed and fed, so he did those things himself.  Animals could go all kinds of places and people either never noticed or could do nothing.  Animals could steal all kinds of things—coins and valuables, clothes, and food.  All he had to do was fly to another town and sell the valuables, then fly back.  And he stole things while he was abroad too.  He would thieve and cheat, and sometimes lie, all to support himself.  A man at the docks in Carastes taught him how to cut purses, and he cut purses for him for a while, and split profits, until the city watch caught him.

                He gave a false name, under a false accent, and they gave him three months in prison.  He spent two days there before escaping, found his confiscated things, and left, making a note not to return to Carastes for at least a year or so.

                In Marothius, he paid for sword fighting lessons with the stolen coin, though he never stole anything from Marothius, just in case.  His mother never questioned where he was all the time, nor did she question what he was doing, or where his clothes came from, or anything else.

                He asked her about her life before he was born, as a slave.  Sometimes, she would tell him, other times not.  More often these days, she would tell him though.  He eventually got names out of her, slipped by accident and he never called attention to them, but names nonetheless:  _Raith, Danarius, Jadia, Ginger, Raenya, Marlance,_ and a half a dozen others.

                He began to look for news of his uncle, and all the paths he might take seemed to lead back to his mother’s master, Danarius.  So he began to stalk around the capital, listening, and watching, and asking questions.  His uncle’s master had a lineage book of his slaves, and he was in the market for breeding pairs, for the coliseum, he claimed.

                The book was being passed around the slave merchants right now, but was jealously guarded.  That book would have _Shaislyn’s_ lineage in it.  Maybe his father?  Maybe his uncle?

                All he had to do was get his hands on that book.  How hard could it be?  He just had to find out where it was right now.

 

                “Kirkwall,” the dwarf answered with surety.  “They moved the book to Kirkwall.”

                Fenris was silent for a moment, heart pounding.  That book had everything in it.  If he had a name—a location…  There was a possibility that he wouldn’t be alone.  There was a possibility that he had a real name, a family.  He couldn’t let it slip through his fingers.  He had to know if it were real.

                He paced for a moment in thought.  “I have to go,” he answered with surety.

                The dwarf nodded amiably.  “By the time you get to Kirkwall, I’ll have a contact there.  I’ll set you up with him, but that’s the most I can do for you, Fenris,” he said with some regret.  After the last incident at sea, the lyrium smugglers were reluctant to go so far out of their way and risk getting involved with the Imperials.  Fenris did not blame them exactly, but still felt a bit put out by it.  Still, they had been more welcoming than he had been truly expecting when he came across them in Antiva City after he had parted ways with Anastas.  He had been hearing rumors about the book for a while now.  People saying that a magister by the name of “Danarius” was looking for slaves, and that the slavers carried a sort of breeding book, listing every one of his past and present slaves and their lineage.  Somewhere in there would be his name, maybe even the real one.  Danarius had told him that it was in there, in fact.

                “I’d appreciate it,” he said.

                The dwarf nodded.  “’Anso’ is his name, and he is as good as it,” he said with a wry smile.  “But you had better hurry—the slavers won’t be there for long.”

                Fenris wondered at that.  “It could just as easily be a trap.”

                “Would you go even if you knew it were?”

                The elf glanced at the dingy floor of the tavern.  “Yes,” he said with a sigh.  There wasn’t any alternative.  It was go or don’t, and when it came down to it… He had to know.

                Fenris first glimpsed Kirkwall nearly three years after his daring escape—or so he thought of the venture with the utmost sarcasm.  It wasn’t so much an escape as a child running away from what scared them.  And he hadn’t been able to outrun it anyway.  How can one run from oneself?  Or, more accurately, what one had become?

                He stole into the city in the dark, and stayed in the shadows.  He found the dwarf—a kindly fellow who didn’t even seem suitable for a smuggler, with an overall pleasant demeanor.  That may be an act, but Fenris did have cause to wonder.

                “I’ve looked into it a little,” the dwarf admitted under the sanctity of a roof.  He was still halfway convinced that he was going to fall into the sky, and just keep falling forever.

                Fenris said nothing, but raised an eyebrow inquiringly, inviting him to go on.

                “There are Imperials in the city—a lot of them.  Probably bounty hunters—they’re too armed for slavers,” Anso went on, wide innocent-looking eyes peering out at him.  “You should just let it go.”

                Fenris considered that, biting his lip in indecision.  He had been teetering on the edge of this knife for a long time.  It was dangerous—terribly dangerous—for him to go alone.  “Hire a mercenary,” he said.  He had done it often enough on the road—when he thought he couldn’t stand alone, when he needed someone else to guard his back for a few days, even just so he could sleep.  Hirelings and sellswords, and he barely trusted them that much, but they would do in a pinch, and that seemed to be his current state of being—for a few years now.

                Anso seemed thoughtful.  “Maybe my contact has an idea.  We’ll have to lie about what we’re doing though.”

                “Thanks,” the elf said blandly, in his mind already setting the idea aside and focusing on the current problem—getting the book.

 

                Which happened to be exactly what a particular half-elf was also wondering.  He had ultimately tracked the book to an old shack in the alienage, which was actually not as foul as the one he had grown up in.  He perched in the tree, and watched, and when it was clear, the sparrow flew down, and landed on the windowsill.  He peered through the broken slat, and stole inside.  The light was dim, but he sensed more than saw the people inside.  There were three doors, and three rooms.  The first room was plain, one was trapped, and another simply held people.  He waited, quite patiently, for an opportunity.  So did the men in the room.

                He watched through the gloom as they shifted, and whispered to one another.  In the dark of the night, they grew restless, and then the door opened.  The men tensed, all of them crowding toward the door.  Shaislyn fluttered down beside the box in the room, and waited.  Outside, there was the sound of yelling, a clash of swords, and explosions of magic.  The door burst open, and suddenly it was chaos.  Shaislyn changed back to himself, reached into the box, and removed the thick volume.  He tucked it into his tunic, and, before anyone knew the difference, a sparrow flitted back out through the window.  He flew up to Hightown, and landed on the roof of the Chantry.  He changed back, and looked out at the world—a dark, unwelcoming and yet beautiful place.  The boy had seen so much suffering and death in his short eleven years of life.

                He held the bound book in his hands, and watched the stars, and the moons.  He watched the city, and listened, and breathed in its scents.  It was foreign to him, almost exotic, but so like home that he wasn’t at all homesick.  He didn’t really associate any specific place with “home” come to think of it—mostly just Tevinter in general as home.  Speaking of which, he needed to head back soon; Mother would be wondering where he went for so long—it had been weeks!

                He flipped the book open and began to look.  Reading it would be boring.  It was nothing but a list of names, sometimes location, and dates.  But he skimmed it carefully, reading each name and looking for particular ones—Varania, Mieta, Lura, Shaislyn.

                He was yawning by the time he put the book away.  He rubbed his eyes, and decided to try to find a bed for the night.  He grinned wryly at that.  Should he risk a guest room?  He saw no reason why not.  A sparrow flew about Hightown, looking for a likely roost.

                He found a well-to-do mansion, its masters asleep.  He flew in through an open window, back to his normal form, and snuck about until he found an unlocked guest room.  It was empty, and he locked the door.  Just in case, he moved the dresser—quietly—in front of it.  The noise would give him enough time to make an escape.  He did one last sweep of the room, looking for a servant’s doorway, or anything of the sort.  It was blessedly free of such things, and he shrugged out of his dirty clothes and crawled into bed.

                He woke to the sounds of the house, and a grumbling stomach.  He stretched in the fine linen sheets, and crawled out of bed.  Best to be gone before anyone noticed.  He dressed and looked for any likely thing to steal in the room.  There was a small box of carved ivory on a stand—a jewelry box of some sort.  He opened it, finding nothing but costume jewelry.  He made a face, and dumped the jewelry into the linen closet, but took the box.

                Where a sparrow had flown in, a crow flew back out.  He circled the city a couple of times, watching the streets, and winged away, north and slightly west.

 

                _It was all just a lie_ , Fenris thought, but wondered at that too.  How could it have been some formulated lie all this time?  He had spoken to people who had _seen_ the book, looked at it, made offers based on the findings.  And then killed the slavers in question, because he hated slavers.

                Point being, none of it really made much _sense_.  Sure, a ruse to try to trap him.  There had been so many…  They would have.  It was even a good ruse, good bait.  He had done so much research before he had made the risk too.  He had been certain…  Had the chest really been empty?  He didn’t _think_ that Hawke would lie to him, but what did he know?  He had _just_ _met_ the man, and he was a _mage_ besides.  How much could he really trust him anyway?  For all he knew, Hawke _did_ have the book and just opted not to tell him, for whatever reason.

                What did it matter?  He almost laughed aloud.  He couldn’t read it anyway.  He would have to pay someone else to do it, someone else to research it and try to find another slave at about his age range, and all he knew was that Danarius had owned his mother, and that he had possibly grown up at the manor.  It narrowed it down a little—a slave with lineage as far back as the parent belonging to one master, of his age, at that location.  It might even have been enough to figure out his real name.  He’d never know now, would he?

                Then again, he could always go ask Isabela or Aveline—they had been with him when he got to the chest, and he would get an honest answer from the guard, and a cryptic answer from the pirate.  Carver had been there too, but Fenris found him difficult to talk to at best—the man was too much wrapped up in himself for anything else.  _That_ sounded uncomfortably familiar to him.  _But I have to be_ , he tried to reason.  _There’s no one else for me to care for, protect—it’s just about me now._

                Truth be told, that last venture had left him bone-weary and exhausted, not physically so much as mentally.  He had been prepared to confront his master, and when he hadn’t been able to…  He couldn’t go back to running.  He wouldn’t go to Minrathous on his own, but he didn’t want to run any more.  It was harrowing, and he was too down-spirited at the moment to try.

                And then days passed, and he just didn’t want to keep going.  Kirkwall seemed as good a place as any to stay, and anyway, he was certain now that Danarius could find him anywhere that he could go.  Why keep moving?  It wasn’t doing him any favors.  He had found him, somehow, every place he had gone—and he had gone everywhere!  When Fenris had ended up in Brynnlaw, the bounty hunters had found him, but he had not been all that far from the Imperium.  Crossing the Drylands by itself had actually been rather pleasant, aside from the sunburn combined with the lyrium burn—that had been awful.

                When the caravan reached Seleny, he had originally been planning to leave, but Anastas bade him to stay and rest, and he could think of no real reason not to, so he had, but not for long.  He did not linger there, because there were more bounty hunters there—though he suspected just regular bounty hunters, and not Danarius’ hunters per se.  All the same, they had recognized him, and an effort was made.  He had stayed one more night, to rest, and left early in the morning with a hired man, on a barge to Antiva City.  Anastas was sad to see him go, and had given him a parting gift of gold.  Fenris would have liked to have stayed and worked for the old man; he wanted to see his artwork and the beauty that so inspired his paintings, but he was also afraid that Danarius’ wrath would come down on the merchant painter if he did.  So, though he cherished the beauty that Anastas brought to the world, he could not keep it, and so he abandoned that which was beautiful and the shred of happiness he had found there.

                In Antiva City, he arrived only to leave quickly again, as there were slavers there.  His hired man left—some private venture—and Fenris hired a mercenary.  The mercenary stayed with him until Rialto, and he had barely enough coin to hire another one, who he trusted even less, and the woman stayed with him until Bastian.  True, the hirelings were useful; he could trust them enough to sleep at night, but that was all.

                Fenris stayed in Bastian for a while, doing mercenary work for the most part until he had scraped together enough coin to leave again, this time going up the river to Starkhaven before he had headed to Kirkwall.  The hunters always found him so quickly, he had not wanted to stay in one place too long.

But, it was easier to stay, and wait, and bide his time and see what his master would do next.

                So Fenris stayed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we finally made it to Kirkwall! Yay!
> 
> Oh, Maker--did I just fill up a plot hole in the game!?


	81. Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris learns a sad truth about his former master. Shaislyn, in turn, learns the truth about his father.

                _Roschelle had all the windows open to let in the sunlight and the breeze.  She had filled the room with daffodils, which were her favourite.  Her favourite colour was yellow—like the daffodils._

_“Why yellow?” Cillian muttered, scowling at the glaring yellow flowers._

_She laughed, plucking one from its vase.  “Yellow is sunshine—it’s the colour of laughter and song.  It’s_ spring— _and that means_ life _.”_

_He was unmoved.  “Most would say ‘green’ is the colour of life.”_

_She tsked.  “Nonsense; it’s yellow.  Just look at the sun.”_

_He smiled then.  “Fine.  It’s yellow.”_

_She nodded.  “It’s true.”  She plucked the largest book she could find from the shelf.  It was a completely worthless edition of the Chant of Light, unabridged.  He didn’t even know why it was here.  She set the daffodil between pages two and three, and closed it.  “I’m sending this to our home in Kirkwall.”_

_He scowled.  “Why?”_

_She smiled, whirling back to face him.  “When we go visit, I’ll put our baby on my lap, and I’ll open the book, and tell him, ‘when you were still in Mommy’s tummy, we put this flower in this book, and I wished and prayed to the Maker that you would be just as lovely and full of life as Mommy’s favourite flower.’  And then I’d like to take another flower, and put it in the book, and we’ll come back to it the year after.”_

 

                Varania brushed out her coppery hair on a simple three-legged stool while her twelve-year-old son sat with his back against a wall in a patch of moonlight on the floor—more by coincidence than a need for the light.  He kept a long scrap of ribbon as a marker and read more and more of the book every day, always hunting for familiar names.  Frequently, though, he put it down for days or even weeks at a time, when he would disappear.

                “Tell me more about this spell that allows you to see,” his mother said in a way that was almost a question, almost an order—the way a mother would naturally give direction to their children.

                He frowned.  “Can’t.  I’ve tried to explain it to people, but people who _can_ see…”  He struggled for a moment.  “You rely too much on your eyes.  You have to stop, or it won’t ever work.”

                She frowned.  “How’d you learn to read anyway?” she asked after a short pause.  “No one ever taught you.”

                “No one ever stopped me either,” he countered, not looking up from the volume.  He was silent a moment.  “Jameson—the mage that taught me the spell—he taught me to read.”

                “What are you reading now?” she inquired.

                He hesitated then, wondering if she would try to take the book from him.  He wouldn’t allow it, but he disliked disobeying his mother.  “It’s… a list of names,” he said with some reluctance.

                “That sounds dreadfully boring,” she confessed.  “Why?”

                “Because no one will tell me anything,” he grumbled, partway to himself.

                She paused, and fell silent.  He went back to reading, the sorrow of it enveloping him.  It was unspeakably sad, how many slaves Danarius had.  How many lives he owned, how many souls condemned.  It often listed dates—their birth and death date, he imagined.  Sometimes, the dates were marked and another name was written in a small print near it.  It took Shaislyn a while to puzzle that out, when he realized, his stomach twisting, that it was the name of the man or woman who had bought them, in the marked year.

                There were children purchased and sold.  Children died.  There were men and women.  Some of them had little symbols next to their names that whoever was reading the book was obviously supposed to know.  Shaislyn actually had to, grudgingly, do some research about the slave trade to decipher the meanings of the symbols—then wished he hadn’t.  They marked skills and trades of the individual slaves:  bow makers, glassmakers, laborers, tailors, whores, dancers, gladiators, and an assortment of other trades.

Sometimes he cried himself to sleep for reading it, thinking about each individual that deserved so much more than a name and a mark in a book.  All those people...  It was unspeakable.

                With each name, he hated the magister a little bit more.  For every child born into slavery, for every child bought and sold, for every single soul—he hated just a little bit more.  In the late hours of the night sometimes, when his mother slept, he would hold the book close to his chest, and sob quietly for all the people he did not have the power to help.  Tevinter was his home, but his soul still cried out in agony when he saw a slave.  And it was so much worse when they didn’t understand why it was awful.  Slaves made up so much of the Imperium’s population too; it was tragic.

                He found Fenris’ name in the book, alone.  There were no dates attached to it, just a symbol, all alone with no branching familial past, no master he had purchased him from, no city he had plucked him from—Fenris’ past was blank even in the book.  The name, he did not think, was coincidental.  “Fenris” was too unusual a name, and the lack of history to it was also too coincidental.  He was almost completely certain that _Fenris_ was actually _Leto_ , which was disturbing.  He couldn’t be sure though, but it seemed…  Well, more than likely.  Leto had won the tourney, had undergone the Ritual; Fenris had been the end result.  _Fenris_ was his uncle.  Shaislyn made a face at that thought.  He was as much his uncle as the man that raped his mother was his father.

                Another unsettling thing he found about the book was how _many_ slaves—household slaves from the Minrathous manor—died in one particular year, in the spring.  He wasn’t through the book yet, but he noticed it—old, young, they all died.  The book never stated _why_ or _how_ of the deaths, just that they died and it was almost worse that way, because it left the half-elf to wonder.  It was the year and season he had been born, and it made him very uneasy.  The sheer _number_ of slaves that had died…  It was either a sudden and dreadful disease or…  He dared not think of what else it could be.

                When he had told Lura to sell him, back then, he had not understood what he had risked.  He had been very fortunate that Vanessa had been a kind-hearted woman that had cared for him, and not a cruel mistress that would beat him.  There _were_ masters like that.  And there was not enough magic in the world to help everyone—or, sometimes he felt, anyone.

                He left the book in his mother’s quarters—he put it behind her dresser when she had gone in the morning.  Shaislyn usually slept on the floor when he wasn’t somewhere else.

                This morning, he needed to go to his lessons, so he left town, stayed for a couple of days with his sword master, and, as was his custom, left for a few more days—an agreement the two had worked out.

                When he came back, his mother had the book in her lap, and tears in her eyes.

                He stopped in the doorway, staring at her.  A part of him was frightened by what she might say, another part anxious for it.  And he still feared she might destroy it.

                “Where did you get this?” she whispered.

                “I stole it,” he confessed.

                She looked up at him as he shut the door behind him.  “You steal a great many things, don’t you, Shai?”  
                The half-elf was silent on the matter.  Rather, he said, “I wouldn’t have had to steal that if you would just tell me when I’d ask, but you never did.”

                She stared at him.  “Why do you want to know so badly?”

                He looked at her, aghast.  “Why wouldn’t I want to know who my own father is?”  His voice sounded hurt.  “Why wouldn’t I want to know about any family I might have left?”

                “Your uncle, I presume,” she said with a sigh, and looked back at the book.

                Shaislyn shrugged a shoulder.  “And my twin.  Did you even give her a name?”  He swallowed hard.  “How did she die?”

                The mage looked down.  “Viscaria.  My brother and I decided on it.”  Varania looked at him, and shook her head.  “It was a long time ago.  You were infants, and you were born in a dirty little shack.”  She looked down at the book in her lap.  “She just didn’t make it—you did.”

                His jaw set.  “She got sick.”  He didn’t know why he couldn’t believe it was as simple as that.  Maybe because his mother was a mage.  Maybe because she avoided eye contact when she said it.

                “Yeah,” she said bluntly.  She paused.  “She was born deaf, you know.”

                Shaislyn blinked.  “Deaf?” he inquired, pronouncing the word as if he had never uttered it before.  He blind and she deaf?  That was… so sad.

                “I wouldn’t have known what to do with her anyway,” she said simply, as if that were that.

                The boy was appalled.  “You could try to love her,” he snapped.  His mother blinked in surprise, and looked up at him as if she had never quite seen him before.  He shook his head, pained.  “You could try to love _me_.”

                “I _do_ love you, Shaislyn,” she insisted, but he heard the question in her voice:  A wavering tone as she tried to assure herself of it.  It was something no child should have to hear his mother utter.  And even though it was what he already knew, it was bitter to hear aloud.

                He shook his head a little.  “What’s my uncle’s name again?”

                “Leto,” she answered softly.

                He nodded, and crossed his arms, then uncrossed them.  He shifted from one foot to the other in the uncomfortable silence.  “What’s my father’s name?”  
                She didn’t answer, and looked back down at the book.  She sighed, and rose from the bed she was sitting on.  She went to Shaislyn and thrust the book into his hands.  He looked down at it.  She pointed to her name in it.  He looked, and his own name, that of his sister—Viscaria.  There was Mieta, and Leto even.  He traced the figures, but there was no mark detailing who his father had been.

                “His name is in this book,” she said, as if the words were being forced from her.

                Shaislyn looked at her, a hint of venom in his gaze.  “Just… somewhere in this book.”

                She bit her lip.  “Yes, but not in the way you would think.”

                Shaislyn stared at her.  “What does that even mean?” he demanded.

                Varania turned from her son, as she had done time and again in his life.  “It’s late.  I need to sleep.”

                He ground his teeth, frustrated.  He was tired of riddles, and games.  He was tired of this book, and the names in it.  It was making him bitter.  And he had read so much of the book and never come across their names—his family’s was toward the back of it.  He knew that, so far, there was no connection to his family.  How could he ever guess which one was his father?  He knew only to look at the ones marked as human, but even that was enough for him to want to burn the book.

                Hours of watching him scour the book again and again, his mother constantly assuring him that it was there, but oh so very reluctant to say where exactly, she finally gave him a clue, “You are looking in the wrong places.”  And she left for a day’s work.

                Frustrated, he didn’t even know where to begin now.  The wrong places?  Was there a human somewhere amidst the elven names?  Why?

                He sighed and went back to the beginning.  It had the magister’s name scrawled on to it, along with a short list of the names belonging to the hands that had written the book.  He froze, a chill running up his spine.  A name on _this_ list?  Which, he wondered?  There was the magister’s name, and four others, which made:  Cillian Danarius, Roschelle Danarius, Raith Longe, Hadriana Capena, and Annalkylie Danarius.  Well, three of those he could annihilate right off, because they were female.  But that left the magister, and the other.

                Well, he may find records of both in Minrathous.

                He put the book away, and flew off for more sword training.  He slept in his master’s hayloft, and stayed the three days a week he spent there every week.  Sometimes he would fly home during those times, but he didn’t feel like it today.  His mother could make this so much easier for him if she would just come out and say it, but she stubbornly refused, so he wasn’t in much of a mood to see her if he didn’t have to.

 

                Hadriana had come to visit, and they had been talking for a long while over tea, on matters of weather, politics, and investments.  She was seeking financial advice primarily, though Danarius had groomed her well for most matters, and he let her come to her own natural conclusions.  If those conclusions were wrong in any way, he kept asking about it until something better was thought up.

                “I was given the task of overseeing management of taxes,” she complained.  Danarius kind of chuckled.  It was a horrible task, most often designated to the newest magister like a hazing ritual.  He had done it before too; it was an awful bore and a headache at the best of times.  “Couple cases of fraud I found.”

                “You’re nothing if not thorough,” he praised her.

                She smiled warmly.  “Thank you.”  She looked at her teacup, because it kept her from staring at the way he kept flexing the fingers of his left hand—as if it were incredibly painful to do it.  It was, but it was better than the alternative, which was to not move it and let it grow lax.  “I noticed you’re paying property taxes outside of the Imperium.”

                He raised an eyebrow.  “Took you a long time to find that out, Hadriana.”

                She frowned.  “A long time.  I noticed something odd when I was handling accounts when I was here, but you kept assuring me that it was right.  Anyway, I noticed you have a house in Kirkwall… under a different name.”

                He smiled, pleased.  “Three different names,” he corrected her.  “One name bought it initially, another name bought it from her, and the third one is the present owner.  All of which are me.”

                “Why?” she inquired.

                He shrugged.  “I bought it a long time ago.”  His eyes drifted down to the contents of his cup.  Roschelle had bought that house, actually.  She had spent her childhood summers in Kirkwall, with her cousins.  She had said that she wanted their child to visit the place too.  And she had found the house through happenstance, and insisted it would be just _perfect,_ and it was such a _good_ deal...  He had kept it all this time, for one reason or another, consistently burying the fact that it was he that owned it.  It kept people from asking questions.  Anyway, it also made a decent base for the slaving company he dabbled in.  Or had, until a year or so ago when he made them stop going there.  Fenris would just kill them anyway.  Now, he kept up the taxes on it because it meant Fenris would be relatively safe from harm.  He didn’t want him on the streets, after all, and anyway, it kept him in one place.

                “Why the different names?” she asked.

                He blinked.  “In the past, because I used it as a slaving den.”  He frowned.  “In the present, because Fenris lives there and it would set my pet’s mind at better ease if my name wasn’t tacked on it.”

                Hadriana frowned, then thought about it.  “I guess so,” she said with a shrug.  “Seems like an extravagant expense.”

                He shrugged a shoulder dismissively.  “I’d be paying taxes on it anyway, and the company moved on to another region when their sister branch was annihilated.”  He took a sip of tea.  “And I do like to keep a better eye on Fenris.”

                “You spoil him,” Hadriana said bluntly.

                “I always have,” Danarius agreed.  He snorted a laugh.  “Too much, apparently—ungrateful wretch.”

                “What do you plan to do when you catch him again?” she inquired.

                He set the cup down.  “A few things I’ll have to do—wipe his memory again.”  He sighed a little.  “He’ll go back to being perfectly obedient, though he may have to retrain with the sword again.  I hope not,” he added, making a face.  “Past that, things would go back to the way they were.”

                “Is it really so easy?” she wondered, taking a last sip of tea.  “You wipe his memory and that’s that?”

                “I’ve been working on the spell,” he said with a slight nod.  “An… improved version of the original.  Do you want to borrow my notes?”

                “I am curious—how is it improved?”

                “I can erase selective parts of his memory, not just all of it.  I’ll keep his first couple of years after he woke, but remove the rest—he doesn’t need it.”  A pause.  “Furthermore, it will actually be gone, not just forgotten.  Nothing could wake his memories—which was a constant worry for me, I must say.”

                “Could I borrow your notes—now I’m curious.”

                “Certainly.”

 

                At first, Fenris wasn’t sure that all the work of hauling and heating the hot water had been worth the effort.  Forty minutes later, and he only wondered why he hadn’t done it sooner.

                Up to his neck in hot water, eyes closed, steam rising out of the water, he was as content as could be.  It was difficult not to be.  He liked water.  Had, really, always kind of liked water.  Running water, rain, the sea.  The sea was always a comforting old friend.  Drowning had always sounded so pleasant a thing.

                When was his last real bath anyway?  He had been having sponge baths for so long, he assumed it must have been… the morning of Kylie’s failed wedding ceremony, come to think of it.  Had he really gone over three years—almost four years actually--without a proper bath?  There must be more dirt than soap in the water.  Making one’s own bath was so _difficult_ though, and time-consuming.

                He had used to bathe nearly every day.  Danarius always wanted him perfectly groomed, polished, pretty—like a lapdog, or some kind of ornament.  It had been kind of nice _not_ to be.  But, there was really no replacing a good bath, was there?

                The hot water soothed out all his aching muscles, the tension along his neck he had not noticed before.  He took a deep breath, and let it out slowly, sinking in a little deeper.  The tub wasn’t the giant concoction that the master of the house would have—that would have required more work.  He had opted to use the much easier bath in what would be the guest quarters, as it had a copper bottom and would just heat from a fire under it, not to mention he didn’t have to haul nearly as many buckets of water.  When he had finally finished the arduous task, the sun had long set, but the open window let in the moonlight.  The glow of the lyrium and the dim moonlight illuminated the otherwise dark room.

                He took a deep breath, and plunged beneath the surface, holding himself under the warm water until his lungs burned.  He came up slowly, breathing deeply, waiting for when he was ready to submerge again.  He liked the feeling of weightlessness, the feeling of the warm water cradling and enveloping him.  He waited a long moment, eyes closed, relaxing, before he slipped under again, reclaiming the feeling and wishing it would last.

                _If I were to ever commit suicide, let it be drowning in warm water_ , he thought placidly, perfectly content.  _Drowning…_

                His eyes snapped open, and he sat up suddenly.  _Drowning_ …

                _An infant screaming.  Anger, confusion.  Tears…_

                The half-remembered images stopped, and faded, receding back into the dark corners of his mind.  Something about drowning?

                He shivered as if it were cold, and tried to relax again, letting the memory fade.  He wished it wouldn’t do that, actually.  He wished his old memories—whatever life he had had before Danarius and the lyrium—he wished it would leave him be.  He wanted those memories to go, to stop tormenting him and just leave him alone.  Whatever they were, they couldn’t be that important, could they?  He was fine without them, he tried to lie to himself.  Everything was fine.

                Hadn’t he proved he did not need them to live his life?  Hadn’t he proved that?  Then why was he haunted by them?  What was so important that his memories would flood his mind and drown him under their torrent whenever they could?  Why?

                He leaned back in the water, briefly angry that his old memories would not just leave him be.

 

                Shaislyn’s sword master said his form was much improving, and one day he might be fit enough to not embarrass his name.   He said all of this while Shaislyn fended off the swords of two other boys of like age.  The lad had only rolled his eyes and shouted in retaliation, “One day, maybe you’ll face me instead of drinking tea in the shade while I do all this work!”  And with that, Shaislyn parried a blow to the left, dodged the other blade, and spun to block again.  He turned the pommel of his sword, bashing it into the knuckles of the second boy, making him drop his sword.  Shaislyn caught it with his free hand, bringing it up to meet the first boy.  A series of relentless strikes, and he knocked the boy back, and he held the blade to his throat, grinning down at him.

                The three were dripping sweat, and Shaislyn was panting, but he felt like he had just conquered the world.  He was learning how to see from every angle at once, and move at the same time.  It was invaluable in sword fighting.  He had first been learning to see the way most people saw—through their eyes; where he directed his vision most of the time.  But he didn’t _have_ to limit himself like that.  A visor would never inhibit him the same way it did others.  He could see from all around him, and once he learned to interpret it and act to it, the swordplay had become just that—play.  He still had a lot to learn, but nothing came as a complete surprise.  He saw every blow coming; he just had to learn to react in time, and _how_.

                The boys sat in a semicircle around their swordmaster, breathing hard as they listened to his lecture on everything each of them did wrong in turn.  The other two boys were not outwardly cruel to Shaislyn, as he had been half-expecting them to be when he began here; their master would not tolerate such behaviour.  However, they did treat him with some distaste, and were not overly friendly.

                He was used to that, though.  He reasoned that if no one ever wanted to be friends with him, it just meant there were fewer people that others could threaten if he ever _really_ got into trouble.

                “Dismissed for the day.  Except you, Shaislyn.”  The other two hurried off—back home to their families, paying for this training because they could well afford it.  That may be another reason for the disdain they held towards Shaislyn—he was not only half-elven, but a peasant too, born Liberati.

                His master rose from his chair, setting his cup down.  A slave Shaislyn knew to be named Ylia removed the cup and tea tray.  He picked up one of the blunted training swords on the rack, and turned toward Shaislyn, standing in the center of the hard-packed dirt training circle.  “Your sword,” he instructed.

                Feeling a thrill of excitement run through him, he selected a blade, and barely had time to turn before the older man attacked.  Shaislyn at first thought to attack, but then quickly realized he could barely defend, even with his superior sight.  When he realized he was being driven back, he stepped, and tried to at least control _where_ he was being backed up, even if he could not control that he was being backed.

                He was sweaty and felt exhausted, but the blows kept coming, and his arms were shaking.  The blade was getting so heavy…  He hadn’t realized he had been so exhausted from before.  Each parry was loud, and sent a shiver down his arms that he could feel in his belly.  The older man kicked him in the stomach, and Shaislyn fell, dropping the sword.

                His master swiped his brow.  Shaislyn grumbled, feeling put out.  “That’s cheating,” he complained.

                He shook his head, not even a little winded.  “Not even a little bit,” he told him.  “When it’s your life or your opponents, nothing is cheating.”

                Shaislyn opened his mouth to complain that it wasn’t life or death, then he considered that he would rather be prepared for such an eventuality rather than not ever have experienced it.  He nodded.  “I guess that makes sense,” he said after several deep breaths.

                “I think I’ll advance your class,” he said, his lips pursed together.  “It will be hard.  It costs a bit more, and you’ll be the youngest in the class.”  He left unsaid that he would also be “elven enough” in a group of highborn human boys.  But Shaislyn was also used to that.

                “I can do it—I want to learn.  If… you think I’m ready for that.”

                “You won’t learn much more with those two oafs,” he said with a shrug.  He and the boy discussed the new times of these classes, and agreed on a rate of pay.  Shaislyn left, pleased that next week he would be in a new class.

 

                Shaislyn went to Minrathous, and began simply by asking around, and eventually, someone directed him to the Chantry, and with some work and a great deal of sneaking around, he found records of the mages and their families.  It was easy enough—he just found the most current one, and looked up their last names.  Cillian Danarius was easy enough; he lived in the city.  Raith Longe was more difficult, because he found after hours of digging that Longe was from a Soporati family.  Moreover, the man was dead.  However, he had died when, according to the date, Shaislyn was a few weeks old.

                _It could be him_ , he thought to himself, and more digging brought up more details on the family.  There were a few other mages in their bloodline, he found—just none that ever aspired to the rank of magister.  The book detailed their hair and eye colour, along with minor other traits—a particular scar or notable magical talents.  It was fascinating, really—the last bit anyway.

                However, he was disappointed to find, his family ran to brunette to blonde.  Raith’s eyes had been brown, his hair blonde.  Shaislyn sighed, a little nervously.  Maybe his mother had meant something else?

                He put the book back, listened for footsteps, and heard nothing.  He went to the Danarius family records, and sat back down.  This book only pertained to the one Altus bloodline, beginning centuries ago; it was a thick volume, and the cover looked…  Was that dragon hide used to bind the book?  He ran his fingertips lightly over the soft, worn cover, tracing the branded family crest.  The crest had been burned into the hide with magic, rather than with a brand.  It was well-done, too detailed and lifelike for a mundane item to do it.  He had heard that all the statues in Minrathous were crafted with magic too.  Magic could do so many things.  He wondered why people didn’t still use magic to do things like that.

                He flipped it open, turning each page delicately to get to the still-living branches of the family.  It didn’t take him long before he sat up straight, a creeping feeling on his spine.  Their family had dominantly blonde hair with some scattered brunettes—a particular parent had black, and it had passed to children too.  Twins were also quite common in the family line.

                Shaislyn shivered again, and thought about closing the book, shoving it back in place.  He thought about just walking away, but he had to know.

                He kept reading.  A long line of magisters, slave owners.  Known for cruelty.  He crossed his arms as if it were cold.  He couldn’t be…

                Black-brown hair passed from a woman three generations back, most often curly.  Eyes were frequently a pale blue in colour, and sometimes ran to gray.  Well, if that didn’t describe him…

                He looked up the most recent generation, out of desperation.  Dark-haired twins, older than himself, and two other daughters, only one of which was blonde.  All had blue eyes and curly hair.  One was a mage, the youngest daughter.  This was Cillian Danarius’ brother’s line.  He traced the tree farther back, finding a twin sister of Cillian’s, who had died some years back.  Cillian had a dead wife too (that one was the “Roschelle” from the book), no children.  No _legitimate_ children anyway.

                Shaislyn swallowed, reading the description a second time, just to be sure.

                He shut the book, and shoved it back on the shelf.  He sat back down, and felt numb.  He covered his face, and sobbed once, and choked back his grief.  He had wanted to know, hadn’t he?  He had known nothing good could come of it if he confirmed it was the magister.  But…  Not only was his father a rapist, he was probably a maleficar, a slave owner, and in all ways that mattered, vile.

                His mother hadn’t wanted him to know.  Maybe there was something to that after all.  He went for a walk to try to clear his head, and found himself down at the docks looking out at the sea, knowing Seheron lay to the north.  He turned from it, and walked.

                He found himself down the street from an address he never thought he would memorize.  He went to it, as if drawn to it.  He stared up at the big manor from the gate, through the bars.  Somewhere, in the shadow of that mansion, he had been birthed. 

                Come nightfall, a cat slipped through the bars, and wandered about the grounds.  The cat went to the slave compound, and walked amongst the buildings.  He felt only sadness here, only grief.

                He went to the training grounds, where his mother had once commented that she had watched her brother practice at swords.  He looked at it for a while, and went to the orchard.  He lingered by the stream, pacing around it, then went back to the slave compound.  He sat amongst the little graveyard, looking at the unmarked graves—little mounds kept only by and for those in living memory.  He looked at it for a long time, and went to the manor.  He looked at it, and passed it by, having no interest in seeing what grandeur the master lived in while his slaves slept in such drab conditions.

                _My father is a vile man,_ he thought for the umpteenth time that night.  He could never run far enough from that truth.  He couldn’t deny it, couldn’t make up for it.  There was something peculiar about knowing that one’s parent is evil.  It made him ashamed, made him feel ashamed for living.  He felt like, perhaps, his mother was right not to love him.  He was terrible for existing, for putting his mother through the grief of bearing a child borne of rape.  She was practically a saint for even trying to love him after all the pain he had caused.

                And he had never even known.  He felt ignorant, and stupid.  He felt sorrowful, and hateful.  He felt terribly ashamed and guilty.  There was no way to apologize to his mother for his birth or what had happened to her, but maybe he could try to make her life better.  He felt responsible for the crimes of his sire.  Surely even a terrible man’s bastard child could do something?

 

                Fenris sat in the library with Isabela and Varric, the two rogues helping him sort through the books and figure out which were the most valuable—to sell of course.  Isabela was there out of sheer boredom, and Varric because Fenris had made some mention of needing the coin, and they got to talking about what was in the mansion.  For his work, Varric would get a cut of course.

                “Ew,” Isabela said, plucking a very thick volume off of a shelf.  “This is the unabridged Chant of Light.  You could bludgeon someone with this.”

                “Is it worth anything?” Fenris inquired.

                Varric glanced at it.  “Not that edition.”  He sighed.  “Shame.”

                Isabela glanced at Fenris.  “It would make a fine step ladder.”

                The elf looked at the mold growing in the corner of the room, the leak in the ceiling.  Outside, it was raining.  All the books they were not selling would be moved to another room.  Most of them could be sold.  Isabela dropped the book down on the floor in the smaller pile that would be kept.  It was loud, and the elf looked at it instinctively when it hit the floor.

                The cover had fallen open.  He frowned, and went to it.  He knelt, looking at the item pressed between the pages.  Gingerly, he removed the daffodil—something that looked older than he was, its leaves crumbling at his lightest touch.

                A daffodil was an odd flower to find pressed in a book.  People pressed roses, or violets, or things like that.  But a daffodil?Fenris turned the daffodil between two fingers, wondering who had put it there. 

                “Is that a flower?” Isabela asked, glancing over at him.

                “Yes,” he answered, setting it on the table absently.  He flipped the book closed, and went back to stacking the others in neat little piles.  He couldn’t read, so most of the work was Varric’s and Isabela’s.

                He glanced back at the daffodil, frowning.  Danarius probably owned the mansion, he assumed.  Maybe he would ask Varric or Aveline what they could find out, just to be sure.  Danarius liked daffodils, he remembered suddenly.

_They were growing in the garden, and sometimes, he would stop and look at them.  When they were in season, they decorated the hall and the library, a bouquet with other seasonal flowers, but mostly the daffodils.  Hadriana had laughed, and said, “It’s such a feminine flower.”_

_“Spring is a feminine season,” he had countered._

_“Yellow is such an ugly colour though—it really clashes with the library.”_

_He had stared at her, and Fenris was only grateful that Danarius had never stared at him that way.  Hadriana wilted, looking distinctly uncomfortable.  “They were my late wife’s favourite.”_

_The young mage’s mouth had formed into a large “O” of surprise.  She stuttered for a moment, and flushed, and stared downwards.  “I am sorry.  I had… no idea.”_

_“No.  You didn’t.”_

                Maybe that proved it was Danarius’ manor.  Fenris wondered what kind of woman his late wife was—if she would have engaged in his behaviour or sick delights, or had been a key in dissolving it.  The painting of a woman that hung in the hall, Danarius often stopped and looked at, but Fenris had never asked, would never have even dreamed of asking if that were her.  But he felt like it must be.  He could tell by watching him, watching the way he looked at the flowers, the way he had visited her grave when he went to the Vinewood, or the way he stared at the painting, he had lost something when she died.

                Maybe…  When someone was very close to you, when you cared very deeply for someone, when they leave, a part of you leaves too.  And perhaps, what he knew of Danarius was only what was left after that part had gone.


	82. Blissful Mistakes and Dark Agreements

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris has some personal time with Hawke, and Shaislyn just wants someone to care about him.

  **Part Six**

 

           _That… was easily the worst mistake of my life_ , Fenris thought, listening to the mage walk down the stairs.  He heard the front door click shut, and he rolled onto his stomach, burying his face in the pillow, as if to suffocate himself.

            One moment, they had been talking…  He had confessed that he thought Hawke was attractive.  The mage had propositioned him…  Fenris had never particularly felt wanted, not in a way that he knew was healthy anyway.  And, after enough time, he didn’t believe he ever would, because there was nothing about him worth wanting.  Danarius had told him that “no one will ever appreciate you the way I do” and the elf even believed him, because it had always been true from what he could tell.  And yet, Hawke seemed interested, and he was at first skeptical.  Was Hawke teasing him somehow?  Was it because he was a mage, and Fenris was so… interesting to mages?  Yet even so, the thought of being held by someone, his body crying out for another person, and the man had been there…

            He had at first declined, ultimately deciding that perhaps Hawke didn’t _really_ mean what he had said and that he had misinterpreted.  There was also the distant, nagging feeling that perhaps the man was teasing him and he was too unversed in social graces to catch on to it.  Hawke made as if to go, then turned around, smiled at him, and didn’t say a word.  He just walked back to him, and pushed his lips against his.  Fenris had been alarmed at first, surprised really.  Hawke hadn’t been teasing, and he hadn’t misinterpreted his meaning, and that was relieving to the elf.

He opened his mouth to his tongue, his arms wrapping around him, the ever-present knot of tension in his stomach unwinding.  Letting go of all of his inhibitions and tension, and fear, had felt too good to give up.

            He felt _safe_ then.  Like there were no hunters after him, no Danarius.  Nothing but Hawke, and he wanted it to _stay_ that way.  And, Maker, had he ever wanted it!  He had been dreaming of what sex would be like for years, been dreaming of someone wanting him like that for years, and wanting them back the same way.  It was what he had wanted—almost everything he had wanted.

            The armor had been the hardest parts to get off quickly, but the pair managed it.  Pieces of it still lay scattered across the floor, where it was likely to stay, at least until morning.

            They had gotten to the bed, half-dressed, moaning desperately against one another’s mouths.  Fenris tasted like expensive wine, and Hawke tasted vaguely smoky, and a little like he had been to the bar before he had come to visit him; Fenris could taste the cheap whisky on his tongue.

            Once they got to the bed, the pair struggled out of their clothes, reluctant to break the kiss, but desperately needing to feel one another’s skin against theirs.  Fenris wanted the comfort, wanted the connection to another person.

            A brief struggle of dominance—the two of them grappling, groping, all the while kissing savagely.  Hawke kissed his neck, and bit down.  On a lot of people, it might have made them cry out in pain.  Fenris had crumpled back against the bed instead, his legs wrapping willingly around Hawke’s hips, breathing hard.  It had bruised, and Hawke had left other marks too.  He had bitten him more after seeing his initial reaction, licked him, most of all kissed him.

            The elf was near-desperate when Hawke finally went down past his hips, leaving trailing kisses along his thighs, his fingers just teasing him.  He lapped his tongue along the lyrium that etched his skin, following it back to his crotch, and up to the tip of his erect member.

            Fenris shuddered, fingers digging into Hawke’s hair, pulling him down on him until the mage gagged, easing when he realized Hawke was struggling.  He himself did not have much of a gag reflex, and it had never really occurred to him that other people might not be the same.  He cried out at the movements of the mage’s tongue, and louder when his fingers met his mouth.  The human’s eyes opened, watching Fenris’ expressions as he did, and was pleased with what he saw.

            He wet his fingers with his tongue, and moved his hand between the elf’s legs.  He noticed the brief tension, and made a note to be slow.  He pushed his fingertip against him but gently, watching Fenris for a reaction.  The elf had tensed visibly, still obviously aroused, but definitely tense, as if he expected it to be painful.  He closed his eyes again, and licked, sucked, and kissed him until the tension eased, and he pushed one damp fingertip into him, and waited.  Fenris kind of made a noise—something uncertain.  Hawke’s eyes opened again, watching as he lapped his erection.

            He eased one finger in, and moved slowly, gently.  Fenris half-expected it to be painful, because that was what he was experienced with, but it wasn’t.  It wasn’t humiliating, or painful, or even about dominance—Hawke just wanted him.  And, so much more than that, the elf felt the same way.  He waited until Fenris was ready for two.  His back arced, fingers twining in the sheets, a small moan escaping his lips despite the way his breathing came in shuddering breaths and the way his throat felt constricted.  He fell back against the bed, staring up at the ceiling.  Hawke’s tongue ran along him, and he shivered.  The tension drained from his thighs; it didn’t hurt, and it never had to, and it wasn’t a guarantee that it would.  Hawke waited until he could take three, and by then the elf leaned forward, and whispered, in the most seductive voice Hawke could imagine, “I’m tired of your fingers.”

            “You’re a demanding lover,” Hawke said, taking the opportunity to kiss him.  Fenris could taste himself on Hawke’s mouth, and pulled him back down on top of him.  Fenris trailed his fingers through Hawke’s chest hair, down to the coarse hair between his legs, his fingers dexterously toying with his dripping cock before he drew him close.  He shifted himself, and tilted, and the pair worked to ease the mage inside him.

            Fenris’ back arched, and he moved against him, urging him faster and harder, his fingernails digging almost painfully into the mage’s back, his leg rubbing against his, sometimes his teeth nibbling against his neck and shoulders.  The mage kissed him savagely as he pounded into him.

            Fenris never thought about the rape.  Never even thought about any of that.  It was so, so different from what he had experienced before that it wasn’t even comparable.  It was like two completely different acts and they were so unalike that one could not be compared to the other.

            “My shoulders are bleeding,” the mage grumbled against his ear, his tongue lapping along it.

            Fenris’ answer was to move his head, and licked the blood off of his shoulder.  The mage scowled, plunging into him hard enough to shift both of them further up the bed, and again, and again.  The elf’s fingernails bit into his shoulders.  The mage grabbed both of his wrists, pinning them to the bed.  The elf raised an eyebrow, his lips curving into a half-smile as he took a deep, shuddering breath.  Hawke kissed him, pounding into him with a vengeance.

            Fenris wanted to move, to touch him, to feel the corded muscle of his back and chest, to run his hands over his buttocks, feel his thighs tense to the motions of his thrusting, and being denied that almost felt as good.  It may have even continued until they were finished, except that Fenris was stronger than Hawke when it came down to brute strength.  The elf pushed back, rolling with the mage until he was on top of him.  The elf smirked down at him, and leaned down to kiss him, then tilted his head back.  He arched his back, riding him like there was nothing else, and didn’t care about anything else.

            The lyrium sang.

            The light from the lyrium cast the walls in an eerie glow.  Fenris barely noticed, but Hawke did.  However, rather than be frightened of it, he wanted to touch him, to feel him.  Curiosity or a death wish, Fenris meant him no harm, and he had enough control over it now that Hawke was in no _real_ danger.

            As Fenris writhed atop him, the mage touched him—everywhere, and wished he could touch every part of him at once and was only frustrated that he could not.  The elf’s fingers wrapped around the headboard to support himself, staring into the other’s eyes at some times, eyes closed at other times.  Hawke struggled somewhat awkwardly upwards, arms wrapping around him, kissing him with wanton passion.  Fenris shifted, his legs wrapping around his hips, one of his hands against his shoulder, the same motion in a slightly different position.

            By some miracle of happenstance, they both came together, their lips pressed firmly against the other’s, tangled in one another’s arms.  Their sweat slickened their bodies, hair plastered to their face and they panted, throats dry.  They lay in one another’s arms for a while, just listening and breathing.

            Hawke took a deep breath and commented, “I never would have guessed that you were circumcised.”

            “Indeed.”

            The mage sat up partway, looking at him—at his face, that is.  “Is that a common practice in the Imperium?”

            “Not particularly,” Fenris admitted.  He had woken after the Ritual circumcised.  He had no idea if his parents had made the decision, or if for some reason his master had.  It seemed an odd thing either way, but he hadn’t ever given it much thought.  Danarius _claimed_ that he was the one to have given the order, but he wasn’t sure how far he could trust him—and his master had been drunk when he had said that anyway.

            Hawke ran his hand down the elf’s chest, down to the subject at hand.  He looked down, smiling a little as he ran his thumb along his limb member.  Fenris looked at him.  “Maybe it was because of the lyrium?” Hawke suggested, running the digit along the lyrium vein.  He sat up, his other hand loosely around his own member.  _This has some possibilities,_ Fenris thought, vaguely amused.  Hawke pulled back the foreskin on his dick, toyed with it a little.  It was a well-practiced yet somehow non-sexual motion.  “I mean, look—the foreskin would totally get in the way, and you’re not just circumcised—it’s like they tried to remove every piece of ‘excess’ skin.”  He peered back at Fenris.  The elf was half-tempted to pull his head back in his lap.

            Hawke looked at him.  “Was it like this after the Ritual?”

            “Yes,” Fenris sighed.

            He nodded thoughtfully, but that didn’t confirm much.  “I’ve heard it doesn’t feel as good when you masturbate.”

            “I can’t confirm that.”

            Hawke laughed, and Fenris smiled.  “Well, you _can_ still masturbate, can’t you?”

            The elf raised an eyebrow, amused that the mage was even asking.  “That I can confirm,” the elf said, when he realized that it was a genuine question.  “Maker, that would be awful if I couldn’t.”

            Hawke laughed, falling back down beside him.  “You would’ve figured something out,” the mage insisted.  “You would just have to be creative.”

            “Shut up, mage.”

            The man laughed again, kissing him.  “Oh, Maker, you’d be even more pissed off all the time.”

            Fenris couldn’t help but laugh.  “I _would_ have killed Danarius—a _long_ time ago.”  The second he had mentioned that it was _he_ that had done it, years of oppressed sexual tension would have insisted on blood.

            Hawke chuckled.  “I mean, when I was a teenager, I would jerk off something like twice a day—at least.  And in my twenties, I am not much better, so I imagine…”

            “I would’ve been pretty sexually frustrated,” he agreed.  They both laughed again, kissed, their bodies intertwining, relaxing in each other’s embrace.

            They hadn’t slept, but hadn’t fucked again either.  Rather, they had lain there, and Hawke had stretched, said his mother would be worried.  Fenris had watched him dress from the bed, and Hawke had walked back to him.  He had touched his ankle, and ran his hand along his calf, up his thigh, the curve of his hip, his waist, up his chest to touch his face and brought himself in for one last, wordless kiss before he left.

            The entire thing had been a mistake.

            _A mistake I would gladly make again, but a mistake nonetheless_.  He shouldn’t get involved like that.  He shouldn’t dare to become attached to someone, anyone.  He needed to be always on his guard, and he had never been more vulnerable, and he knew that.

            And he shouldn’t trust Hawke enough to have sex with him.  He was a mage.  How quickly would even the best mage become an abomination?  Look at Anders—truly, all he wanted to do was help people; he was a doctor at heart.  But he…  And Merrill!  Innocent-looking, well-intentioned, with every advantage _none_ of their people had—and a blood mage.  Not to mention Annalkylie!

            He thought of Shaislyn.  Just a child, and all that boy could do was lie, cheat, and disobey.  He wondered if he were still alive.

            It was just so hard to trust someone.  When he was aroused, and it was difficult to think clearly, it hadn’t mattered; he had just wanted, and gave in to that want.  It had felt… amazing… to want someone like that, and have them want him back.  Being held, kissed, and cuddled was unlike anything he had every experienced—and the sex…!  He had been subjected to so much negative sexuality, witnessed so much tragedy, to see what it was supposed to be, what it was really meant to be, was as beautiful as one of Anastas’ paintings.  He had wanted companionship for a long time, craved it.  He wanted to _feel wanted_ , and Hawke had filled that void over the past couple of hours.  But the smoke had cleared, and now he was left alone with dirty sheets.  He rolled, and the blankets smelled like Hawke.

            A part of him—a dark part that he didn’t ever want to consider but was always there—wondered.  If Danarius appeared again, and told him to kill Hawke or any of the others, would he?  That he didn’t know made him want to run, to hide, to bury the thought away because he _couldn’t_ run and hide from _himself_.

            _Is it so wrong that I wanted someone to hold me for a while?_ he thought miserably.  Just to _feel_ like someone else might care, even for a little while…  Just to _feel_ protected and… loved…  Even if it were fake and Hawke cared about him no more than a brief flit in the dark, for a moment, they were all that was in each other’s world.  What would it be like if that feeling could last?  Surely, he had had a family once.  He wished he could remember them.  Had he known his family?  Had he loved them?  Had they loved him too?  Not knowing the answers was worse than knowing that the answer was “no”.  What if it were “no”?  What if it were “yes”?  Which would hurt more, he wondered?

            He slept, and dreamed about people he didn’t know, as someone with honey eyes begged him to remember her.  He didn’t.  She begged and begged, and cried when he didn’t remember her, but he could not remember her.  She had thrown her arms around him anyway, and wept, burying her face against his shoulder, and he wished with everything he had that he could lie to her and tell her that he remembered.

            So he did.  “I remember you,” he lied.  “I remember everything.”

            She had wept harder then.  “No you don’t.  I love you.”

            He forgot most of the dream when he had woken, only remembering the way she had wept, and a desperate desire to calm her, and that faded too with the morning dew.

 

            Shaislyn leaned against the rail on the footbridge, watching the still waters down below, listening to the crickets.  It was always the same, day after day.  At practice, the other boys would bully him for being half-elven.  He tried not to let it bother him, but it did.  He couldn’t help that, no more than he could help that his eyes were blue and his hair was black.  Adults would say snide things too from time to time, and he did notice people stare at him, sometimes even pointing.

            It had been easier when he had been a child, but now he realized that that was only pity.  Pity had been what motivated people to be nice to him, to let him run errands and do odd jobs.  It was harder now.  He looked at the pearl necklace in his fist, and slipped it back into a pocket.  He didn’t want to be a thief, not really.  It sounded like a life of hardship, when it came down to it.  And it wasn’t like he could save up a bunch of it and then buy property one day and just live out his life as a retired thief; he wasn’t allowed to own property… he wasn’t really a person, by any law.

            Liberati were allowed to own property, but they were not exactly Imperial citizens, and there wasn’t a word for what Shaislyn was in the Imperium.  If that weren’t bad enough, half-elves were even lower on the social scale than elves.  It just wasn’t possible for him to be anything else.

            People would always cheat him, treat him like scum, laugh behind his back, whisper to one another as he passed.  _Always_.

            He looked at his reflection, and wanted to change it.  But how he looked was like a uniform he could never take off.  He could not conceal it, not truly, though the effort had always been made.  He hadn’t used to feel especially ashamed of being half-elven, but he did when he discovered all the things he could never have that everyone else simply took for granted.  People had been trying to manipulate, bully, and use him for years.  Humans, because he was elven enough, maybe even lower.  Elves, too, because he did not fit in there either.  But it wasn’t just humans and elves that were the problem.  No, he had gone to both races looking for work and found nothing, his imagination leaving him with images of the proprietors laughing as he left—at the preposterous idea of a half-elf seen working for them under the close scrutiny of the public eye.  What a scandal that would be!

            But dwarves, too, would not hire him, and for the same reasons!  He would make their human and elven customers alike feel uncomfortable, if he were seen only for a moment, he would raise questions.

            It wasn’t that Shaislyn had not tried to fit in, had not tried to get a real job, a home, a life—of any kind.  What did that leave him?  They would not even accept him into the military unless he sold himself as a slave.  He couldn’t be hired out as a mercenary either.  Apparently, he made people uncomfortable with his presence, and it did nothing to inspire camaraderie.

            Was it such a vain hope that someone, someday, would take pity on him and give him the opportunity to prove that he can be a working, productive member of society?  Why?  Why was it that when he tried, desperately, to _be_ a productive citizen, no one would give him the chance?  They all looked at him, as if to say _“Go away, you worthless piece of shit, you disgusting deformity”._   And he often _felt_ like that was all he was, all he could ever be.  Slowly, it made him ashamed of who he was, and how he looked, in a way he had never quite felt before.  And every day, he had to face it, and every day it was hard to do it.  Maybe that was why being an animal was so much easier.  Maybe it was why shapeshifting came so naturally to him, because he did not care very much for his birth form.

            No matter the hardships, though, he had to keep going.  He always tried to think, _It doesn’t matter what they think; I can fly and they never will._   But the sad truth was that he craved companionship and a life and could not attain either.

            A last-ditch effort to make something of himself had led him to the Grey Wardens, but they, too, would not take him.  They had sat down with him and talked for a long time, asked him questions, and he was frank about it and tried to be honest.  They would accept thieves and murderers, take people against their will, and lead them all to almost certain death.  But they wouldn’t take Shaislyn.

            He had demanded to know why, and harried the man until he told him.  “You won’t take orders.  You look for fights wherever you go, because you expect to find them.  And nothing about you tells me that I can trust you.”

            At least it was better than his bloodlines, but what did any of that mean anyway?  Why was Shaislyn “untrustworthy” in his eyes?  They didn’t care about thieves overmuch, and Shaislyn was no murderer.  He remembered Mahkerin’s words:  _Murderer_.  At least… he didn’t think so.

            Every bridge in his life was closed—all except the thievery, so that was what he did.  What choice did he have?

           

            Time passed.  Neither the mage nor the warrior really mentioned that night to one another.  A glance here and there, but that was all.  Hawke came over once, after he had moved into Hightown—his expedition had turned out well for him.

            They had talked for a little while, even laughed.  It was getting easier to laugh again.  Or, was it _again_?  He couldn’t really remember laughing in his life.  He remembered laughing with the Fog Warriors, the smugglers, a little with Anastas, but before that?  He couldn’t recall a time.

            Hawke spent a lot of time with Fenris at his mansion, fulfilling his promise to teach him how to read.  He listened to Fenris sound out words, felt like kissing him when he took to it so well, so he did.  The elf _wanted_ to learn, and Hawke was a bit… surprised at his ability to learn.  He absorbed facts like there weren’t enough of them, soaking up any new information like a sponge.  Missing so much of his memory he may be, but he had such a superb memory Hawke only wondered how he could have forgotten so much.  He commented as much, once.

            Fenris replied, “Not being able to read meant I had to memorize anything I needed to remember—that’s all,” he said, and looked back at the book.  “Hawke, I’m having trouble with this one.”

            Hawke looked over his shoulder.  He leaned down, peering at the print.  “Orlesian words are hard,” he agreed.  “I have no idea what it says, or how to pronounce it, but that mark—“  He pointed. “--usually means there’s a translation…”  He pointed at the bottom of the page, leaning closer.  “Here.”

            Fenris turned his head and began to thank him, and stopped.  The mage leaned the rest of the way forward, catching his lips in his.  Fenris dropped the book in his lap, forgetting utterly about whatever he had been reading a moment ago.

            They kissed for a long time, and the hour grew later, and their clothes became more unbearable.  Of course they did more than simply kiss; hands could not help but stray.  Half-dressed, they continued to kiss, to touch one another.

            Hawke shoved Fenris back against a low dresser in his haste.  He grunted with the impact, and kissed him harder.  His lips against his neck, fingers on his nipples, one hand gripping his buttocks.  Hawke bit his neck playfully, then harder, kissed him again.  More clothes were kicked and struggled out of.

            Hawke pushed the elf, a little roughly, back against the dresser.  He slid onto it, knocking an empty candlestick onto the floor.  Neither really noticed.  They kissed, and touched, and explored one another’s bodies—so long apart.  Why had they waited so long?  The timing had just never been right.  Hawke had left, taking Anders and his brother to the Deep Roads, barely saying goodbye to him.  When he came back, he was gloomy over the loss of Carver to the Wardens, and then he was so busy reclaiming the mansion in High Town and his own affairs, they barely even spoke.  It didn’t matter any longer.

            The dresser was really _just_ the right height, when the act finally began.  It rattled, and banged against the wall—a sound that seemed scarcely audible between the moans and cries of the pair, the wet sound of their lovemaking.

            The dresser finally tilted.  Alarmed, Hawke backed up a pace, and Fenris dropped to the floor, standing erect.  Hawke smiled a little; the elf flushed.  Back in one another’s arms, and a fair distance to the bed, and still so much to be done.

            Hawke kissed him.  Kissed his neck, his chest, his shoulders.  He twisted around him and kissed his back, trailing his fingers along his waist, his other hand slipping to his front.  His fingers grasped him, wet and needful.  He—gently—shoved him, bending him over the dresser.  He kissed his neck again, his shoulder.  His beard scratched against his skin.

            Fenris’ fingernails scraped along the wood as his hands clenched into fists.  Eyes shut.

            Danarius had always taken him like this.  Danarius had been just as eager to do it too.  So careful not to hurt him, but so eager to take him.  His beard had scratched against his skin the same way.  And he was a mage too…  They were almost the same height…  He had…  His mouth felt dry.  Hawke kissed his neck, completely unaware of the elf’s inner turmoil.  His stomach twisted, and he couldn’t…  He couldn’t do this any longer.  Maybe never again.

            He twisted, and shoved the mage back, away from him.  The act shoved his own past away, the way he had wanted to shove his master away.  And he tried to shove the memory back the same way.

            Hawke looked at him.  “What…” the question formed, but went unsaid.

            Fenris couldn’t even bear to look at him.  “I can’t,” he whispered, backing up a pace, away from the dresser.

            Hawke took a step toward him, his hand reaching out.  His fingertips brushed Fenris’ arm.  The elf was caught for a moment between a desire to step into his arms, and a desire to run from the embrace.  He shifted away from the mage’s touch instead, still unable to meet his eyes.  “Fenris?”

            The elf shook his head a little.  “It’s nothing.  I just can’t…  I can’t do this.”  He stared downwards, his eyes wide, heart pounding like a drum.  Something similar to terror ran through him.

            Hawke’s arm dropped away numbly, and he stood there, confused.  He could only wonder what he had done wrong.  “What…  Is it something I did?  Or said…”

            Fenris looked at the floor, at his clothes.  He would feel better if he were clothed, he decided.  And alone.  _Very_ alone.  He took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to calm his racing heart.

            The elf turned away from him, and pulled a blanket off of one of the sofas.  He wrapped himself in it, feeling a little less vulnerable for that.  He still could not bear to look at Hawke.  “…  It’s nothing,” he lied, but he was shaking.

            Hawke was silent for a long moment.  “What’s wrong?”

            Fenris glanced at him, once, cringed, then looked back down.  He was briefly angry, then it died.  But Hawke, at this point, deserved to know.  “Would you still want me if you knew what happened to me?”

            “Yes,” Hawke said, and did not even think about the answer.

            His green eyes flicked upwards again, and stayed looking at the man.  It took some amount of effort.  “I’ve been… taken… by another man…”  His eyes flicked back downwards.

            Hawke was silent for a time as he came to realize, with a sickening feeling, what Fenris meant.  The silence was excruciating for both of them.  “I’m sorry,” Hawke said, at a loss for words.  He knew a mere “I’m sorry” would never make something like that better, but he just didn’t know what else to say.  What can one say to someone who confessed to being molested?  He had not been prepared for such a confession.  They had been so intimate one moment, and then it had moved to this so suddenly.  Was it right to go to him?  Was it right to keep his distance—after all, he had pushed him away?

            “If you tell anyone, I will kill you,” Fenris added, almost as an afterthought.

            “I won’t,” Hawke said, voice soft.  “I wouldn’t.”  Another pause.  “But…  We’ve… been together before…”

            The elf looked back at him.  “On the bed.  Face to face.”

            Cruel understanding suddenly flooded Hawke’s mind.  Guilt followed it.  “I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean…  I didn’t know…”

            Fenris looked at him, his lips pressed into a thin line.  “He had a beard.  He was a human mage, about your height.”

            Hawke cringed inwardly.  Outwardly, he tried to smile winningly.  “I can shave,” he offered.

            Fenris actually laughed, and it helped with the awkwardness when Hawke joined in.  Fenris sighed at the end, looking at his face again.  “I’m sorry; I can’t…”

            Hawke shrugged a shoulder.  “Another time then.”  The both of them dressed, in an awkward silence.  Hawke went back to him, fully dressed, to kiss him.  He barely caught the elf’s lips, and Fenris stepped back, and looked away.  He didn’t look up until he heard the door shut.  A sigh escaped his lips, and he sat down.

            He did want Hawke.  He knew that.  Hawke _wasn’t_ Danarius; he _knew_ that.  It had just felt like…  It had been too much for him, that was all.  _I should go to him sometime_ , Fenris thought to himself.  He had thought he was over it.  He had thought that—it had happened so long ago—it couldn’t bother him now.  But it had, and it did.

 

            Hadriana passed back amongst the halls she had left what felt ages ago, remembering all that had transpired here, all that had happened.  She had apprenticed here, been raised to the rank of magister here.  …  Had sex with someone she cared about, fell in love, gave birth.

            Her young son was back at her villa with his nurse, happily occupied.  She didn’t know what had ever happened to his aunts—one sickly, and one crippled.  A part of her didn’t care, and another part only felt guilty that she had simply opened the door and, eyes filled with tears, told them to go.

            Lysander, her darling Lysander, had been gone so long.  He had a prestigious enough family name—she had planned to have his child, to take his name and marry him.  She would have cared for his two sisters of course, and they all could have lived in the villa together:  Practically an ending from a fable.

            But…

            They had said it was torture.  Unmistakably torture.  Someone—everyone strongly suspected Fenris—had cut off some of his fingers.  The bones had been found not far from the body—picked clean by carrion.  It was only identifiable as Lysander by the odd few clumps of hair still clinging to the body, and some tattered clothing… the sword through the arm, pinning even the half-eaten and rotted corpse to the deck of the ship.

            Hadriana had purchased the sword from his remaining family—it was theirs by rights, and she was no thief to cheat someone of such a family heirloom.  She gave them a modest sum and sent them away.

            She laid his bones to rest beside that of the rest of his family, where they belonged, and she went there once a year.  They couldn’t tell her exactly when he had died, but she went every year the day he had left, and laid flowers on his grave.  She had loved him.  She wished she had gotten to know him better, but she loved him.  And she knew he loved her too.

            She kept all of his letters—every one.  She wondered if he had ever received her last letter.  She knew that she had nearly read the words off of his letters, and she knew them all by heart the way she knew her spells.

            And Fenris had killed him.

            _Tortured_ and killed him.  He was so young—barely a man!  And that damned elf _murdered_ him!  It filled her with fury to think of it, and she had been aching for revenge ever since she had laid eyes on the broken bones of her lover.

            Time finally allowed for it.

            She came to her former master, and they exchanged pleasantries over tea.  They chatted of the weather, of politics, and she commented that she was investing in a mine that promised a high yield this year.  They spoke of these things for a time, and finally she asked, “How fares the hunt for your escaped slave?”

            Danarius made a face.  “I don’t have the time for it, but I know where he is at least.”

            She raised an eyebrow.  “And what occupies your time so, that you cannot go after your prized possession?”

            He sighed, leaning back in his chair.  “Old age,” he admitted dryly.  “Family matters.”  He paused.  “That if I don’t come back, my greedy nephew will fight you tooth and nail for the manor and my estates.”

            “Not much choice is there?” she said, knowing full well that she was the named heir in the will.  “Do you really think Fenris would kill you?”

            Danarius was silent, contemplative.  “I’m not certain any more, and that bothers me.”  He frowned.  “On his own, I don’t believe he would.  It’s that Hawke person I wonder about.”

            Hadriana frowned.  “Who?”

            The mage shrugged.  “An apostate, by the sounds of it.  I’ve heard… stories.”  He blinked.  “Anyway, Fenris has found hirelings before, but this is a bit different, I’m afraid.”

            Hadriana watched him flinch as he put the teacup down, though said nothing about it.  She knew what it was.  Magic couldn’t fix everything—certainly not the pain in his wrists and hands, not forever.  She shrugged.  “I’ll get him for you,” she said bluntly, thinking of her dead Lysander.  She had always disliked Fenris, but now…  Now she just wanted the elf to suffer—and never stop suffering.  “I owe you everything—I’ll go bring back your lost pet.”

            He raised an eyebrow.  “And how do you propose to do that?”

            She shrugged.  “Imperial hunters—and I’ll go myself.  Why not?”

            He was silent for a long moment.  “Be careful.”

            She rose to her feet with confidence.  “I will.”  Her fingers curled into fists.  “I’m not afraid of him.”

            “Perhaps you should be,” Danarius said quietly, so quietly she couldn’t be certain that she heard it, as she left.  She took her carriage back to the villa, and immediately went to visit her son.  She opened the door to his nursery, and smiled when she saw him.

            He dropped the toy he held, his face lighting up with a grin.  He ran toward her, little arms wrapping around her legs.  She laughed, lifting him into her arms.  “Mommy!” he cried.

            She kissed his cherubic cheeks, holding him tight.  “Let’s go out in the garden—it’s a beautiful day,” she told him, carrying him outside.  His elven nurse, Orana, followed, ever ready to be of service.  She played with her son for the rest of the afternoon, before she felt she had procrastinated her duties long enough, and left him in the capable hands of his nurse—a slave of course.

            Hadriana held a particular preference to human slaves, as they were often cheaper—because they reproduced more quickly--had less alarming features such as an elf’s eyes, and were simply stronger, but she had an odd assortment of elven ones too.  His nurse and a few others were as such.  She felt it was important that her son quickly learn that elves were lesser creatures than humans just as quickly as he learned his alphabet, and what better way than to have a few elven slaves?

            She first saw to the running of her villa—more going over her steward’s work, really, something she did only every so often.  Next, she looked into her investments, made sure that the people that she had lent money to were paying it back.  Those that were not, she sent threats to as necessary, and on one of those, she made certain that the threat was carried out.  She had a few duties as a magister—reading petitions mostly, giving them her seal of either approval or rejection.  All tedious work, but it could not be helped.

            When that was all finished, she went to dinner with her son, asked him about his day.  Orana took him for a bath, and she began to plan the trip to Kirkwall.  She debated on it and decided to sail partway there, and then travel the rest of the way by land.  If she docked, someone might see her, and it would not work half so well should Fenris be so alerted.

            Planning the journey took a great deal of time, and hand-picking hunters took longer still.  She relied on a network of spies in regards to Fenris’ whereabouts and well-being.  He had been in the same place for several years, it seemed, but he did have certain habits.  Unfortunately, he stayed primarily within the city.  _Except_ on ventures into the countryside every so often with that _Hawke_ person, and he had ventured out to guard a caravan to a neighboring city in the Free Marches once or twice but not often enough to rely on that.

            Or so the half-elf said, sitting sprawled in the chair opposite her.  “And you’ve seen _Hawke_?” she inquired.

            He nodded absently.  “Dark hair, a beard.  Apostate.”

            “Fenris’ new master, I presume?” she said, mostly to herself.  That was what made the most _sense_ to her.  “Will we need to lure them away from the city?”

            The boy shrugged a shoulder.  “I’m not sure,” he said honestly.  “They seem to go out kind of randomly, but usually on one errand or another, to tell you the truth.”  He frowned.  “But I feel I should warn you, there is a group of Dalish elves not far from Kirkwall—and they _will not_ take kindly to slavers, so be wary on Sandermount.”

            “I appreciate the warning,” she told him.

            He rose from the chair.  “That’s everything I know.”  He waited, and she slid a coin across the table.  He inspected it briefly, and pocketed it.  “Unless you require my services farther?”

            She hesitated, then nodded.  “Yes, actually.  I want you to come with me to Kirkwall.”

            He paused.  “Why?”

            She looked at him, into his pale, pale eyes.  “Because, Shaislyn, if we do need bait, you’ll be perfect.  And because we might need a spy of your… talents.”

            He breathed a small sigh.  “I’ve no desire to play bait in this.  However…  How much would I be paid?”

            They haggled, and accused one another of being outrageous, or cheap, or thinking too highly of oneself, and eventually settled on terms.  Shaislyn seemed pleased.  Hadriana felt cheated, but what she had spoken was true.  If they needed to lure Fenris away, Shaislyn was the ideal way to do it.  Not only had Fenris met him before, but the right word here and there— _the truth_ —would be enough to make the elf want to go.  A person from his past, a connection to his only surviving family, and Danarius’ only child.  Yes, if Fenris knew half of that, he would meet with Shaislyn if they had to arrange it.

                         

            Shaislyn was spending less and less time with his mother—he simply did not have time for it.  He gave her all the coin he could spare, to make her life more comfortable.  He paid off all of her debts, and bought her things in a desperate effort to get any of her love, and still felt rebuked.

            _Everyone that I’ve ever cared about is gone_ , he thought miserably.  _Everyone who has ever loved me at all is gone, and the one person left that I want to love me doesn’t.  And never will._

            It was a difficult thing for a teenager to accept, and he didn’t want to.  _I just want to be cared about… by someone_.

            But no one really cared about a half-elven mage, did they?  Moreover, a half-elven mage who couldn’t really do much magic.  He was making a bit of a name for himself in the Imperium, as a thief capable of things thought impossible—not by name, of course, but he heard people talking about him.  There was even a sizeable bounty on the “mysterious thief’s” head.  Some people suspected, he didn’t doubt.  He sold information to the magisters, but he didn’t think they had connected him to the thief exactly.  He still had to dodge bounty hunters on occasion though, and dumping bodies wasn’t the most enjoyable task.

            He kept the hood of his cloak pulled up to shadow his face as he walked down into the under city.  The smell was awful down there, but that was where the fence was.  He made his way there, past thieves and cutpurses, cheap whores, hungry children, and hollow-faced men and women.

            He hadn’t been to Kirkwall in quite some time—months, in fact.  He thought it best to avoid the place for a while, but his accent stood out when he went to Orlais or Rivain, but no one thought twice about it in Kirkwall.

            He spotted the man he was looking for, and stopped short, lingering by a wall in the shadow, his eyes narrowed.  The dark-haired apostate had just finished speaking to the fence, and it looked like some kind of business was conducted; the apostate handed over the gold and turned back to his companions—a dwarf, a scowling human woman, and one elf he was now _quite_ familiar with.

            _Soon_ , he thought.  _It won’t be long now, will it?_   The ship was well on its way; he had simply gone ahead to wait, and prepare, to scout.  He waited until the four passed and were gone before he went to the fence.  They greeted one another, well enough on friendly terms as Shaislyn’s business was often profitable for both of them.

            “Haven’t seen you in a while, kid,” he said.  “What have you got for me?”

            “Bit of jewelry,” he said with a shrug.  “An enchantment on one of them.  Ah, and this book.”

            He looked at the items, and they did a bit of haggling between some friendly talk.

“I won’t pay more than twenty silver for this,” he said, looking at a ring.

            Shaislyn scoffed.  “The _gold_ in it is worth more than that.  I _stole_ that off an Orlesian noblewoman’s _fingers_.”

            “ _Which_ Orlesian noblewoman?” he inquired skeptically.

            Shaislyn smirked.  “Look at the seal a little closer.”

            The man looked at it, frowning, and then his eyebrows raised.  “All right, fifty.”

            The half-elf stared at him flatly.  “Do you know how hard it was to get that?  No, at least two sovereigns.”

            The fence scoffed.  “That’s highway robbery.  What am I?  An honest merchant?  Seventy silver.”

            “Seventy?  I could have just stolen the coin!” Shaislyn exclaimed.  “Two sovereigns.  I risked life and limb getting that, and you’re selling me short.”

            His face twisted into a frown.  “I have to pay for necessities too, you know.”  Then he frowned in thought.  “Just got this in this morning—here.”  He knelt at his chest, flipping the lid up.  He rummaged about for a while and pulled a small bundle free.  “Bit tarnished, but have a look at them.”

            He unwrapped the bundle on the filthy floor.  Shaislyn knelt to look at what it was.  The blades were just a little too short to be called swords, and were obviously twins.  The hilt of one was fashioned to look like a dragon, the crossguard the creature’s unfurled wings.  Its eyes had once been perhaps some kind of gem that someone had long since plucked from the sockets.  It was white, the blade had the wavy, bluish look of well-forged steel.  The other was its equal in every way, but instead of a dragon, it was a griffin, and this one all in black down to the blade.  Its eyes were also gone.  It was a bit tarnished, a bit dull from neglect, but he could take it to a smith; that wasn’t a problem.  Shaislyn had never believed in love at first sight—he barely believed in love—but he was in love with the tarnished weapons all the same, and the fence, clever as he was, saw it immediately.

            “We’ll trade instead,” he said.  “The blades, for all of your items.”

            “Done,” Shaislyn whispered, and took the blades.  The fence even threw in a couple of old, tooled sheathes.  Shaislyn was already thinking of where to take them to clean them up and sharpen them when the fence stopped him.

            “Would you be interested in a job?” the man asked, his voice low.

            Shaislyn paused, wondering what this could be.  He had done the odd job here and there for the fence, but this one had the human man a little nervous.  “Maybe,” he said.  “What’s wrong with your usual crew?”

            A pause.  “They won’t do it.  Not once I tell them what it is.”

            Shaislyn felt suddenly intrigued.  “You have my attention.”

            “A… client… is interested in the Qunari’s black powder recipe,” he said slowly.

            The half-elf was silent for a moment.  He had no love for the Qunari, and would delight in stealing such a thing from them.  He would only too eagerly sell the recipe to Tevinter.  The issue would be _getting_ such a thing.  But who better for the task?  He could read and speak their language.  He could shapeshift, not to mention had become quite talented with his spell of sight.  “You want me to steal it?”  
            The fence gave a slight shake of the head.  “Just copy it.  If the Qunari don’t know, it’s better.”

            Shaislyn hesitated.  The pay for something like that would be phenomenal.  It was a close-guarded secret, and every country in the world would want a copy of that recipe.  But the cost of failure…  His fingertips touched the old scars near his lips, a shiver running down his spine.  But the Qunari were in Kirkwall, he reminded himself.  Stranded, or that was what they claimed.  Cut off from supplies.  They might kill him, but he didn’t think…  It wasn’t _likely_ that they would try to imprison him.  He would rather die than be imprisoned.

            “I might be able to get that for you.  Give me a few days at least.”  Shaislyn raised an eyebrow.  “What’s the pay?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sad thing is, if Fenris and Shai would actually sit down and talk to each other, I'm sure they could look past their differences and find in one another what they both want: Companionship, someone to care about, and someone who would care about them in return. I mean, they are really more alike than they are different. Unfortunately, Fenris' mage prejudice, and Shaislyn's hatred of Fenris kind of get in the way of that.
> 
> Anyway, I'm not sure if anyone actually reads my notes, but this is the point in the fic where I am slightly screwing with the game story (though as little as I can--I just want Fenris and Hawke to have as much sex as possible, ok? Is that so wrong?). Just ignore it if you don't like it.


	83. Unknowing Sins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris has a final confrontation with Hadriana, which has some unforeseen side effects.

            Hadriana sat on the deck of the ship, teaching her son about sigils and spells.  Ordinarily, she would have left him, but he had begged, and pleaded, and so wanted to go on the ship…

            She would keep him out of harm’s way, and all _should_ be just fine, she knew.  Still, she would take all due caution; she knew that Fenris had killed every hunter that had gone after him.  Still, no _magister_ had gone after him.  And no one half so well prepared.  And the _one_ time he had been caught and escaped had been because of a serious of misfortunes that had befallen the ship, the crew, and the hunters.

            Therefore, she deduced that things would progress well enough.  She would dock in a nearby city and travel over land to Kirkwall, lay a trap, and simply wait.  Shaislyn was looking into likely places right now, and should have everything well in hand by the time they got there.

            She wasn’t sure how much she trusted the half-breed, but she would go over everything herself before they set the trap, so all should be well enough, she assumed.

            She had, of course, read Danarius’ notes and the book he had written about the ritual that had carved lyrium into Fenris’ flesh.  The process was being called “the lyrium tattoo” as a sort of slang term.  Danarius had first attempted to call it something much more formal, like “the Imperial Rite of Lyrium something-such”.  Her master had tried to fight it at first, but eventually gave up on the matter when people went to talk about the process.

            Danarius had only mentioned in two sentences how he had used a “blood link” between himself and “the subject” in his book, but his notes had been _much_ more specific.  His notes had likened himself to a continent, and Fenris to an island—each self-supporting in their own way, but could feed off of one another.  They were accessible to each other without the “bridge” that was the “blood connection” but the “connection”—or “bridge”—made it easier, and safer.  Danarius could use Fenris like a battery for his magic, and Fenris actually did acquire _something_ out of the connection, but _what_ Danarius had still been trying to discover.  More intriguing, since Fenris had no point of comparison _without_ the link, he himself would have no idea what it was _he_ was getting out of the link.  The magister had some ideas, but each one was only a theory in truth.  Fenris had been tested, many times, but it came to no real conclusions without a point of comparison.  Any small thing could simply be a side effect of the _lyrium_ and not the connection itself.  However, knowing about the “bridge”, she knew very well that the “blood link” mentioned _had_ to be Shaislyn.

            She wondered if the boy even knew.  She doubted it somehow.  How could he have known?  He had a queer aversion to ever meeting his father, his mother had never known much to begin with about the Rite, and he had been an infant in arms at the time.  Not to mention that anyone else who had been there was either dead or didn’t remember any of the details of the Ritual, namely Fenris.

            It was just as well, considering that Danarius had put the bounty on Shaislyn’s head, and the magister did not want him captured; just killed.  Hadriana didn’t have to imagine why—the boy’s existence was a terrible scandal for him, but he did have his uses.  Once she had Fenris safely caged, if the boy was foolish enough to hang around, she would kill him just as her old master wished.

            She finished the day’s lesson and sent her son for his nap.  Hadriana herself felt restless, and wandered down into the bowels of the ship.  Therein was the re-forged cage that had once held Fenris, a set of manacles.  A cruel smile graced her lips as she touched a locked chest, a wicked glint in her eye as she thought of all the things she had kept inside it.

            She had never… practiced such things before.  Not really, anyway.  But she had brought a couple of books on the subject with her—and there were many of them, she had found.  Why, it was such a studied topic that one would think there was some sport in torture.

            Perhaps there was.

            And, after she had extracted every ounce of pain she could inflict on the elf, she would heal him—every wound.  Every scrape, every broken bone, every cut, every inch of flesh.  And then do it again.  And again.

            And when she finally tired of hearing him shriek in indescribable agony, why, then she would call in the huntsman she had brought, and watch him, ever so neatly, carve the lyrium out of Fenris’ skin.  Danarius had even told her that, if Fenris could not be caged or captured alive, he would accept the lyrium.  If Fenris survived the process of the carving by some accident of fate, she may yet let him live.  She would stopover in Seheron and sell him to the army to fight—which was a useful enough purpose for him.

            Still, a part of her disliked the idea of torturing someone like that.  A part of her—a small part—knew that it was wrong.  She didn’t mind killing people, but torturing them was something else.

            But then she thought of how her darling Lysander’s body had been found—tortured and broken.  Fenris had done that, she was certain.  And she would have the story out of him by the end—all of it.  She wanted him to tell her of Lysander’s every last word, every breath.  She wanted to hear from the elf’s own lips that he had killed the man she loved, the father of her child.

            And she wanted to watch him suffer for that action.  That wasn’t so wrong, was it?  It wasn’t wrong to want revenge for someone you cared about.  And she hated him more than she had known she could.  She had never known, before she had seen those bones, that she held such capacity for hatred.

            “Mama?” a voice called in the gloom.

            Hadriana turned, and smiled warmly.  “Lys, baby, shouldn’t you be in bed?”

            “I’m not a baby!” he complained.  He harrumphed.  “I couldn’t sleep.”

            “Aw, come on.  I’ll tuck you in for a nap.”  She stretched and yawned.  “Actually, a nap doesn’t sound half bad.”  She put her hand on her son’s back and guided him back up the stairs, away from the hold and the dark things she kept in its shadows.

 

            Midnight found Hawke and Fenris walking back to Hightown from the Hanged Man.  The moon was dark that night, and the sky was cloudy.  It felt like it was about to rain at any moment.  The odd pair walked silently, but with the sort of comfort that came with knowing someone for a long time.

            The streets were relatively empty once they came to Hightown, save the odd patrolling guard or someone hurrying from one place to the next.  As they rounded a corner, Hawke stopped short, nearly running into someone.  The cloaked figure—he guessed an elf from the stature—stepped back a pace, flashed a disarming smile shadowed from the hood of the cloak, and hurried past him.  Hawke frowned, looking back, puzzled.

            Fenris glanced at Hawke.  “Something wrong?”

            Hawke frowned.  “No…  I just…”

            “Check your purse,” Fenris advised.

            It was good advice, and Hawke reached to his waist.  The pouch was still there, just as heavy as he remembered it being.  “Have I seen him before, I wonder?”

            “Maybe a servant?” Fenris mused.  Hawke shrugged, giving up on the matter.  They continued, and Hawke mentioned a bottle of port that he had in his cellar.

            The elf looked bemused.  “Are you going to try to seduce me?”

            “Only if you want to be seduced,” Hawke told him with a wan smile.

            A brief pause.  “I don’t know…”

            Hawke shrugged.  “I’ll walk you to your place then.”  But he had the idea that Fenris was just trying to avoid it.  After what happened last time…  Well, Hawke hadn’t lost interest, and he really just wanted the elf to know that.  And possibly fuck him—several times if possible.

            “Ah…  No,” Fenris said, making a face.  Hawke sighed.  “I’d rather go alone.”

            Hawke rolled his eyes, and bit back his scathing remark.  He nodded.  “Goodnight then,” he said tartly, and turned, but not toward home.  He was aware of Fenris watching him.  When he glanced back, the elf looked away and walked briskly toward his stolen mansion.

            The mage looked up one way, then the other, and went back down the path.  He didn’t want to be alone.  He was tired of being alone, and Fenris just wouldn’t give him what he needed.  He wouldn’t be there for him when he wanted companionship, or even simple friendship.  He wouldn’t be there sexually, intimately.  He just refused to do it.

            By the time he arrived at the Blooming Rose, it was raining.  He tossed some money around, and went to bed with the best-looking male elven whore in the house.

            He remembered all the things he had done with Fenris, and did those things.  He kissed, and sucked, and touched.  It wasn’t what he wanted, not really, but it was close enough and it had been so long…  Fenris wouldn’t even really let him touch him any more.  He would shy away, or get this look in his eyes like he was really far away even though he was right there beside him.  Or those pretty sage eyes would close, and he would have this expression on his face like he wanted to run.  Hawke had touched his hand once, and the elf had simply withdrawn, averting his eyes.

            He did all the things he wanted to do to Fenris, with Fenris.  And the whore made all the appropriate noises, did all the things Hawke wished of him, because that was what whores were for.  They were for wishing it was someone else beneath him when he drove them into the bed.  Whores were for moaning when the moment required it, not when the moment drove it out of them.  Whores were for relieving an ache that he could not otherwise.

            Hawke fell asleep resting his head on the whore’s stomach, and woke, and took the whore again.  He didn’t even know his name.  Didn’t want to, didn’t care.  It just wasn’t what he really wanted.

            He left in the morning, feeling he had his money’s worth at least.  He felt _better_ , sure, but it wasn’t the same.  It wasn’t Fenris.  The elf had not broken fingernails in his back, nor did he want him so desperately that they had to have one another.  No, it was just a coupling in a whorehouse.  It was fine.  Not great, not totally memorable—but fine.  It served a purpose, which was the most he could ask for from a whore.

            He went back the next night, seeking the comfort of a woman this time—human.  Something so far apart from Fenris that he could not truly compare the experience.  It wasn’t what he wanted then either.  Frustrated, he did not stay the entire night.  He had sex with her twice, and left.  He fell into his own bed, and felt like a cold dead thing lay in the pit of his being—too cold to rot away.

            The next morning, he paced about the manor restlessly, stalking from end to end until his aging mother told him to go outside.  He grumbled about being treated like a child, but heeded her advice anyway.  He walked down to Low Town.  He had a pint with Varric and Isabela, then restlessly left.  He walked down to the alienage to visit Merrill.  Sometimes the elves down there in that cesspool of a place would stare at him suspiciously when he came and went, always half-expecting him to be causing problems that they, being elves, would simply have to endure.  She usually put a smile on his face, and she did this time too—not anything she did specifically to make him laugh, but he sometimes felt she was too cute not to smile at.  Aside from the whole blood mage thing.

            He left and walked around Low Town for a bit longer, pacing around the merchant shops, staring at their wares with no real intent to buy.

            He passed by a weapon smith, and paused, eyes narrowing.  He took a step back, and stood in the shadow of a building, watching.  A cloaked figure stood at the smith’s forge, and the smith held one blade, and another was in the figure’s hands.  The cloak and the stature looked familiar to Hawke, and he frowned, trying to place where he had seen the person before.

            He saw a flash of a smile from under the shadow of the cloak, and blinked as he realized it must be the same person from the other night—with Fenris in High Town.  He had thought it was just an elven servant, but...

            _He could just be picking up an order for someone,_ he assumed.  He doubted it, however, when he saw the way he inspected them, and when he held both of them in his hands.  The figure set the blades down, shook hands with the smith.

            The figure suddenly stopped, as if he had noticed someone was watching, but all without turning to look at Hawke.  Very odd.

            The cloaked figure paid the smith, quickly, and scooped up the blades, stashing them under his cloak.  The figure turned away—opposite to Hawke, and strode off hastily.  Hawke frowned, and strolled after him, doing his best to make it look coincidental.  The figure walked very quickly, purposefully.  Hawke saw him go down an alley, swore, and followed him.  He couldn’t say why, except that he was bored, and more than a little curious.  Part of him did not believe in coincidence.

            The alley ended abruptly, sectioned off at an impossible climb.  No one was here.  He looked around, wondering if he had missed him somehow, but it was a very narrow alley, and there wasn’t much to hide behind.

            Puzzled, he looked up at the wall that sectioned off the alley.  It was much too high to climb so quickly, or with any kind of ease for that matter.  A crow perched on top of it, staring down at him accusingly.

            Hawke made a face at it, and gave up on the matter.  He turned, deciding it was just one more mystery to be had in Kirkwall.

            Speaking of mysteries, one of the many wonders of the world was not so very far away, and he hadn’t seen Anders in a while.

            Anders was with a patient when Hawke entered the clinic.  “…  It’ll be tender for a few more days, so be careful,” he was saying.  He looked up at Hawke, flashed a smile, and looked back at the miner he was talking to.  “Treat it as if it were still broken until the pain goes away—about three days, I should think.  Come back if you have any problems, all right?”

            The miner thanked him profusely, and left eagerly.  Anders glanced at another patient at a table, gestured to Hawke to wait a moment, and went to them.  Hawke heard him speaking in low soothing tones as he worked.  Hawke doubted that anyone so devoted to healing another person’s suffering could ever be the cause of suffering.

            And he liked watching Anders work anyway.

            The middle-aged woman left soon, and Anders told his assistant to not let anyone in for a few minutes.

            “I could use a break anyway,” he said.  He looked tired, Hawke noticed.

            “You’re always busy, aren’t you?”

            Anders shrugged helplessly, but smiled.  “Flu season, babies, cold season…  It doesn’t really end.”

            Hawke snorted a laugh.  “No, I guess not.”

            They talked for a little while, about their lives, the weather.  Hawke commented that he kind of missed the food in Fereldon.  Both of them laughed.

            “Are you still…” Anders said slowly.  Hawke raised an eyebrow.  “Seeing… Fenris?”

            “If by ‘seeing,’ you mean ‘fucking’, no; he doesn’t let me fucking touch him.”  Despite his best efforts, Hawke could not keep the venom out of his voice at that.  “I am still capable of seeing Fenris.  He doesn’t turn completely invisible, you know.”

            Anders snorted a laugh.  “If only.”  Then he frowned.  “No, I still think I’d prefer to know where he is, so never mind.”

            Hawke laughed again, then sighed deeply.  “I don’t think he wants me.  He doesn’t act like it, and I have tried…”

            “He’s an idiot,” Anders said with a shrug.  The quirk of a smile on his lips begged to be kissed, so Hawke kissed him.

 

            Shaislyn had been watching the Qunari Compound for days, in one animal form or another.  They had particular quarters that he had managed to explore in bits and pieces, always careful.  There were so many of them, and they absolutely terrified him.

            Still, he was reasonably certain of where the recipe was kept; he just needed an opportunity to steal it.  Shouldn’t be too much of a problem; all he had to do was look at it, copy it, and be gone.

            He _had_ planned on doing it that evening, but when he went to fly out and check on Hadriana’s ship, it was docked and the hunters were on their way.  So, he put it off another night, and went back to her.  He believed, very fervently, that she should have left her son and his caretaker on the ship, where it was safe.  But the magister _insisted_ , and ignored his opinions utterly.  Which, he supposed, was valid enough; he was a teenage apostate, half-elven, and a thief.  Still…

            Hadriana hired on some more men at the port, and they moved on to the hills, where they set up camp in an old slaver’s den and waited.  Shaislyn scouted for them in the city, keeping an eye on Fenris the whole time.  While the elf slept, he stole away to Dark Town, and told the fence that it would have to wait a few more days, because he had an assignment.  The fence only shrugged, and said that he would pay whoever got it first.  Shaislyn nodded that he understood, and went to get some sleep for the night.

 

Hawke fell into the arms of a whore, he noticed, nearly every time Fenris had rejected him.  He had tried many times since the last.  Each time, the elf shied away, or pretended not to notice his advances.  Each time, Hawke had left, feeling angry, and went whoring.  His relationship with Anders would require quotations around the word “relationship” and they were not quite at the point Hawke needed yet, and Anders was always busy anyway.  He knew he liked Anders, but he knew he could _love_ Fenris if the elf would only open up to him.  It was a difficult place to be.

            He had even found a particular favourite whore, very good for taking his mind off of the elf he really wanted.  But she would do—human and very pretty, she would do.

            The whore knelt on the floor, her arms running up his bare thighs.  She kissed him, and he could taste the salt of his seed on her lips.  She knelt back, working out the tension in his thighs with her hands.  “Guess what happened to me yesterday morning?” she asked in her velvet purr.

            The mage was bemused, and not really listening to what she was saying, so much as the sound of her voice; she had a beautiful voice.  “What happened?” he inquired, laying back on the bed.  She climbed onto him, straddling his hips.  She massaged his stomach, ran her hands up to his shoulders.

            “I was at my sister’s house on my off day, you see, and anyway, she had gone out on an errand, and I decided to take a bath,” she began.

            Hawke felt like he knew where this was going.  “Did one of her neighbors see you?” he asked teasingly.

            She laughed.  “No, silly.  Hey, roll over.”  They scrambled around, and she worked at his back.  “I had just gotten out of the bath, and the door was open, since it was just me home.  And her dog.  He’s a big dog, some kind of mutt or something.”

            Hawke opened his eyes, and frowned.  “Is this about peanut butter?”  That wasn’t too unusual, so he had heard.  A bit… uncomfortable to think about, but not unheard of.

            She laughed, paying some special attention to his lower back.  “No.  Nothing so juvenile.”

            His frown deepened.  Hawke suddenly didn’t like where this conversation was headed.  Maybe he should just tell her not to tell him.  And, at the same time, maybe he really should know.  _Please tell me this heads in a different direction_ , he pleaded silently with the Maker.  _Please_.

            “I bent over to drain the water, and the dog was there.”  Hawke froze, eyes widening.  His fingers slowly clenched.  “The dog _must_ have done this before; he jumped on me—“

            “I have to bathe,” Hawke announced loudly, shoving her off of him. 

She reached toward him, raising an eyebrow.  “I’ll fill the bath,” she said suggestively.  “You want to act it out?” 

            He blanched, looking at her arm reaching out toward him.  “At home,” he reiterated.  He snatched her wrists, and shoved them back into her lap forcefully.  He scrambled out of the bed, and started hunting for his clothing.

            The whore seemed genuinely shocked.  “The other men liked my story,” she huffed, crossing her arms under her bare breasts.

            He looked at her, and flinched.  “I imagine they did,” he said.  Maybe this was a sign from the Maker to stop seeing whores.  He dressed somewhat haphazardly and grabbed his staff.  “Have a nice dog—Er, day!”  Hawke dashed away, not even bothering to request his money back.  His hand would do from now on.

           

            In the late morning on the second day of stalking Fenris since Hadriana had set up camp, the escaped slave left town with Hawke.  The half-elf noticed which road they set upon, and he flew back with all due haste to their camp.  He roused everyone, and the slavers and hunters sprang into motion fluidly, everyone falling into their places.  Hadriana told Shaislyn to stay nearby them and watch, and to come back and report if anything went wrong.

            He did.  A crow flew overhead, and watched the goings-on.  It was shocking to see four people kill so many slavers.  He may have felt it was justice, too, except that he held no love for Fenris after what that man had done.

            Alarmed when the last mage fell, Shaislyn winged away to warn the others.

            He changed back outside the door and stormed inside.

            Hadriana looked up, and her face fell to ash when she saw the look on his face.  “They couldn’t have failed,” she insisted.

            Shaislyn glared at her.  “Child’s play to them—Fenris has gotten stronger.”  He shrugged helplessly.  “And that Hawke person is… something else.”

            Hadriana looked at her son, looked at the gathered few around them.  “How close are they?”

            “You’ll never make it out of here,” he said bluntly.  “They’ll be here in a few minutes—it’s not that far away.”  He left unsaid that that had been purposeful, because they didn’t want to have to drag Fenris that far, given a choice.  Hadriana held her son close to her, protectively.  Her eyes closed, and she trembled for a moment, and swallowed.

            “We’ll be fine,” she whispered.  “Everything will be fine.”

            Shaislyn stared at her as if she were mad.  “ _They will kill you,”_ he reiterated.

            She looked at him as if she very much desired to strike him, but was unwilling to let go of her child, who only stared at the adults and Shaislyn with great confusion.  “You have to protect Lysander,” Hadriana said, looking directly at Shaislyn.

            The mage scoffed.  “Can’t someone else do it?”  He looked at the gathered hunters, what few were left.

            “No,” Hadriana said.  “They have to stand with me against them.”  It went unsaid that Shaislyn would refuse to do that.  He had no real desires to die yet.  Given a choice, he would gladly stab Fenris in the back, maybe while the elf was asleep, but engage him in combat?  He wasn’t that foolhardy.

            Shaislyn looked at the frightened little boy, and groaned inwardly, knowing he could not refuse to help a child.  “Fine.”

            Hadriana hugged Lysander close, kissed his cheek, whispered comforting lies to him.  Shaislyn listened at the door, his eyes flicking to the slaves, knowing full well what was going to happen to them.

            He had best get the boy away before that did happen.

            “Come on—we have to hide,” Shaislyn said, looking at the little boy.

            Hadriana nodded, and rose.  She beckoned her child to go with Shaislyn.  The boy looked back at his nurse, Orana, as if he might protest leaving her.  Shaislyn knew better.  He scooped up the child.  “Come on—we have to go.”  The front door was no good—there was only one path they could walk down, and that led straight to Fenris.  But there were other corridors.

            “Seal the door behind me,” Shaislyn told Hadriana over his shoulder.  He opened it, and stepped through.  He heard the first scream behind him, and the door sealed shut firmly.

            The boy, to his credit, was very quiet.  He did not scream, or cry, or ask stupid questions, but he was a magister’s only son, after all.  He sat on the floor, and stared, and listened to the screaming.  More eerie was the silence after the screams—the quiet weeping of the remaining slaves.  Shaislyn had his back against the wall, and listened as the magister and her men marched deeper inside.  More screaming, more wailing.

            The boy remained silent, but paled, and began to shake when the silence fell again.  When they heard fighting outside—cries that could only be demonic in nature, both mages looked at one another, and finally the child began to weep.  Again, the silence foretold everything, and the child cried harder.  Shaislyn watched the candles in the room, watched the dripping wax.  He should have brought a book or something, maybe some cards.

            He sighed, and listened to the fighting.  He sensed the seal breaking.  Curiosity made him rise to his feet.  He hesitated, and opened the door, peering outside.  Demons didn’t leave much in the way of bodies, but he saw the reanimated corpses—or, rather, pieces of them--and he sighed a little at that.

            He heard battle sounds again, and the door opened enough for the boy to peer out.  Shaislyn didn’t really think about it.

            “Mama?” he whispered.

            “Don’t you dare,” Shaislyn snapped, half a second too late, because the boy tore through the doorway, down the hall.  The half-elf could only barely believe it for a moment, before he ran after him.

            Orana, against all odds, was running down the hall, and nearly ran into the child.  Instinctively, she stopped him, kneeling down at his level.  He fought her as he tried to get away, but she held him securely from long practice.

            “You can’t go to your mama right now, all right?” she said, her voice gentle and soothing.

            Shaislyn and she shared a look.  “What happened?” he asked, his mouth dry.

            She held the boy close, wrapping her arms around him.  Her eyes watered.  “I don’t know,” she gasped.  “The magister just… she _killed everyone_.”

            Shaislyn glanced away, feeling half a party to it.  He had known what would happen.  And he had let it happen, because if Hadriana lured them away, he would be able to sneak out later, alive.  And if Fenris were to see him, recognize him, would he try to finish what he had started all those years ago?  Would he kill him?  Especially because he had been here?  He dared not test it.

            “I’m sorry,” Shaislyn told her, meaning it as well as all the things he didn’t say.

            They heard a piercing wail further down the hall—the howl of a demon in bloodlust.  The girl shrieked in fright, let go of the child, and bolted past him, down the hall.  He watched her go, wondering where she would go—where she _could_ go.  All she had ever known was slavery.  How could she hope to survive?

            He supposed it was none of his concern, but he was concerned nonetheless.

            He heard footsteps down the hallway, and his eyes opened wide as he realized the boy had kept going, _toward_ the sound of battle that could only mean his mother.

            One mage rushed after the other, but the boy had a good head start on him.  It had gone silent again, and he heard voices.  One angry, one frightened.

            Shaislyn ran faster.  Lysander was just out of reach.  The boy raced through the archway, into the room.  Shaislyn grabbed him, lifting him off his feet, one of his hands clamping over the boy’s mouth before he cried out.  The drama unfolding held the five people left in the room.  No one looked back to see a half-elf carry a human child out of the room against his will.  Everyone was too busy watching an elf kill a magister.

            And Shaislyn was not quick enough to prevent Lysander seeing it.  He only had so many hands, and he had to restrain him and keep him quiet.  He could not make him close his eyes too.  The boy went slack when he saw his mama die, and Shaislyn knew he was weeping.  Was it more horrible that Fenris had orphaned the child—killed both his parents—and was not aware of it?  Shaislyn wondered, if Fenris had known that the child was only a few yards away, if he still would have killed her.  The half-elf feared that he would, even so.  Shaislyn hated Fenris.

            The half-elf turned, and fled the room, thinking himself unseen.

            And he would have been, had a particular dwarf not turned at the sound of an echo no one else heard over their own troubles, and saw a flash of dark hair, a cloak, and a shadow on the wall as Shaislyn hurried away.

            Varric’s eyes narrowed, and he opened his mouth to mention that a slaver had gotten away, but Fenris had already left.

            “Hawke,” he tried to say, but Hawke was so distraught, Varric didn’t think he had heard him.  The dwarf sighed.  He supposed it didn’t make any difference at this point.

            Aveline looked at him.  “What is it?” she inquired.

            Varric glanced back down the hallway.  “I think we missed a slaver.  Should we let him get away?”

            “I don’t care,” Hawke muttered, following Fenris out the door.  Varric made a face, but followed the mage out anyway.

 

            Shaislyn dropped the boy down in the grass outside, and was silent while he had a long cry.  He sat, and watched the stars, and debated on what to do.  He ran his hands through his hair, pacing back and forth.  Lysander continued to cry, sobbing, and occasionally had fits of rage where he would rip out tufts of grass or rip apart dandelions and other things.  Twice, Shaislyn had to stop him from setting trees on fire—that was the problem with mage children who were always given everything; they were spoiled, and had more power than an ordinary child.

            Still, he had lost his mother this afternoon, and Shaislyn could not bear to be angry with him.  He knew how much it had hurt when his grandmother died, and how much it had hurt when he thought he was the only one of his known family left alive.

            The boy’s father had died so long ago, and now his mother…  He felt pity for him, but it didn’t make his own problems go away.  Hadriana had shoved a purse of coin at him, likely to see them both to Minrathous, but then what?

            Therein lay the problem.  Hadriana had no other family, and neither did Lysander to Shaislyn’s knowledge.  He supposed he could turn the boy over to the Chantry.  Hell…  If he really wanted to be rid of him, he would take him to Kirkwall.

            But… no.  He was a Tevinter mage, and that was where he should go.  Shaislyn would not condemn him to that life.  Even a life in the Tevinter Chantry was better than a life in Kirkwall’s Circle.  Shaislyn had walked around it, and looked at the miserable mages, and his heart had cried out in sorrow.  They were kept in small dark rooms and scarcely let outside, often for days at a time.  They were taken from their families and never allowed to so much as write to them.  It was so sad.  It was less than what the Qunari did, but that did not make it better, and his heart still cried out for them.  Worse, so many of them were made Tranquil.  There were more nearly every day, and he wanted to bear witness to such brutality, tell the Imperial mages about it.  Perhaps…  But they had other things to do, even though it would enrage a fair amount of the Magisterium.

            Shaislyn spent the evening cooking some of what the slavers had brought in their stores, but would not let the child inside, where Fenris had murdered Hadriana.  After they had eaten, Shaislyn washed the dishes, and let the boy cry himself to sleep. 

 

            Fenris pulled Hawke down on top of him, arms wrapped around his neck in a desperate embrace.  It had been a long, long time.  Lately, that first night together was all he could think about, and he felt like…  It was finally time, wasn’t it?

            It felt good just to hold him, to feel his skin against his, and know that, even for a little while, he wasn’t alone.  More importantly, tonight at least, he was safe.  The hunters were dead— _Hadriana_ was dead.  That left him almost jubilant.  It wasn’t _quite_ as sweet as the thought of looking into Danarius’ eyes while he tore out his vital organs, but it was still _very_ satisfying to know that she had died.

            Though even that triumph was almost washed away when Hawke kissed him, and it was completely gone from his mind when their bodies intertwined.  Sweat clung to their bodies, dampening the sheets.  They panted, and groaned, and twisted.

            One position flowed like water into another, Fenris frustrated that he couldn’t feel enough of his lover.  They rolled, the elf’s hands steadying himself on the headboard.  He knelt, and kissed him with all the fierce passion a lost man had for home.  He writhed atop him, using the headboard to steady himself.  Hawke touched him, his hands never staying in one place too long—too many places to touch, to feel, to caress.

            Hawke came with a cry muffled against Fenris’ timely lips.  The elf kissed him harder, the mage’s hands both trailing to his dripping cock.  He ran his hands along him.  They were rough and callused, but he was slick with sweat and other things.  He pushed him off of him suddenly, springing over him.  He pinned the elf to the bed and kissed him savagely.  He nibbled along his lips, left biting kisses along his neck.  He licked his nipples, and ran his nails along the elf’s ribs, listening to his quick breathing.  His damp lips touched his erection, before they covered it.  His tongue lapped along the lyrium, his mouth pumping back and forth over it, his hands working with his mouth.  Fenris’ fingers trailed along his shoulder, twisted in his hair.

            The rhythm developed, then increased.  His hand working hard against him, Hawke lifted his head, and kissed Fenris again.  The elf could taste himself on his tongue, and he shivered, and gave a muffled cry.  Hawke broke the kiss to kneel back between his legs, barely in time to catch his orgasm in his mouth.  He gagged a little at the unexpected taste, and swallowed, if with some force behind it.

            He crawled back up to him, and kissed him.  They touched one another, kissing and caressing until they were ready again.  Hawke moved to take him, and Fenris knocked him back, shoving him back down.  The elf kissed him into some form of submission, and ran his hands down Hawke’s chest, as usual liking what he found.

            He cupped his balls in one hand, the other going back a little farther.

            “That’s…” the human tried to say, but Fenris kissed him, cutting off whatever he had intended to say.  To the mage, it felt weird at first.  Weird, and uncomfortable, and he was about to insist that Fenris stop when the elf worked in a third finger, and stroked something inside him that abruptly changed his mind.  The tension in his legs faded, and he was suddenly only eager to try this new thing.

            Fenris obliged him, when the time came.

            For a while, all he could think about was Hawke—how good he felt, how much he wanted this.  He moved only slowly at first, but toward the end, it was almost reckless.  Thrust after thrust, he could think of nothing else but the mage.  And, moreover, didn’t care that he was a mage.  Didn’t care that he was human, and an apostate, and Fereldon.  He didn’t care about any of that; it didn’t matter.

            In Hawke’s embrace, he felt at peace, like he was somewhere holy and nothing bad could ever happen to him again.

            As he relaxed, and his mind was set at ease, in the throes of passion, it was like a gate in his mind opened.  A lock he had never known was there turned, and the knowledge of who he had been, who he was, flooded him.  It was not as if he were stunned to pieces by it.  It was not a floodgate to have swept him under its current.  Rather, it was as a dry stream slowly being filled, and when the knowledge floated in his mind, he only felt at ease because of it.  It was no great wonder.  He merely wondered how he had ever forgotten it.  How could he have sought so desperately for this knowledge?  It had been here all along.

            His memories and past had never truly left him; they were _here._   Buried in the depths of his mind, but _here._   He smiled against Hawke’s lips.  _I can’t wait to tell you,_ he thought, moaning.  _I want to tell you who I am.  I want to tell you my name._

            The feeling it filled him with was nothing short of peaceful.  He knew who he was.  Nothing was missing any more.  He had a name, maybe a family somewhere and he knew where to look for them.  With the peacefulness, came a certain sadness.  Some things were best left forgotten, he knew that now, but his memories were still his own, and some of the people he had known only lived in them.

            And Lura!  He hadn’t even recognized her.  She had died in his arms, and he…  But she was dead nonetheless, and he was filled with a peace that he had tried, that even though he hadn’t recognized her, that he had still tried to help her.  Even though he had not known her at the time, he had held her.

            And Shaislyn…  Oh, if only he had _known_ that was his nephew.  _If I had remembered who I was all this time, if I had never bartered my memories away, I would have known both of them._

            Freedom would have meant more to him, when he had first tasted it.  It would have meant that he could find his family, and live the way he had once known, so very long ago.  But without his memories…  He had no reason to rebel against his master’s wishes.  He had no reason to say “no”.

            But he knew, deep down in his heart, that same contract Danarius no doubt still held.  A cold pit in his stomach churned at that, and he was even terrified of it.  The contract held his family’s lives in the balance.  Gone they may be, but he bet that, if they had survived the fires of Seheron, their lives were forfeit because of his actions.  Had Danarius acted upon that?  No, he didn’t think so; Danarius would have given him the option first, to come back.  He would dangle their lives in front of him, and tell him to surrender, or they die.  But he may have enslaved them again, and he knew he had to do something.  Maybe Hawke could help him.  He believed that his family, whatever was left of that, could be helped.  If Danarius had them, maybe he could do something, even if it meant submitting, and he knew that, deep down, he had to if it came down to it.  He had signed that contract, though he couldn’t read, his master reading it to him, and he had marked it, signing his life away, and signing his consent to forfeit his family if he should ever break the agreement.  But he hadn’t known!  However—and this set him at ease—Hadriana had said that Varania was in Seheron, which meant she was safe from Danarius.  No news of his mother, but that meant little if they had been there when the city fell.  Lura was gone, but at least he knew that for sure, and wished he had known her at the time.  Hadriana may have opted to tell him more if she had any more information, but he didn’t think she did, which meant Danarius did not have his family.

            All the same, what was done, was done.  And he was _here_.  Blessedly, happily _here._   The memories were his own, and for the first time in so long, he felt complete and whole and truly _happy_.  So much had happened, and he felt like everything, in its own way, had come together and a lot of it had been _worth_ it.  He had been through a lot of suffering, but the end result had been _worth_ it.  He smiled against Hawke’s lips.

            _Thank you, Danarius_ , he thought.  _If you had never put these markings on me, I’d still be your slave.  My family would still be your slaves—if not dead.  I wouldn’t be here with Hawke right now.  Thank you.  Thank you.  Thank you._

He had never thought, not since he was three years old, that he would ever be free again.  And he _was_.  He laughed aloud, the laugh muffled against Hawke’s neck, and Hawke never guessed the cause.  He felt _happy_ and peaceful and _whole_.

            _I want to tell you everything, Hawke.  I want to tell you who I am._

            With the holes in his memory filled, everything made sense.  All the little pieces and details, everything fit together so perfectly.  In fact, why hadn’t he seen it all before?  If not for the lyrium markings, he would have died—been sacrificed for whoever _had_ won the markings, and his family too.  It had been the _only_ thing to have saved them.  And that, too, brought him a sense of peace.  Everything he had done had been for his family, and if the cost of their lives was the pain of the lyrium, the things Danarius had done to him…  Well, it was worth it, because his family meant everything to him.  And he knew that, if he but asked Hawke, the mage would help him find them, and he even knew where to begin to look.

            It left one more question for him, though—one that would require a lot of thought.  Who was Fenris?  Who was Leto?  Where did one end and the other begin?  Who was he _now_?  _We—they—I…  It’s like I’m two different people.  Who am I now?_   He wasn’t certain, except to say, _I’m me_.  Maybe he could talk about it with Hawke.  Maybe Hawke would understand part of the problem, and he could try to figure out which name he wanted to use.  _Leto—probably Leto.  Danarius gave me the name Fenris.  It’s the only thing he ever gave me for my sake, and even that was a source of amusement to him—a jest._

            They came at nearly the same time, and lay in an exhausted, tangled pile.  Sleep was quick to claim them, but for the elf did not stay.

            Fenris woke quickly, as he was wont to do in unfamiliar surroundings.  He was comforted to find that he was lying in Hawke’s arms, but something bothered him.  He started to relax, wondering what could be nagging at him.  Had he forgotten something…?

            His eyes opened wide, and he thought, _No, no no!_   He had remembered it.  He had remembered _everything_.  He had known his name, his entire life.  He still remembered the peace and joy that it had brought him.  But he didn’t know _why_.  His eyes watered with the loss of it.  How could he not remember?  It was simply gone again, leaving only a raw ache in its wake.  Why had it even brought him such peace and joy?  He had known that it had, but could not say why.  He knew that all of his rage and anger had gone, crushed under the peace he had known when he had remembered.  The worst part was that he _knew_ that, whatever kind of person he had been before he could remember, that person had brought him a hope, a joy, a peace that he had simply never known, and he wanted it back more than he could say.  That he knew he was missing it now was worse than not knowing that he was missing it.  It left him raw.

            He turned away from the mage, and closed his eyes, wondering if he could go back to sleep.  Maybe in his dreams, he could reclaim even a small piece of what he had lost.  His legs curled, arms crossing over his stomach as if he were in pain.  Of course he was in pain—the lyrium ached always, but…  He had had everything, and now he was left with nothing again.  To have it ripped away like that…  It left him more wretched than he had felt before.  He had it all, and now it was gone again.  Why had he been filled with so much hope, joy, and peace?  Why had he felt so happy?  What had he forgotten that had made him happy?

            The aching in his thighs reminded him of how long he and Hawke had been together that evening.  The embers of the fire had died low.  He watched the coals for a time, and thought about how good it had felt, how much he had wanted Hawke.  How much he still wanted Hawke.  He almost woke him for another round, but he stopped.  What if he remembered again, and lost it again?  The thought was almost too much to bear.  No matter how good it had been, it wasn’t worth that.  And it had been good.  It had been everything he had dreamed of, everything he wanted.

            Had…  When Danarius had raped him, had he felt what Fenris had felt when he took Hawke?  That thought bothered him, and he found himself shifting away in the bed.  He told himself it was to stretch, and Hawke rolled over onto his other side anyway.  Fenris stretched, a little, but was perturbed.

            It had felt good.  Really good, for that matter.  Was that why he had raped him, so many times?  His stomach twisted, and he suddenly felt restless.  He got up, and found some water in the basin.  He washed off briefly, and stood in front of the fire for a long moment.  He put some more wood on it, and knelt and watched it burn.  He paced, and looked at Hawke with growing indecision.

            _I can’t do this_ , he knew.  He was afraid to love Hawke.  He was afraid to be with him, because he was afraid to like being with him, afraid to love being with him.  He had never known love, only known it as an abstract concept that he had never touched or beheld, and a part of him was afraid of the unknown depths of the single syllable and the meanings attached to it.  What was love, anyway?  Was it worth the pain he felt now?

He dressed, and thought he might be able to sneak out before Hawke woke, but that proved impossible.  Fenris couldn’t tell Hawke everything; he just couldn’t bring himself to do it.

            Still, given everything, he may one day tell him; he deserved at least some of the truth.  But what Fenris gave him was the truth, just not all of it, and he left before Hawke said anything more.

           

He worked through the night, finding enough kindling and dry wood to build a fire.  The slavers had some charcoal, and he added all of that to it as well.  He slept, and when the morning came, he had brought Hadriana’s broken body outside.  It was cold and stiff, and not at all a sight a child should see, but still Shaislyn felt he should see it.

            “He killed her,” the boy whispered for the umpteenth time.

            Shaislyn’s teeth ground as he laid the body down gently on the pyre.  “No,” he snapped, a little more harshly than he had intended.  He cleared his throat.  “No.  Greed and hate killed her.  Danarius’ greed, and Fenris’ hate.”

            The boy stared at him.  “He tore out her _heart_ ,” he protested.

            It was hard to argue with that, but Shaislyn had had enough, and he refused to pamper any hatred this boy was developing, even for the sake of making him feel better.  No, especially because of that.  “That elf is nothing but a product of what his master made him,” Shaislyn heard himself say, and knew it to be true.  “If you want to hate someone, hate Magister Danarius.  He’s the one who made the elf hate enough to do those kinds of things.  _No one_ would do something like that to someone who treated them kindly.  He doesn’t _want_ to go back to being a slave.”  Even as he said it, the words stung the half-elf too; he hated Fenris, but knew the truth in what he said.  He just wasn’t ready for it yet.

            The boy didn’t understand.  He had grown up with household slaves being commonplace to him.  Shaislyn could see in his eyes that he didn’t understand.  “But… that’s what he is.”

            “It isn’t what he wants to be,” Shaislyn told him again.

            The boy stared at him, utterly confused.  “Wants to be?” he echoed, the idea that a slave had any wants or desires outside of his own a foreign concept to him.  It almost made Shaislyn want to slap him, but he knew the boy had been through a lot in the past couple of days.

            The half-elf glanced at the pyre.  “Set it alight.  We can’t take the body back.”

            The boy hesitated, all of their previous conversation forgotten, and put both his hands out.  With all his effort, he sent fire into the dry tinder.  The two mages watched it burn from a reasonable distance, in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was a bad situation all around, really. Hadriana dies, her kid is gonna be super messed up, Shai is left to take care of him, Fenris breaks things off with Hawke. On the bright side, Anders is there to catch Hawke on the rebound!
> 
> I included the bit about Hawke and the whore because I felt like this chapter needed something funny in it.


	84. Confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris is plagued by nightmares while Hawke pursues Anders. Danarius tells Shaislyn something shocking.

            Hawke pinned Fenris to the bed, laying on his stomach.  Fenris pulled his legs around him, rolling his tongue along his neck.  He nibbled and sucked, and eventually Hawke caught his lips with his own.  Hawke’s fingers were buried knuckle-deep inside him between his legs, and he was all but desperate for more of him but Hawke was just as content to, seemingly, torment him endlessly.

            “Twice now, you’ve brought me nearly to orgasm then stopped,” Fenris muttered against his ear.  “If you do it again, the next time I bite you, the marks will be permanent.”

            “I just want it to last as long as possible,” the mage gasped, moaning when the elf stroked him.

            “You’re a damned bastard, and you just like teasing me,” he moaned.  “Fuck me.”  The last part was a complaint.  Hawke answered by kissing him back to a relative silence, broken by moaning and gasping.

            Fenris’ other hand trailed along Hawke’s chest, toying with his chest hair, rubbing his thumb over his nipples.  He knew he wanted him.  He just seemed to like teasing him more than fucking him—which was patronizing.  But he knew that wasn’t entirely true—he did genuinely want it to last longer.  So did he, but…

            Hawke bent, lapping along the elf’s neck, nuzzling against his chest.  He ran his tongue over a nipple, and took it between his teeth.  He bit just hard enough to sting, and the elf’s toes curled, giving a louder cry that time.

            And—that was it.

            Fenris put a hand against his shoulder, and one against Hawke’s hard-chiseled stomach, and rolled with him, until he was on top.  “If you won’t fuck me, I’m going to fuck you.”

            Hawke raised an eyebrow.  “That’ll take some time to get me ready, and you’re already ready.”  He drove harder into him, making the elf’s back arch, and he moaned, but his hand moved up Hawke’s leg, drifting up his thigh.

            “But you’d rather drive me mad than fuck me tonight,” he complained between kisses.  He moved his lips to his neck, ran his tongue over a mark he had already made that night, and lower, finding more marks that he had already made.  Long scratches from his fingernails over his chest, and he kissed along them, ran his tongue over them.  He trailed a finger down from Hawke’s neck, tracing the line of hair all the way down to his cock.  He shoved Hawke’s hand away so he could move down lower.  His lips covered just the tip, and teased just as much as Hawke was teasing him.  The mage partway sat up, as if he might protest, but stopped when Fenris nibbled along the vein, ran his tongue over his balls, and back up, toying with the head with only the tip of his tongue.  His teeth lightly teased him, tongue caressing.  He moved his lips, kissing along the length of him.  His eyes slid closed, and he took his testicles in his mouth, running his tongue over them, sucking gently, keeping his teeth carefully away, and listened to Hawke’s desperate moaning.

            _And now you know how I felt_ , he thought, smirking.  He only stopped to kiss along his erection, and back down, running his tongue back farther, farther…  Hawke made a noise somewhere between a gasp, a moan, and maybe even a word.  His tongue ran over him, his finger worming inside, wet by his tongue.

            Listening to the sounds his lover produced made him want him all the more, made him enjoy the task more.  Another finger when the time came, and his mouth moved back up, lips covering his erection, and he slowly moved him to the back of his throat, and back out, and slowly again.  A third finger, and some more time, and he lifted his head.

            Hawke’s back was arcing beautifully, and the mage stopped and looked at him, panting.  “You’re damn sexy, you know that, right?” he breathed, and knelt to kiss him—despite where his mouth had been a while ago.

            He shoved Fenris onto his back, and pushed his dripping cock against his.  He took both his own erection and the elf’s in his hand, wet from saliva and pre-cum, stroking both of them, slowly and gently in tandem.  They kissed until Hawke stopped, and shifted, pressing himself against him.  Fenris’ legs parted, and accepted him into him.

            Kissing was suddenly no longer possible, though attempts were made.  Biting, sucking, and licking had to suffice, because Hawke’s movements were too rapid.  The bed shook, the headboard pounded against  the wall and neither particularly noticed.  Or cared, for that matter.

            They shifted, Hawke shoving Fenris onto his side to pound into him at a different angle.  Fenris’ toes felt numb.  No, he felt numb all the way up to his hips, and couldn’t really feel anything past the incredible sensation of the mage penetrating him.  He couldn’t think either for that matter.  Rational thought—thought at all—was completely gone, leaving only the basest of his desires.  Right now, that was sex, and having it, and enjoying it.

            “I love you,” Hawke whispered.

            Fenris could barely make sense of the words, and it took him a moment.  “What?” he heard himself say.

            “I said, I love you,” he moaned into his ear.

            It took another long moment, a few more moans, and a shuddering sigh to process this.  “Oh,” he said, and it could have been mistaken for the rest of the noises he was making.  Hawke didn’t seem to mind overall.  Fenris’ fingers wrapped around his forearms, and he opened his eyes, watching him work, sweat dripping off of his skin.  “Hawke, I love you.”

            “Couldn’t you at least use my first name for something like that?” he said between heavy panting, and kissed him before he could answer.

            “Garret,” Fenris gasped.  The man smiled, and he whispered his name again, then screamed it with another movement.

            Hawke ran his hand along his back, a hand up his leg, perched on his shoulder, the other one wrapped partway around his hip.  He tilted his head back.  “Do you trust me?”

            Fenris looked at him, watched him.  His eyes were dark with lust, glinting with desire.  “Yes.”

            “Good.”  And he kind of smiled, and if he had been looking, it looked rather like a smirk.  “And, pet?”

            “Hmm?”   He just couldn’t seem to think, but his stomach twisted for some reason.

            “You’re forgetting the appellation.”  There was something… different… about his voice.

            Hawke kissed him one last time, and, his hand against his back, quickly shoved him the rest of the way onto his stomach.  He didn’t even think about it at first.  Hawke just continued, and it still felt good.

            But then…

            Something… changed.  It just felt different, he couldn’t say why exactly.  He opened his eyes again, and the bedroom had changed.  Or had it been that way before?  Because it looked like…

            It felt like his heart had stopped, and the man atop him continued to thrust.  He flinched, and just had to know.  He glanced back, once, and was immediately backhanded for it.

            “I told you to keep your head down, Fenris,” his master said.

            The elf turned back, breathing quickened, but in fear.  Why…  Why did…  What had…  He cried out, half in pain, half in pleasure, and completely confused.  But…  What had happened?  Hawke…  It hadn’t been a dream, had it?  Some fantasy?  Why…?  Or was it blood magic?  Some cruel jape?  No.  No!  “No,” he whispered, and flinched when Danarius pulled his hair, hair that was suddenly the length of his back.  “No!”  He couldn’t believe it wasn’t all true.  He had…  It couldn’t be…

            “You’re disobeying me.”

            He was going to hurt him.  Maybe have him whipped, maybe just strike him.  “I’m sorry, Master,” he whispered, then repeated it louder, cringing with the appellation.  He wanted to cry.

            He moved back, sliding out of him.  “Roll over.”  He let go of his hair.  Fenris shook, and decided to accept it.  He couldn’t believe Hawke had been a lie, but…  He rolled, his eyes flicking up once to look at his master, his heart breaking.  He had loved Hawke.  He still loved Hawke.  How could…?

            It couldn’t all be made up, could it?  That wasn’t possible…  It just…

            “Apologize again.”

            “I’m sorry, Master,” he said, his voice turning pleading--but for the dream to come back.  He stared upwards, his eyes wet.  Had it all been a cruel joke?  Some blood magic of some kind?  It just couldn’t be…  But he was so terrified that it was true, that he believed it was.  “Danarius…”

            He slapped him—a relatively gentle slap, more to remind him of who his master was than to hurt him.  “ _What_?”

            Fenris glanced away, cringing when he plunged deep inside him.  He swallowed the pain, and the tears that threatened to spill.  Some emotional pains were much, much worse than physical pain.  “Master.”

            “That’s right, pet, and don’t you dare think of me as anything else.  So, tell me, I am…?”

            He gave a sharp cry.  “My master.  You’re my master,” he answered, half-choking on the words.  His eyes watered, and when he squeezed them shut, the water spilled down his cheeks.  “I’m your slave, your pet.  I’m sorry, Master.”  He took a sharp intake of breath, and the words just tumbled out of him, “I won’t ever be anything but your slave.”  It had all been a cruel trick, and this was reality, and his master had brought him back in the cruelest way, to teach him a lesson, he didn’t doubt.  But he wanted the dream to come back.  If it were a lie, he wanted it to come back, and he didn’t want to wake up to reality.  He would happily live in the dream, and die in reality, if that was what it meant.  If this was the difference…

            Fenris’ eyes shot open.  He was covered in a cold sweat, and he realized he had said those last words aloud.  His mouth clamped shut, glad there was no one around to hear him say it.  _May I never have to call anyone ‘master’ ever again_ , he thought with some disdain.

            His throat felt dry.  All a dream then.  Shame, because the sex with Hawke had been amazing.  He tried to think on that, to distract him from how terribly wrong the dream had gone.  He shivered, swiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.  Until the end, anyway, it had been amazing.   Until he had confessed his love for Hawke.  Did he love Hawke?  He thought about him all the time, and he wanted him more than anything.  Was that love?  He didn’t really know.

            He swallowed, still shaken by the entire thing.  That had been awful, and hurt in too many ways to consider; he was so terrified that a part of it was true.

            He slid out of bed.  He had slept too long anyway.  He needed to get out of this manor, get some fresh air, or something.  Like a stiff drink.

 

            Hawke and Anders walked along the beach near sunset, otherwise alone.  Mostly, they simply enjoyed one another’s company, but Hawke had asked him to come, because he needed someone to talk to and Anders was the first person he thought of when it came to his personal life.  No one else would be so understanding, or for that matter, even listen to the whole thing.

            “I can’t talk to anyone else,” he had confessed, before he had told him everything.

            “I’m glad that you thought of me when you needed to talk about it—even if it is about him,” Anders said, making his own confession.

            Hawke paused at that.  Yes, his first instinct had been to go to Anders.  Anders was the one he thought of when he was upset and lonely and needed someone to be there for him.  Fenris wasn’t that person, and he realized, with a sad certainty, that he had simply never been that person, and never would be.  Even if things had gone differently the other night, he would still never be that person.  Or, would he?  Fenris had told him that he had remembered who he was, regained all the lost memories while they had been entwined.  Yet he forgot them again, and Hawke wondered if the person he had been with those memories was the same person he knew to be Fenris.  Or would he be someone else?  Was any of that even true?

He told him that Fenris had left him, told him what the elf had said—or part of it anyway.  He told him, quietly, that it had broken his heart.

            “I’m good at fixing broken things,” Anders had said gently.

            Hawke stared at him.  Anders would never do something like that, he knew.  He would never leave him, never hurt him.  But he didn’t want to simply fall into the other mage’s arms because Fenris had rejected him.  “I just feel… _used_ , you know,” Hawke went on.  “We fucked a couple of times.  I let him… do things I’d never let anyone do, and...  Maker’s breath, he just _leaves_.  And gives me this awful excuse as to why he can’t be with me.  I feel like it was all just… I don’t know—a lie.”

            Anders smiled teasingly.  “Because he wouldn’t hold you all night?”

            Hawke looked at him.  Put that way, it sounded petty, but Hawke still felt used.  But hadn’t he left Fenris the same way before?  _No_ , he thought.  _It had been completely different._   “Would you stay all night?”

            Anders stared at him, wondering if it were an invitation.  But Hawke was a bit emotionally distraught.  He didn’t want to take advantage of him.  “Only if the person I was with wanted me to.  But…  I’d prefer that, yes.”

            The two mages were silent.  The gulls were crying along the shore.  “If you ask me, Fenris isn’t much of a man anyway,” Anders said.

            Hawke raised an eyebrow, a knowing smile about his lips.

            Anders caught the meaning behind the look, and made a face.  “Not like that—I mean…”  He struggled for a moment.  “No emotionally stable, mature man acts the way he does.”  He shrugged again.  “Send him to a few years of therapy, maybe some medication, get him to lay off the alcohol—maybe one day he would be a decent enough person to have a relationship with, but as is…”  He made a face.  “He’d be emotionally dependent, possibly mentally abusive, unstable, and violent.  Not a great combination.  So, no, definitely not relationship material.”

            “He makes the cutest facial expressions during sex though.  Or when he’s sad,” Hawke commented.  Anders snorted a laugh, but seemed vaguely uncomfortable.  Hawke shook his head.  “You’re right though.”  He sighed, and looked away.  Anders hesitated, and reached for his hand.  Hawke’s fingers entwined with Anders, but he still didn’t look up.  They stood there for a while like that, holding hands, and standing on the beach as the tide came in and the sun went down.

            “I don’t want to fall into your arms just because he rejected me,” Hawke told him.

            “Then fall into my arms because you want to.  Not because you’ve been driven there.”  Anders looked at him sidelong.  “But I’ve been waiting a long time—I can wait a little longer.”

            Hawke kind of smiled, and pulled the mage closer to him, enjoying the comfort of another apostate, and another person for that matter.  As the light faded from the sky, and one mage felt more certain of himself and his feelings, he leaned toward the other, and waited.  Hawke hesitated but once before he closed the gap between them, and kissed him.

            They kissed until it was utterly dark outside, and they were breathless, and knew it would be a long walk back.

 

_Varania sniffed, rubbing at her eyes.  They just wouldn’t stop watering.  She sniffed again, trying to hold back the tears.  The bruises hurt, but the words stung more.  And she really wasn’t any good at magic.  She didn’t want it._

_Why couldn’t she just be like everyone else?  She didn’t want to be a mage.  Look at what mages did!  Every mage she knew was cruel and mean.  She didn’t want to become like them.  She just wanted… to be a normal girl.  Why couldn’t the magic just go away?_

_She couldn’t make it stop though.  Nothing made it stop.  And when she didn’t want to practice, things just happened.  The magic just… happened, all around her—all the time.  It wasn’t fair._

_“Nia, there you are,” a voice said, and knelt down next to her._

_She sniffed, and looked at her brother.  “I hate being a mage,” she told him point-blank._

_He blinked.  “Would you rather be scrubbing floors?”_

_“Yes,” she said without even thinking about it._

_He grinned crookedly at her, and shifted, sitting beside her, his back against the magnolia tree.  “I’d rather be a mage than scrub floors,” he said conversationally._

_“You’re not a mage,” she muttered._

_“And you’ve never had to spend an entire day scrubbing floors,” he pointed out.  She could think of nothing to say to that, so sulked instead, feeling sorry for herself._

_“I still hate being a mage,” she grumbled.  “It’s awful…  I just…  I just want it all t’ go away!”_

_He was quiet for a moment.  “I love you just the way you are, sis.”_

_She stopped, and stared at him, then sighed.  “You’re my brother; you have to love me.”_

_He muffed her red hair affectionately.  She made a face.  “Yeah, but it wouldn’t be the same if you weren’t a mage.”_

_She stared down at the dirt.  “It’d be better,” she countered._

_He sighed, apparently not knowing what to say to her.  He hugged her instead, fiercely protective for a moment, then let go.  “It’s getting late.  We should go to sleep.”  He climbed to his feet, and held his hand out to help her up._

_She stared at his hand, then crossed her arms indolently.  “You go without me.”_

_He frowned, then smiled warmly down at her.  She stared at him dispassionately, even suspiciously.  “I won’t go anywhere without you.”_

_Her lips curved into a deep, dissatisfied frown.  “Just leave me behind,” she insisted._

_He shook his head.  “I won’t ever leave you behind, sis.”  He knelt in front of her, making her look at him.  “I love you, you little ragamuffin.  Come on, you’re all covered in dirt—let’s go.”_

_She refused, and he tickled her until she was giggling, then he scooped her up in his arms, and carried her.  She pouted, and complained, but he wouldn’t put her down.  Eventually, she leaned against his shoulder.  “You really won’t ever leave me, Leto?”_

_“No,” he promised.  “I won’t ever leave you, ‘Nia.”_

            That had been so long ago—she had been nine and he had been twelve--but Varania never forgot it.  And every day, she felt oddly cheated, because he _had_ left her.  He was gone, and she’d never see him again.  Why had he bought her freedom, too?  Why couldn’t he have just got their mother freedom?  Why did he have to send her away too?  Away from the one person who had understood her, and loved her, and he had _promised_ not to do the very thing he had done.

            Maybe it was childish, but Varania felt abandoned even so many years later.

 

            Isabela had been the one to tell him about it.  She hadn’t been gossiping or anything—she had simply thought Fenris had already known and casually mentioned it.  Well, he hadn’t.

            Their conversation had been awkward after that, and Fenris had decided to leave, after a couple more drinks, that he felt like he needed.

            He felt like his life would never really come together, like he would never be whole, and couldn’t be happy.  Every time it seemed like he _might_ be happy, something always changed.  The Fog Warriors, Kirkwall, Hawke…  He shivered thinking about that nightmare from last week.  He hadn’t really slept much since.

            He knew a lot of that was him—that it was his fault things were like that, and that just made it worse.  He didn’t _want_ things to be like that, it was just the way it turned out.  But…  The Fog Warriors—he was Danarius’ slave, how could he have turned against his master?  It sickened him to think about it, but that was how it was, and it hurt more than words could say.  And Danarius knew where he was, had really always known.  He had thought maybe he could be happy in Kirkwall, but he wasn’t so certain any more.  After Hawke…  That was his own fault.  He had pushed Hawke away so many times.  And the man had waited, and waited, and had the patience of a saint.  Fenris knew he went to whores, but that was different than going to someone else.  And yet, still Fenris had pushed him away.  Had he been expecting Hawke to wait again?

            _Maybe_ , he thought miserably.  Maybe he had believed that Hawke would always be there, ready to accept him again with open arms.  It was childish, and stupid.  No, it was beyond stupid and childish.  Even children knew you couldn’t do that to someone.  But he had never really had friends before, never really developed any social skills that other people took for granted.  He tried to tell himself that, and that he just didn’t know, but maybe, in a way, he did know.  He just didn’t want to believe it.  He had wanted to believe…  Did it matter?

Anders claimed that he was self-destructive by nature, and maybe he was right.  Not that Fenris would ever admit that aloud.  He was jealous of Anders now.  Jealous because he had Hawke’s eye, and even angry that he had turned Hawke away from Fenris.  But all the anger was misdirected at best, because he _knew_ it was his fault.  Anders had never tried overmuch to pursue Hawke while the man expressed a desire to be with Fenris.  It had only happened after he kept pushing Hawke away.  He had driven Hawke into his arms, maybe even knowingly.  Hadn’t he known that Anders was quietly fuming  with seething jealousy when Fenris had, smirking, commented on the size of Hawke’s dick after the first time?  And hadn’t he _baited_ him with that one?  No, this was _entirely_ his own fault.  He was trapped in a misery of his own devising this time.

He was so used to being able to blame other people—Danarius, Hadriana—for his own miseries that knowing he had no one to blame but himself was… more painful than he had thought it would be.  Being free, as opposed to being a slave, was so much harder.

            He stared up at the statue of Andraste, as if oblivious to the people around him, and felt pained and torn with indecision.  He wanted direction in his life.  He wanted stability and something he could feel secure in.  He wanted to believe in the teachings of Andraste.  He really did.

            He wanted to believe in a benevolent Maker that watched out for him and guided him when he was in danger or needed help.  He _did_ want to believe that.  He wanted to believe that he wasn’t as alone and lost as he _felt_.

            It was a beautiful tale, wasn’t it?  Some divine omnipresent being always watching you, knowing you are never truly alone.  Every step part of a divine plan.  It would give him a direction, faith, maybe even hope.

            His heart ached, and he knelt, and lowered his head for a long moment.  He didn’t know how to pray.  He didn’t know if there were any proper words to use, or any proper form.

            _I want to believe,_ he thought.  _I can’t do this alone._

            Then he thought, _I’d better leave before Sebastian sees me._

            Hawke watched the young boys and girls—men and women, he amended—march in their white frocks and gowns in a joyful parade toward the Chantry.  Sebastian would have his hands full trying to teach all of them about the importance of chastity until marriage, and whatever else it was the Chantry babbled on about.  When Hawke had been part of that march, oh so very many Summerdays ago, he had been trying to get a glimpse up a girl’s skirt and hadn’t been particularly listening to the speeches.  The day had ended with him kissing a different girl behind the Chantry, near the rose bushes.

            Maybe the day would end with him kissing Anders—who knew?  Summerday was always full of surprises.

            It wasn’t exactly traditional, but it was a holiday all the same, so he invited his friends and they talked, drank expensive wines, ate cheese, and enjoyed one another’s company.  Sebastian came late, but he was welcome as anyone else.

            Fenris sat alone, partway curled in an overstuffed chair.  His glass was empty on the table next to him.  Hawke realized he had fallen asleep.  Drunk already?  He went over to him, and nudged him gently.  “Hey, don’t sleep through my party,” he pretended to scold him.

            The elf blinked up at him.  His eyes were dark, and his face a bit pale.  “Sorry,” he muttered.

            Hawke frowned, concerned.  “You look tired.”

            He shrugged, and covered a yawn with his hand even as he tried to fight it down.  “Sorry,” he said again.  He hesitated.  “I haven’t… been sleeping well.”

            The apostate sighed.  “You worried about the hunters?  Look, if you need a place to stay, I have a spare bedroom—“

            “Won’t help the nightmares,” Fenris said quietly, eyes darting away from him.

            Hawke wondered what could help with that.  “Maybe—I could ask Anders if he has any ideas—“

            “I don’t want any help—least of all from him,” the elf snapped, and blinked in surprise at the venom in his own voice.

            The other was taken aback.  “Sorry I tried to help then,” he apologized, backing a step away.  If Fenris wanted to keep pushing him away, he supposed he had best back off.  He had been like this at Wintersend too—only worse, in some ways.  He had been sleeping back then, though, which was something.  Fenris had commented, snidely, that it was when the tourneys and contests began in the Imperium.  Too hot in the summer, too rainy in the spring, but fall and winter were good times for the gladiatorial season.  He said that Danarius had enjoyed the Grand Proving, and only got more broody during the week around Wintersend, and wouldn’t talk to Hawke about it.

            What Hawke didn’t know was that Wintersend, and the tourneys starting, reminded him of what Danarius had told him about how he had once trained for the gladiatorial arena.  And no matter how much he thought about it, or tried to remember, he just didn’t, and the sad truth that he never would burned.  It seemed plausible, he had to admit—it would be far simpler if it wasn’t so easy to believe.  That day he had killed the Qunari in the sands, it had been like he knew every trap and pitfall in the Grand Proving as intimately as he knew himself, and there was no way to explain that.  Today, though, he really was just exhausted, and his nightmares were only getting worse with the season’s progression.

           

            Shaislyn would have normally walked, but he had learned—quickly—that children did not walk particularly fast and Lysander had trouble keeping up with him.  So he ordered a carriage—on Hadriana’s name.  Why not?  She had been a magister, after all.  Now she was just a pile of ash in a little obsidian urn that the boy clutched carefully in both hands.

            Shaislyn would have simply sent the child off, but a sense of right and wrong inspired him to find a proper caretaker for him.  Hadriana’s family being dead, the boy’s family being unfound or dead, the closest thing would be, to Shaislyn’s great distaste, Danarius, as Hadriana’s benefactor.

            He had contacted him, briefly.  He hadn’t mentioned who he was—only spoke of himself as one of Hadriana’s retainers.  Even so, he might still have sent the boy on his way, but he was not so certain that he trusted even the driver of the carriage.  The boy reeked of highborn breeding down to his clothes, and if Shaislyn were to just give him the rest of the money Hadriana had sent with him, the boy would be robbed, for one, and possibly kidnapped for two.

            So, Shaislyn grudgingly went with him.

            He went with him all the way to the gate, where he had intended to say his farewell, but the boy had begged and pleaded.  “I’m scared,” he had said, standing there all alone with his mother’s ashes in his arms.  And the half-elf had sighed, and followed after him.

            Shaislyn glared at everything within the manor, knowing that any room could be the one he was sired in.  And what atrocities had gone on in these walls?  Every painting, every tapestry, every vase, every expensive rug or polished statue—it all sickened him.  So much grief in this world, and this man builds such a thing as a monument to himself.

            _I hate him_ , Shaislyn thought, remembering that book of names, dates and symbols.

            He was brought to a grand door, and informed that it was the library.  The servant opened the door for him, and the half-elf hesitated, and then strode inside, the boy close at his heels.

            With barely a conscious thought, the half-elf expanded his field of vision until he could see the entire room, then narrowed it back down, looking up at the magister standing on the second floor.  The magister looked at them, and slowly made his way down the half-spiral stair.

            “Lysander,” he said, addressing the human child first—fitting, considering rank and that Danarius knew him.  “You look tired.  Are you hungry?”

            The boy shook his head, and looked down, taking a step closer to the half-elf.  Shaislyn automatically put an arm around the boy, knowing he was seeking comfort.  He had spent a long time with him.  No one else could give him any solace, and the mage knew he was a poor substitute for… oh, anyone else, but he was determined to try his best anyway.  He was determined not to shun the child, because no child should ever be shunned the same way he had.  What his mother had done still stung more than it had a right to.  He didn’t think he would ever really get over that.  Was it so wrong to want his parent to love him?

            Danarius looked at the child a moment longer, before he called in a servant.  The boy reluctantly went with the woman, who had a gentle face and a kind manner.

            Shaislyn looked back at Danarius.  “Then he will be cared for?”

            Danarius shrugged.  “He’s a mage.  I will find someone for him to apprentice under.”

            “Take him yourself.”  The half-elf sneered.  “I hear you have need of one.”

            Danarius scoffed, sitting down in an over-stuffed armchair.  “I’m too old to apprentice children.  I don’t want to deal with them.  I haven’t the patience.”

            “No, you’d rather just rape them,” Shaislyn said scornfully.

            Danarius had the audacity to laugh.  “A woman flowered is not considered a child, is she?”

            The half-elf glared at him with no small amount of contempt.  “’Fourteen’ is still a child.”

            “’Fourteen’ is an age that is not uncommon for a woman to be married,” he countered, and raised an eyebrow.  “And, well… producing children.”

            “You’re a monster,” Shaislyn said, and knew he should go.  He knew he should just turn around and leave.  In fact, the half-elf turned, and started for the door.

 “Your name is Shaislyn, isn’t it?” the magister asked slowly.

Shaislyn stopped, his back to him.  “Yes.”

            The briefest of pauses.  “That would make you my son, I take it.”

            Shaislyn’s back stiffened.  “No get of yours,” he snapped, turning to face him.

            The human laughed.  The half-elf’s eyes narrowed.  “But I’m still the one who sired you.”

            “You raped my mother—that’s all.”  His tone was curt, his gaze aimed like daggers, but Danarius didn’t seem to care.

            “Without which, you would not be there to hate me so much, would you?”  A longer pause.  “You come at an… interesting time.”

            “Oh?” the half-elf inquired testily.

            “Well, with Hadriana dead, it puts me in a most… unusual place.”

            Shaislyn’s fingers curled into fists.  He thought of half a dozen terse replies before he reigned in his temper.  He took a deep, calming breath.  “No.”  He shook his head.  “Absolutely not.”  His lips drew into a thin line.  “I want nothing to do with you.”

            He snorted.  “Yet you’ll protect your mother so?”  He snorted.  “She murdered her own child, and you are so devoted to her.  Why?”

            Shaislyn stared at him, his jaw dropping.  “What?”  It came out as a whisper, wrenched from his throat.

            “She never told you?  She drowned your sister.”  He made a vague gesture.  “In the stream that runs through the orchard.  Would have drowned you too, I suspect, but your uncle intervened.”

            Shaislyn shook his head, astonished.  He took a half step back, then ran from the room.  The door slammed shut behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are finally nearing where I am actually writing this, hence the longer periods between updates--sorry about that. I also try to go through this once in a while and add in or fix things, and that takes some time... So many characters have died! I feel like a homicidal maniac.


	85. Letters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris is finally able to contact Varania. Shaislyn confronts his mother about his sister's death.

            Not being able to—or, rather, too afraid to go—to Qarinus himself was the most difficult thing.  If Fenris could simply _go_ there, he could begin to inquire.  He should have at least got her name.  He sighed.  He should have gotten more information out of Hadriana, but he had been so angry, so full of hate…

            Hadriana had mentioned Qarinus, and a magister’s name, that she was a servant.  It was not a whole lot to go off of, and Fenris would have liked more information.  He had killed Hadriana too hastily.  It was a simply coincidence which confirmed that the information had to be true, or at least repeated to more than one person.  He could believe that Hadriana had lied in her last moments in an effort to spare herself the inevitable.  People did odd things when they were staring down their own deaths.

            One of the slavers had limped away from a recent massacre they had unleashed, and Varric happened to see him in Low Town, and whispered to Fenris what he had seen.  Twenty minutes later, and the slaver was bleeding in an alley, courtesy of Isabela, who watched for the guard while Fenris questioned him.  The slaver had known Fenris on sight,  based on his description, so he decided to keep asking questions.  The man had been one of Hadriana’s lackeys, and had apparently run when his fellows died.  He admitted, bleeding from his mouth, that he was a coward, and always ran when things looked bad.  Before Fenris had crushed his knee caps, he had had strong legs, and was fast.  He had done some work in the Free Marches, and had ended up back in Kirkwall—a mistake, and his last.

            He hadn’t known much, granted, but he had heard that Fenris’ sister was in Qarinus.  He hadn’t known her name, though, or even a description—just the name of the town.  Even then, the slaver had only claimed to be certain when Fenris threatened to cut off another finger, so the elf was not entirely sure.  Still, that made two people to confirm one theory.

            They dumped the body in the water and were done with it.

            “Let’s not tell Hawke about this,” Isabela suggested, wisely.  Fenris agreed.  Hawke would not condone the torture—even to a slaver.  Hawke was not below threats or bribes, but was too much of a generally good _guy_ to be fine with torture.  Fenris had no such compunctions, and Isabela had seen worse.

            He had been more than tempted to simply leave for the Imperium.  Qarinus wasn’t _that_ close to Minrathous, but…  _Still too close_ , Fenris thought with some unease.  Anything in the Imperium was just too close.  Danarius had too much influence there.  True, Fenris would not live out his life without ever confronting the man.  If Danarius forgot about him, he would go to him himself, but…  _It’s too soon._

            It was infuriating.  All the same, he made attempts, asked questions of any travelers who were from there or even near there.  Varric gave him a discount on information, but wasn’t about to give it for free.  Sometimes, they could exchange favours, and Fenris did occasionally get mercenary work—his favourite of which was when the Templars would hire him and they would root out nests of blood mages, like rats.  What he didn’t put towards living expenses went in to finding his sister.  Sometimes, he had his doubts about it.  What if it were a lie?  What if she were actually dead, if she had ever existed?  More terrifying, what if he actually _did_ find her?  The tumultuous thoughts almost made him give up the hunt on more than one occasion.  He was oddly averted to it at times, in fact.  Any bit of information acquired, any kind of information gathering, often made him feel physically ill.  Maybe it was all in his head, and he was just so nervous about it that he made himself sick.

            Everything ground to a halt during the Qunari uprising, and did not begin again for some time after that, but he got by and in time got back to looking for his sister.  He couldn’t begin to explain properly why it felt so important to him, but it did.  He just… had to know.  So much felt like it was missing.  If anyone could fill in anything he was missing…

            Varric did not have a whole lot to go off of, and it was difficult to get information from so far away, but the dwarf was resourceful if nothing else.  An elf of an unknown age, servant to a magister in Qarinus, and, if Danarius could be believed, might have been from Seheron.

Eventually, Varric cropped up a name.  Fenris had at first been reluctant to learn her name, going back and forth between “don’t tell me” and “I have to know”.  He was afraid of that name; afraid of what it meant to him, for him.  What would her name reveal?  Would it sound familiar?  He was afraid if it would, and afraid if it would not.  He was afraid that he would want so badly for it to sound familiar that he could convince himself that it did.  Varric, in the end, decided to end Fenris’ nonsense, and simply tell him.

            “Varania,” he said with certainty, a pleased look plastered to his face.

            Fenris was dubious.  The name did not sound familiar.  A part of him was crestfallen at that, and another part almost relieved, for it meant no flash of half-remembered images, no clips of words people he didn’t know had said.  It wasn’t like a story, where someone with amnesia remembered vital parts of their life in timely moments, and the name meant nothing to him.  “Var…a… nia,” he echoed slowly, blinked, and frowned.  For a moment, it had almost felt like a name he should know, but the moment faded so quickly that he was not so sure that he was only fooling himself.  “You’re certain?”

            The dwarf smiled, ever self-satisfied.  “Yep.  Elven servant, from Seheron, says she has one brother who might still be alive, but hasn’t seen him in…”  He quirked an eyebrow.  “About sixteen years, give or take.”

            Fenris blinked.  It was about how long it had been since he had woken after the Ritual.  That was an odd coincidence.  A servant, though?  It was what Hadriana had said, but…  How could she not be a slave… if he was?  He supposed it was entirely possible that his parents (the concept that he had lost memories of parents was a painful one) had sold him, and kept her.  He had sometimes wondered which of them was older.  “How old is she?” he asked suddenly.

            Varric frowned.  “I don’t know.  A few years younger than you, maybe.  She’s kind of quiet, they say.”

            Fenris paced restlessly, feeling an urge to move.  He thought more clearly when he was walking.  “Could you write for me?” he asked, rounding on Varric suddenly.

            Varric blinked.  “Didn’t Hawke teach you to read?”

            The elf sighed, pained.  “Read, not write.”

            The dwarf made a face.  “I’m no scribe, but you should ask Rivaini—she actually has lovely penmanship.”

            Fenris debated that but for a moment.  “She’d charge me double, just to make her stop telling everyone what I want her to write.”  She would probably also embellish it.

            Varric shrugged.  “Hawke, then.”

            The elf sighed, and left, but not to go to Hawke’s.  He had seen the way Hawke was looking at Anders lately, and he had no interest in begging favors from him.  Maybe he should just go to a scribe, but he just didn’t _trust_ anyone.  Varric could get the letters delivered, but really didn’t want to know what they said—too much heartache, no doubt.  Fenris groaned inwardly.  What a dilemma.

            He thought for a long moment, before he realized _exactly_ who was the perfect person to go to with this.  And why hadn’t he thought of it before?

            He began the walk back to Hightown, and nearly ran into Merrill in the Lowtown market.  She dropped the basket she was carrying, and made a pouty face.

            He briefly debated glaring at the blood mage and walking on, but decided to help her pick up her basket instead; it was equally his fault as hers, and it was the right thing to do.  “I’m trying to learn how to knit,” Merrill commented, picking up the yarn she had bought.  “For when I’m tired of working on the mirror, I mean.  And it’s useful.”

            “Have you gotten any good at it?” he said, just to be conversational as he picked up some kind of root vegetable, setting it back in the basket.  At least if she were knitting, she couldn’t be practicing blood magic—or could she?  He had no idea how either actually worked.

            She grinned.  “I’m making everyone sweaters by winter.  You too—speaking of which, did you prefer a colour?”  
            “Please don’t,” he said.

            But she smiled, and he knew better.  He also knew that everyone else would goad him into wearing it at least once.  “I don’t care.”

            “Green?  I bought a lot of green,” she went on in her lilting accent.  “Oh, do you want one of these scones?”

            He blinked.  “What?” he heard himself say, but something…  He felt his memories balancing, knew he was on the verge of remembering something.

            Merrill, oblivious, continued on, “Well, I bought all these—there was a really good sale—but I don’t think I can eat this many, so do you want one?”

            “Want… what?”

            “A scone, silly.”

            He looked at her as if he had never seen her before, or perhaps as if she was someone else entirely.  For an instant, he saw a young elven girl with freckles and stringy red hair, shining mismatched eyes and a crooked smile—knew she spoke with the same lilting accent.

            “Here, take it,” Merrill said, shoving one of the warm scones into his hand.  She smiled, bid him a good day, and skipped off.  Fenris felt dazed.  What… happened?  Had he… remembered something, someone?  Who?  It wasn’t Varania, was it?

            Something about Merrill’s accent…

            He looked at the scone in his hand, and tried to remember.  Something about the pastry, and Merrill’s accent, and…

            Try as he might, he couldn’t remember anything at all.  He remembered the girl’s crooked smile, and that was it.  Not the sound of her voice, or anything else.  Just an image of her grinning up at him, a mischievous glint in her mismatched eyes, and he couldn’t even say why.

            He picked at the pastry on his way up to Hightown, still bothered by the entire thing but willing to let the matter go out of necessity.

            As much as he was loathe to go into the Chantry, he did.  Sebastian was talking to a couple of middle aged women, and Fenris waited for him to finish, doing his best to not hear the sermon he was preaching to them, about the goodness of their Maker and the works of Andraste—all of which made him roll his eyes, and seethe with hatred in turns.  Sure, he wanted to believe in it.  But he didn’t, and with everything he had seen… how could he?

            He thought of the Chantries in Tevinter, how they sold slaves in the markets outside of them, the Chantry tithing each slave sold.  How could a benevolent god exist when that did?  He had seen so much atrocity and suffering.  How could an all-powerful being let that happen?  _How_?

            Yet…  A part of him wanted to believe in it.  He wanted to accept blind faith and love, because it was all he really had left.  No family, no past, no future.  He wanted to feel secure, and there was a certain security in the Chantry and in the faith of the Maker.

            Sebastian spotted him and came to him when he broke away.  “What brings you here?” he asked, a faint trace of hopefulness in his tone that Fenris was not certain he enjoyed.

            “Not what you are hoping,” he said immediately.  The human raised an eyebrow.  “I need your help though.”

            Sebastian smiled pleasantly.  “I’m happy to help, Fenris.  What do you need?”  Still hopeful, Fenris noticed.  The priest beckoned vaguely and the pair began to walk away, somewhere more private.

            The elf got the idea that _perhaps_ Sebastian was hoping Fenris wanted to confess past sins and talk about his problems.  Not even close.  “Could you help me write a letter?”

            Sebastian almost missed a step.  “What?”

            Fenris sighed.  “Varric thinks he might have found my sister.  But I don’t know how to write…”

            Sebastian shrugged, kind of sighed.  “Yes, of course I’ll help.”

 

            Varania held her hands a few inches apart, took a deep breath and let the mana flow through her.  The little sphere of light hovered over her hand, and she sent it into the lamppost—the last one of the evening.  The chore kept her busy for hours—the entire street, the manor grounds, and the interior of the manor, every evening.

            Still, it was a simple spell, and the pay was good.

            She headed back toward the manor, wondering if Shaislyn might be there.  She hadn’t seen him since…  Over a year, now that she thought about it.  She wondered if he were all right.  She knew he was alive, because he sent her money frequently, but that was it.  Not a word otherwise.  She wrote back, of course, but she didn’t know if he ever received her letters, because he never replied, and they always came from a different location anyway.  Only once was a package just left in her room.  She knew he had been by, but the boy was gone before she had even known he was here.

            She wondered if it were just some strange teenage phase he was undergoing, or if it was something… more.  She didn’t know.  She didn’t have any idea, unfortunately, and he wouldn’t talk to her.

            When she came to retire for the evening, the headmistress stopped her.  “Something came for you today,” she said, handing her a small bundle.

            She blinked.  A package and a letter?  “Thank you,” she said, and unhurriedly went to her room.  She tossed the package down on the small table, and locked the door.  The letter slipped off of the package onto the table.  She undressed and pulled on her sleeping shift, and brushed out her hair.  She created another of the spheres of glowing light, and cast it above her, so she could read.  She opened the brown paper package first.  It was just a small bundle.  She unfolded it, finding that it was a lightweight linen dress, dyed blue with green embroidery that looked like leaves along the bottom.  It looked like it would fit.  Her son sent her clothing from time to time, and she found a single gold sovereign at the bottom of the package.  She picked it up, and hid it in her little savings box, which she kept under a loose board, under the bed.  She put the dress away, and went to the letter.  Had her son finally decided to say something to her?

            She sat down, and opened the letter with care.  She removed the slip of paper.

            The first thing she noticed was that it was in a different hand than the one she knew as Shaislyn’s.  Shaislyn wrote—when he still sent letters—as if he were actively running from people trying to kill him.  The ink was often blotchy, there would be smears, and sometimes scribbles as he tried to ink something out.  Granted, most of the smearing was because he was left-handed.

            Whoever wrote this wrote elegantly—a hand that had been trained since birth on the importance of proper penmanship.  Definitely not her son.  She frowned and began to read.

 

            _To Varania,_

_I hope this letter reaches you well.  I don’t know if you will believe me when I write to you, but I’m your brother.  I only learned of you a couple of years ago, and I’ve been trying to find you ever since._

_I’m sorry; I don’t remember what my name used to be, or anything about you but I want to know you.  I would have pursued you sooner, except that my memory loss left me with no knowledge of your existence.  I’m so sorry._

_I’ve escaped Danarius and been on the run for several years.  I’ve been staying in Kirkwall._

_I understand that this might be hard to believe, and since I don’t remember who I used to be, it will be difficult to prove myself to you.  I’m sorry; all I know is that you exist, your name, and that you work for a magister in Qarinus.  I heard that you had a brother that you have not seen in well over a decade.  My memories stop over a decade ago._

_If there’s anything I need to do to convince you that I am the same person, tell me; I’ll do my best._

 

            It was unsigned.  Ordinarily, that would have made Varania throw it away, dismissing it as some kind of cruel joke, but she stopped, and reread it.  The person writing it was not the person dictating it, she didn’t think.  It sounded like two different people had written it—things wanting to be said that were edited, and there were two different “voices” in the writing.  One of them was detached, and the other desperate.

            If he doesn’t remember past a decade or so, perhaps he doesn’t remembered his name either, Varania thought.  But surely Danarius, the scum, would have called him _something_?  Or maybe he hadn’t.  Maybe he had just referred to him generically, who knows?

            She wondered why his memories would end only so far back.  Had something… gone wrong with the Ritual?  Had Leto ended up hurt in some way?

            An old anxiety gnawed at her.  She couldn’t for a moment imagine why this person would lie about it.  She didn’t have anything to give them or be tricked out of, so why would someone put forth the effort?  Still…  It wouldn’t do to be hasty about it, would it?

            Varania reread the letter, then set it down.  She threw out the trash and went to bed.  The letter was still sitting there in the morning, which is where it sat all day, and the next evening and still she didn’t know what to do about it.

            Reply, she supposed, but put it off until her off day when she finally sat down to write a reply.  She read the letter again, biting her lip in anxiety.  She wasn’t entirely sure who to address it to either, but an address was given, and frankly, it sounded like it was going to some kind of pub.  Maybe he was staying there, or it was going through a third party for some reason.  Well, if someone else was writing it, that made some degree of sense.

            Where did she begin, though?  If it really were Leto…  Oh, there was just so much she wanted to say!  But she was cautious.  If she said too much, anyone could claim they were him.  Worse still because he apparently didn’t remember her or anything about her.  How could she be assured that it was him?

            If it really were though…  If it were true…  She started to write.  She paused frequently, trying to decide on the words and what she wanted to say to him, knowing she had to hold back, lest her emotions get ahead of her.  She missed her brother more than anything, even though a part of her felt spiteful towards him.  It would be so much easier if she could only see him, talk to him, listen to his voice.  She would know it was him if she did.

            She wasn’t very articulate.  She had learned to read and write later in life, and from a busy woman at that.  Her penmanship was not as neat as the other’s, and she worried that she misspelled things here and there.  Still, she felt as though her point had come across when she reread it.

 

_If its really you, I dont know what to say.  I haven’t seen you in years.  Do you truly not remember me?  When we were growing up, you meant the whole world to me.  It is hard to imagine that you do not remember.  I suppose you have changed—I suppose we both have!_

_How did you ever find me, though, if you do not remember who I am?  Do you remember anything at all?  I wish I could talk to you.  I think I woud know its you if I see you._

_If it is you, brother, I have missed you more than I can say and I love you so much.  I have so much to tell you but I dont think I can find the right words to write._

_Love Varania_

 

            There was more she wanted to say, but she was so nervous that it might only be someone toying with her in some cruel way that she didn’t.  Varania was guarded, but sincere.  She had to buy an envelope, and sent it in the post.  She had a few more errands to run too, and came back in the early evening.

 

            Shaislyn felt like he was finally brave enough to confront his mother.  He had ran from the possibility long enough, letting it stew and knew he was too cowardly to face it, to believe in it.  But he had to know.  So he walked down the hall to the room he sometimes shared with his mother.  He tested the door and found it locked.  He sighed, and left the hall, and went to the courtyard.  He snuck in through the window.  He paced restlessly, and sat down in the chair in front of the table.

            Was what Danarius said true?  He hoped not.  He prayed it wasn’t, but he was terrified that it was.  After she had given birth, she had taken no interest in him or his twin whatsoever.  And she hadn’t just “died” the way his mother always said.  She had _drowned_ her in the stream in the orchard.

            Shaislyn had lain in the orchard and cried with fear that it might be true.  He had gone to the graveyard where his twin lay buried, and prayed that it wasn’t.

            He had to know.  He couldn’t trust Danarius, his grandmother was dead, and Leto might as well be, because Fenris would not remember should he ask.  That left his mother alone.

            And… and even if that were true…

            She had still raised him.  She had done everything she could, hadn’t she?  She was still his mother.  And…

            _And I have no other family—not really.  And I’ve never had any friends either… and…_   Shaislyn sighed, ending the spell of his vision, and closing his eyes.  He didn’t want to see anything right now, and he was afraid of seeing his mother when the time came.  _And I’m so alone._

It felt like a long time before the door opened.  He did not need to see to know that it was Varania.

            “Mom?” he said, a little hesitant.

            “I haven’t seen you in a long time,” she commented, her voice sounding tired but trying to be cheery.  She stretched, closing the door behind her.  “What brings you back to Qarinus?”  
            “You,” he answered bluntly.  His mouth twisted into a frown, listening to her walk about.  “You can change—I’m not… using the spell.”

            A pause.  “Well, all right, but keep your head turned.”

            He rolled his eyes, but did it anyway.  “It doesn’t matter which way I’m facing, you know—even if I were using it.”

            “It’s the principle of the thing,” she told him chidingly, opening a drawer.

He snorted, listening to the fabric rustle.  “Did you try on the dress I got you?” he inquired.  “Or… has that not come yet?”  His heart pounded nervously.  He was terrified of this conversation.  _I can put it off another night, can’t I?_  

She said, obliviously, “I was wearing it, silly.”

“Oh.”  He needed to say something now, before he lost his nerve.  He fidgeted in his seat, and tried to think of something to say.  “Mama, I just want you to know…”  His lips drew into a line, then he made a face, struggling for a long moment.  “I just wanted you to know that I love you.”  He hesitated, listening to the silence he knew would come.  “I…  You’ve done… a lot… for me.  And I’m thankful.  And you’re…  Well, you’re my mother.  I love you.”  
            It was a poor speech, but it was heartfelt to the teenager, and everything he really wanted to say to her.  But she was silent, as a part of him had always known she would be.  When she spoke at all, he was sort of surprised.  “You’re not… dying or anything, are you?” she inquired slowly.

Shaislyn was not amused.  He sighed.  “No.”  He kind of laughed a little, nervously.  “But…  I have to know…  How did my sister die?”  His voice came out in a whisper.

Varania paused again, a long time as more fabric rustled.  He heard drawers opening and closing as she busied herself suddenly.  He could understand not wanting to talk about a dead child, even a dead child that died of natural causes—it was simply not something a mother was equipped to handle.  “She was a baby.  She just… didn’t make it; you did.”

Her son listened, and knew when he was not being told the truth.  Or at least, not all of the truth.  “You killed her,” he said softly.  “You drowned her in the stream, in the orchard near Danarius’ slave compound.”  _That man is not my father,_ he tried to tell himself.  _No more than a bee is father to a flower—just because it helps it grow._

And his mother simply said nothing.  He heard the bed creak as she sat down, heard her reach for her brush as she let her hair down and brushed it, never saying a single word, which is when he knew it was true.

He bit his lip, a tear running down his cheek.  It so easily could have been him she had drowned.  Maybe it should have been, instead of his sister.  And it was true:  She had tried to kill them both.  “I love you, mama,” he cried, his heart breaking.  His voice left his throat broken.  He swallowed hard, knowing no answer from her was coming and still desperately wanting one.

            And yet, she said nothing.  She set the brush down, closed the window.  She sat back down on the bed, asked him if he were staying here for the night.

            “Why do you not love me?” he whispered, half to himself, but loudly enough for her to hear him.  “I’ve tried so hard…  I’ve tried to help you.  I…  I do everything I can for you, and I just want you to love me.”  A second tear rolled down his face.  His throat and mouth felt dry.  “I just want…”  He lowered his head, feeling awkward and childish.  He covered his face with his hands.

            The silence was uncomfortable, and he knew that he should go.  Just turn around and never come back.  As he rose, the chair creaked.  He felt angry, angry enough to smash the chair against the table, but he didn’t.  He felt angry enough to scream and yell, but he didn’t.  He swiped at the dampness on his face with his sleeve.  “Goodbye, Mother.”

            “Shai…”  He heard the bed creak, the blankets shift.  “I’m sorry…  I don’t…  I don’t know what came over me.  It was a long time ago, and…”

            He stopped, his hand on the doorknob.  “Did you ever love me?” he asked quietly.  “Even once?”

            She said nothing.  Not a whisper, not a word.  His eyes felt wet, and he blinked it away.  He turned the lock, wishing she would say something.  Anything.  And at the same time, just wanting to run as far away as possible.

            “Shai.”

            He stopped before he opened the door.  “Yes?”

            “I…  I do love you.”

            The tears dripped down his face, and he wanted them to stop.  He was supposed to be a man.  He shouldn’t be crying.  This shouldn’t hurt so much.  “I wish I believed you,” he said, and cursed himself internally when his voice wavered.  He fled before she could say anything else, the door slamming shut behind him.

            Once he was outside in the open air, he flew away, and didn’t even care if someone saw him change.  Crows don’t cry.


	86. Karma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris receives Varania's first letter. Danarius decides he needs to do something about Fenris.

            “Got something for you,” Varric said, sounding mildly pleased.

            Fenris looked up from his pint, and then his eyes flicked back to the cards.  Playing with Isabela was trying—for one, you had to watch her to make sure she wasn’t cheating; for two, don’t take your eyes off her, because she will cheat.  Worse, she was good at it.  And she’d been trying to get him to play strip poker in her room for years.  Like that would ever happen.

            “What is it?” he inquired, staring at Isabela, watching her hands.

            The pirate smiled slyly, laying down her hand.  Fenris swore, tossing his cards down, then looked at Varric when she reached for the coins.  Varric handed him a small, battered envelope.  His heart skipped a beat and he snatched it out of his hands.  He stared at it.  Did he open it now?  He glanced at Isabela.  No, bad idea—she’d read over his shoulder, possibly aloud while doing voices.

            He tucked it away in an absent manner, and looked back at her, his gaze slowly trailing down her neck, watching the rise and fall of her chest for a moment, before he blinked and realized he was doing it.  She smiled knowingly, all white teeth as she leaned forward.  “’Nother round?” she asked him, making the gesture expose more of her cleavage, if that were even possible.

            His eyes flicked back to his half-finished pint.  He grabbed the mug.  “No, I don’t think so.”

            She winked.  “I saw that.”

            “If you’re going around advertising, you can’t expect people not to look,” he said amiably.

            She raised an eyebrow.  “Oh, I expect people to look.  But it’s rude to look and when I offer, you turn me down.”

            Varric laughed.  “It’s also rude to cheat at cards, but you do it anyway.”

            She blinked, as if offended.  “It’s part of the game!”  She glanced at Fenris’ half-finished mug.  “Last one to finish buys the next round.”  She raised her pint.

            He shook his head.  “I’m going—thanks.”

            “Spoil sport,” she complained.  “Varric?”

            Fenris halfway listened to the other two talk while he finished off the pint, but was really thinking about the letter.  It had to be from Varania.  He was anxious to read what she had written to him.  Of course she would want some kind of assurance that it was him.  He was nervous about what he could do or say for that. 

Isabela was trying to convince Varric that champagne fountains were good ideas for parties, and that it had to be champagne because champagne was the drink to celebrate with.

            “Like a water fountain, but with sparkling champagne,” she was saying.

            “Someone will get drunk and take a piss in it,” he argued.  “It’s inevitable.”

            Meeting Varania, maybe—that might prove their connection, to her at least.  He would love to meet her.  That idea made him nervous too, but in a different sort of way.

            He plopped the empty mug down and bolted out the door with barely a goodbye to his friends—something they were more or less accustomed to and scarcely took note of. 

            He hurried back to Hightown, for some privacy mostly.  Walking up the steps, he saw Anders walking back down.  He looked at Fenris, a slight smirk playing about his lips.  Without a word, he kept on walking.  Fenris’ eyes narrowed.  And what had he been doing?

            He absolutely despised the idea of Anders and Hawke being together.  True, it was his own fault that Hawke was with him and not Fenris, but he still hated the thought of it.  He wondered if Hawke did that thing where he would nibble on his lower lip with Anders, and the thought filled him with a seething rage.

            He tried to brush it off and keep walking.  He had more important matters anyway, didn’t he?

            He saw Aveline on patrol.  She nodded towards him in a friendly manner.  He kind of vaguely waved as they passed one another by.

            Safely at home—it had become home, hadn’t it?—he nestled into his favourite sofa and pried off his gauntlets.  _I can’t do anything with these on,_ he half-complained to himself.

They clunked when he dropped them on the floor.  As usual, he felt about five pounds or so lighter without them, and likely was.  He pried the letter out of his belt, and stared at it for a long moment.  Did this occasion require anything?  A drink or something?  He didn’t feel like getting up.  Lowtown to Hightown was a decently long walk.  Well, he had a few pints at the bar earlier anyway.

            _I’m stalling,_ he realized with a sense of unease.  He took a deep, calming breath, and let it out slowly through his nose.

            He tore it open, tossing the envelope on the floor, over his shoulder in much the same manner that Danarius did with paperwork he didn’t care about.  The similarity was lost on the elf, however.

            He unfolded it with care, noting that the parchment was a cheap material, the ink equally cheap and kind of flakey.  That was fine; it was still legible.  Her print was that of someone who could write, just not well.  If she had been born a slave, or was a slave for much of her life, that would make sense though.  He read her words, slowly.  He was past the point of having to sound them out, but he still couldn’t read particularly quickly.  Still, it was much improved.

            She seemed to want to believe him, but was wary.  That was fine.  He could work with wary—but if she had never responded or called him a liar, he didn’t know what he could have done.

            She had never mentioned what his name was, though—he noticed.  She was being careful about it, not to mention anything.  That was her wariness, he knew.

            He read it again, and prayed that this was her.  He didn’t know to what god, or even if it mattered, but prayed nonetheless.  He wanted it to be her so badly.  He wondered if they had been close—it seemed like it.

            It was frustrating that he didn’t remember.  He got up, looked at the letter again and put it inside a thick book—the unabridged copy of the Chant of Light.  It seemed a pretty safe place to keep it, where he wasn’t likely to lose it.

            He left, headed back to the Chantry to see Sebastian.

 

            The bow gave the barest creak as he bent it back.  His back was straight, the bowstring taught.  It wasn’t the draw he would have pulled in his youth.  No, the days Danarius could pull a 200-pound bow that he used to hunt bears, elk, and cats with were over.  The eighty-pound bow seemed a lot, in his old age.  As the years went by, he kept having to decrease the draw, and lately it was more for the pain in his wrists and fingers than anything.  That Dalish bow, he had only shot from a couple of times, and it was a work of art in every way.

            His fingers all the way to his elbows ached enough to make his eyes water, his entire body screaming for him to stop.  The arrow flew, sailing through the air, and buried itself in the deer’s side.  He swore, grabbed another arrow, knocked, and drew, then shot—all one fluid motion.  That one went through its neck.  The creature stumbled mid-flight.  He shot again, that one striking a second time in the throat.  The buck collapsed, and so did he.  One of his slaves hurried toward him.

            “Master?” he inquired.

            “I’m fine,” he lied, staring at his shaking hands.  “Go get the buck.”  The three jumped to obey him, and he stayed where he was, kneeling on the grass.  His hands shook as if possessed, and it felt like fire running through every nerve, all the way up to his elbows.  They tingled, and every movement _hurt_.

            _Arthritis will be the end of my career as a magister,_ he thought, even as he moved his fingers, forcing his way past the pain.  The blue healing light coalesced around his hands.  When the light faded, the pain lingered—or some of it anyway, but it was better.

            A mage with arthritis… wasn’t much of a mage.  He had been fighting it for years, and was beginning to lose the battle.  A part of him had always known he would get it.  His father had.  It had skipped his grandfather, or maybe he had just died too young.  He remembered that his great-grandfather had it, so his father had told him, but both of them had died younger than he was now.  _At least they had children,_ he thought with a sigh.  _Proper mageborn sons and daughters to carry on the legacy.  Once I die, that will end the line of mages in my family_.

            Agasius had a child.  So did Caleigh, and so did Cristabelle—two in fact for both the women.  And not a single mage so far between them.  It was disheartening.  The family would go on, the line would go on, of course.  But the magery seemed to be bleeding out of the bloodline.  And they had wed into mage families, married mages for some of them.  Yet…  Well, some of the children were young yet.

            It was saddening to know that everything he had worked for in life would go to ruins.  Everything would be gone when he died, and he wouldn’t even die with the rank of magister; he couldn’t.

            _I need Fenris._   Casting was getting difficult.  It wasn’t a lack of mana, or a lack of willingness to use blood magic—he had never been so squeamish.  It was his damned hands.  But Fenris would act like a living battery.  Cutting himself for blood magic was difficult.  Holding a knife was difficult, and even more so in a duel.  He was still well enough for that, but for how much longer?  It was terrifying to think about.  There was no dishonor in retiring for health reasons, but it was a personal wound to his pride, and he wanted to die as he lived.

            But with Fenris…  That would just solve everything.  Fenris could fight his duels, fuel his magic, secure his station.  He may die heirless, but he wouldn’t die decrepit and unable to hold his position.  _If I put it off too much longer, I will._

He should have attempted the Ritual again, at least.  He should have put more effort into dragging Fenris back to Minrathous.  Should have just gone to collect him himself—no one else seemed able to do it.  It was dangerous, but he was just as likely to die in Minrathous, when he thought about it seriously.

            _I need to get that damned elf back_ , he thought.  He had waited too long.  He had put it off too damned long, and look what he had let happen.  _I shouldn’t have told him to kill Shaislyn._

            Fenris had always had a particular weakness for children, he reminded himself.  He remembered the way his eyes would ache to see a child, any child, suffer or die.  The way he had thrown himself at his master’s feet and begged desperately for Danarius to use his blood in a spell, instead of a child’s.  Fenris couldn’t bear to see a child hurt, and Danarius should have known better.  If he had only been thinking properly, if he had only remembered how much Fenris hated the idea of a child suffering, he would have known not to have told him to kill the boy.  _Too late now._

            The ache in his leg reminded him of when he had first met Leto.  It had started causing problems a few years ago, just a sharp pinprick every now and again, but lately more like the briefest stabs of pain, and it mingled with the rest of the aching in his leg—from his childhood when he had broken it.  The stitch in his side reminded him of where he had been shot in Seheron.  Old aches and old wounds reminding him that he wasn’t as young as he once was.

            He took a deep breath as he began to suddenly pant, but it was hard-gained and he struggled.  He didn’t know why.  Had the hunting been too much, or…?  _No,_ he thought.  _Something is wrong._

            A sudden pressure on his chest made him frown.  Instinctively, he reached up, touching his chest.  The pressure increased though not at his touch, and he struggled to breathe.  He felt cold but a sweat broke out in a fine sheen over his body—he was only dimly aware of it.  And then he felt the pain.

            He had broken his leg when he was eight—he fell out of a tree his mother had distinctly told him to stay out of.  He had screamed and begged his father to heal it—and he wouldn’t.  He told him that it was “his own damned fault” and he could live with the pain of the broken leg until it healed on its own.  It was a fine lesson, but the pain was unspeakable, and he did not remember it fondly.

            When he was fourteen, he had been hunting and ended up mauled by the cat he was hunting.  His father had killed the animal, in the end, but it had been the single most terrifying, mortal experience of his life.

            This was worse than both of those things.

            He couldn’t speak.  He could barely breathe past the crushing pain that seemed to weigh down his chest.  He was conscious of lying down on the earth, but couldn’t remember having collapsed.  The pain arced down both of his arms, and mingled with the arthritic pain in his hands, both conspiring together to kill him.  It felt like his heart was skipping beats.  He was terribly aware of how hard it was to breathe, and knew he desperately needed to.  Every beat of his heart felt like a minor victory, every pull of his lungs under the enormous weight on his chest a battle won.  It felt like a damned elephant was standing on his chest.

            When he looked around, he felt like everything he saw was far away and he was spinning.  He squeezed his eyes shut to make it stop, hoping it would stop the sudden nausea too.

            Like a gift from the Maker, he gasped, drawing in a deep breath, and another.  The pain ebbed if only slowly and gradually, the pressure fading just as gradually with it.  His eyes opened, and he was aware that one of his slaves was calling to the other two, yelling at one of them to run back to the manor for help.  Good.

            Maybe he should consider not taking these trips relatively alone.  He had thought…  Whatever he had thought, he had been wrong.

            “Master, are you…”  The slave’s voice simply trailed off, as if not quite knowing how to finish the sentence.  Well?  No.  Alive?  Debatable.  “Can you move?”

            “I shouldn’t,” he said, mostly to himself.  He tried to sit up, and immediately laid back down.  “Hell.”

            The slave they had sent could run quickly, or maybe it just felt like it was quickly.  He felt oddly faint, not to mention exhausted.  He just wanted to go to sleep…  There were servants, one of them a mage.  She looked like she had been pulled from a bath—her hair was wet and her clothing damp.  She knelt beside him, her hands glowing.  The healing light spilled over him, and he was only annoyed by it.  It would take the nausea away, the dizziness, and the numbness.  But it wouldn’t cure it.  Magic had limits, and it couldn’t take away old age.  He didn’t see why not.  Old age was just his body dying and things shutting down.  So why couldn’t magic stop it?

            He almost laughed.  Mages had been trying for centuries to stop aging.  So had non-mages, for that matter.  It seemed _logical_ that magic could stop aging.  It made aging less difficult, sure—but it never stopped it.  Why not?

            He tried to get up, found his legs weak.  Two servants helped him onto a litter, carried by slaves.  Most undignified, but it had to do.  He felt like he was too exhausted to walk or ride anyway.

            He wondered if anyone had thought to grab his bow and the arrows.  And the buck, for that matter.

            Rianda, the elven Laetan mage he hired as a healer among a few other things, told him what he feared, that it was a heart attack.  “Bed rest—five days, minimum,” she told him with feeling.  He argued with her, and threatened, and she remained resolute.  He almost felt like congratulating her for having the backbone so many of her knife-eared kind lacked.

            “Do you want to get better or not?” she demanded.  He grumbled, and resolved himself to this treatment.  He argued with her about it nearly every day, and still she wouldn’t budge.  Still, it looked like they had brought the deer—but Rianda wouldn’t let him have any of it.

            “You hired me for my healing skills—it isn’t just about magic,” she insisted.  “It would be too much for your heart right now.  You can have light foods for a few more days.”

            “The venison is best fresh,” he argued.

            “Fancy another heart attack?  One not enough for you?  Absolutely not.”  It just went around in circles, and she wouldn’t budge even when ordered.

            “You’ll thank me for this later,” she told him instead.  It was infuriating, and probably exactly what he needed to keep him well, which was more infuriating.  Once the other magisters found out, they would just insist he was too old.  Tell him to give up the post and retire.  Damn them all.  If he was anything, he was a stubborn man and he simply refused, and he could already hear every argument in favor of his retirement.  “For your health” they would say.  Bah!  He’d sooner die of boredom without his work as a magister.

            He had worked all day, nearly every day, since he had arisen to the status.  Taking even a small luxury, like returning to Vinewood and going on the briefest of hunting excursions, left him fidgeting and anxious to get back to his affairs.  It was practically unnatural to not be working.  Rianda wouldn’t let him work much either, which was just as infuriating.  She said, “Nothing that will work up your blood pressure, and you hate all this paperwork anyway.”  She frowned.  “Though I think you secretly like it, or you wouldn’t insist on seeing it all the time.”

            “I don’t want it piling up so much,” he said, irritated.

            “Calm down before you hurt yourself,” she said, saintly calm.

            On the fifth day, she had a serious talk with him about caring for his heart.  No hunting, avoid things that made him angry and increased blood pressure, things like that.  He, with some reluctance, mentioned the arthritis in his hands.  She frowned, said she had some salves and things to manage the pain, but that was it right now, and she would read up on anything else she could do. 

            She left the room, and he stared out the window, out at the forest, the pain in his hands making them shake.  His eyes slid to the little graveyard with its garden and statuary, and one in particular.  Why did the Maker take everything you loved?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Danarius had a heart attack. Fenris would be pleased.


	87. Wicked Intentions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varania contemplates how she feels about her brother. Shaislyn and Danarius make an agreement. Fenris has an interesting night with a whore.

            _It’s him_.  _It’s him and I know it’s him_.

            Knowing it was him made Varania feel relieved.  She wasn’t alone.  She wasn’t all that was left of their family.  Shaislyn grew more and more estranged as he got older, and one day she thought he might just disappear from her life entirely.  It was comforting to know that her brother was still around, and wanted to know her.

            They had exchanged three letters.  He finally admitted that Danarius had given him a different name, and he inquired, gently, what his real name had been.  She had replied, _You’ll hear it from my lips, and my lips alone.  I can’t wait to meet you._

            She prayed it was really Leto.

            But she didn’t really know what she would do if it was.  She couldn’t stay in Kirkwall or she’d risk imprisonment in their Circle—he couldn’t come with her to Qarinus.  As the days passed, her initial joy at the thought of meeting him submerged, replaced by other thoughts.  At the moment, it was just something talked about—she constantly said that the issue was money, but that was only the half of it.

            From his letters, she could discern that he had been somewhat privileged even as Danarius’ slave.  His prize possession, more like.  So basically, while she had to scrimp and save and sell herself for a place to live, he had slept on silk sheets and dined on sweetmeats.  That angered her, more than anything, and her old hate surfaced.

            It wasn’t directed at her brother, per se—more like the world in general.  But as she kept reading his words, her hate became more and more misdirected.  Mother had died, and spoke of Leto when she did.  She had sang to him, and to him alone the last time they had met.  She hadn’t even sang to Varania when the mage was _dying_ in childbirth.  Varania, who had healed the pain in her hands and her stomach.  Varania, who had held her hand as she passed from the world.  Varania, who did everything in her power to make her last days comfortable.  It wasn’t _fair_ that Leto should have been her last thoughts.

            And it wasn’t _fair_ that while Leto was a slave and had everything and more he had ever desired, she had been near-starving.  She had—well, Lura had—sold her son into _slavery_ to keep them out of debt.  And what of Leto?  Spoiled.  Given everything he ever needed.  Safe, comfortable, dry.  He had an easy life.  She wanted to slap him for speaking of how much he hated slavery and how awful it had been.

            How dare he?  How dare he say it was awful, when she…

            “Varania,” the mage slurred, his hand on her waist.  The man was a Senior Enchanter, and maybe he had been more ambitious when he was younger, but those days were past.  Lately, he did nothing at all in the magister’s employ except keep the books and the odd spell here and there.  And this.  She swallowed hard.  He touched her breasts, his hands caressed her backside, and found their way under her robes.  She flinched, and endured it, and he was gone in a few minutes.  It never was more than that, but it made her weep sometimes.

Her brother was a damned spoiled brat.  He always had been, hadn’t he?  She had thought…  He had meant so much to her once, and she felt nothing if not betrayed.  He had told her he would never leave her behind—and he _had_.

            It left her bitter, and angry.  Did she even want to go see him?  Why?  So he could see how desperate she had become?  So depraved, and wretched?  So he could smile that cheeky grin she knew Leto possessed, and call her names, like they had when they were younger?  Pull her hair, trip her, laugh when she tried to hit him.

            She wasn’t certain she wanted to meet him.  It would be hard to see him.  _He_ apparently had everything he ever wanted.  Well, good for him.

 

            _It’s past the point where magic can do anything_.  The realization came to Danarius like the dawn, and shocked him just as much as the first dawn had shocked the earth.  He stared down at his hands, flexing the fingers as if it would dull the pain.  It didn’t, but a quick swallow of the medicine would.  He debated that, and put a different flask to his lips.  The liquor would dull it too of course.

            _Age_ , he thought.  There was nothing to be done about that.  Where had all the years gone, anyway?  They had came and went so quickly, and all the while he had always felt like there would always be time for something else.

            Well, there was time for his duties as a magister, little else any more.  He found himself annoyed with the younger magisters and especially the apprentices—their insolence and entitlement, all of it.

            He stared back at his hands, rolling one wrist until it gave a satisfying crack.  His father had had it too, he recalled.  He remembered all the medicines, and the foul-smelling stinging nettle tea said to dull the pain.  He felt like he would sooner free all his slaves—Fenris included--than drink that vile liquid.  Rianda had suggested it once, but she never would again.

            A sudden gust of wind billowed the drapes.  He hadn’t thought he had left the window open, but maybe it had been.  He rose to close it, lest the wind make a mess of his desk, then stopped.

            A young man, more a boy really, leaned against the window frame, framed by the drapes.  The room was six stories up—a difficult climb but apparently not impossible.  Two swords were strapped to the boy’s back, their hilts poking over his shoulders.  He had a full head of dark curls, and Danarius’ eyes narrowed when he saw his eyes, then he looked back at the swords.  He had seen those blades somewhere before, and couldn’t remember where exactly.

            “If you’ve come to kill me, you are underprepared,” Danarius said testily, but was ready to throw up a protective barrier at the first sign of attack.  Shaislyn hadn’t changed too much in the past year.  He wondered if the kid had figured out who had put the bounty on his head, or if he still thought it was some other magister annoyed at Shaislyn selling information.

            The boy’s hands did not go near his blades.  Rather, he hopped down from the window, mud tracking on the polished hardwood.  It had been raining outside this morning.  “Good afternoon,” the boy said, giving the magister a wide berth as he walked around him.  He sat down very casually in the stuffed leather chair across from him as if he belonged in it, despite his half-blood birth.

            Danarius slowly sat back down, still prepared for an attack.  Shaislyn was a mage too.  “And to you,” the magister said, quite displeased.  The boy picked up something off of his desk absently—an expensive cigar box that the magister had never even opened.  “What can I do for you, my bastard son?”  He couldn’t keep the irritation out of his voice.

            Shaislyn pried the lid off of the cigar box, and found them to be more slender than perhaps he was used to seeing.  “Nothing I can’t do for myself,” he said, not even looking at him, which was grating.  But Danarius supposed that he wasn’t seeing with his eyes exactly, so why bother.  “You and I have… similar interests.”

            Danarius raised an eyebrow.  “Oh, I doubt that.”

            Shaislyn selected one of the cigars and pulled it from the box without asking.  He set the box down, and shut the lid.  “It’s about Fenris.”

            Danarius leaned back in his chair, and watched the boy stick the cigar in his mouth, and light it with his own mage fire.  Danarius did not smoke himself, but the box had been a gift.  At least someone was getting some use out of them.  “Go on.”

            Shaislyn exhaled the smoke, wisps of it clinging to him.  He really did have pointed ears, Danarius reflected.  His curls hid much of it, but he could see the barest tips poking out of the curls.  Yet, much too small to be truly elven.  Most half-breeds looked more human.  Something wrong had happened in his development, Danarius guessed.  “And my mother, really,” he added for good measure, taking another drag.  Shaislyn smiled indulgently behind a veil of smoke.  “But what I’d really love is to see your pet elf dead.”

            The magister was not amused.  “Why?”

            Shaislyn stared at him, sickened.  “You were _there_.  You tell _me_ why.  Those Vashoth _sheltered_ us for three months.  They befriended us, helped us—and you…”  He looked at him with such hatred that Danarius felt he should burst into flame.  Rather, he smiled.  “You told him to kill them and he _did_.  I think he should be punished at least.”

            “And what does this have to do with your mother?”

            “Fenris is my uncle,” Shaislyn said simply with a shrug.  “’Leto’ was his name, mother said.”

            Danarius smiled, amused.  His bastard son may hate him, but he was willing to compromise when there was someone else he hated more.  Why?  “And how did you learn all this?”

            “Asking questions,” the boy said.  “Reading.”  He was silent for a moment.  “Anyway, I want him to suffer, and the bastard deserves it.”  Shaislyn gave him a nasty smile.  _We have some of the same facial expressions_ , Danarius reflected.  “He murdered Hadriana, leaving her child an orphan as he killed _both_ parents, and every hunter you have sent for him.  I dare not consider their families in the equation—orphaning one child is bad enough.”  He paused, and smiled.  “Do you think he would kill his sister?”

            And Danarius suddenly understood Shaislyn’s plan.  “You mean to have Varania betray Fenris to me.”

            “Yes,” Shaislyn said, without hesitation, all the while continuing to smoke.  Ash fell to the carpet.

            Danarius was intrigued.  “Varania loves her brother.  Why do you suppose she would betray him?”

            But the half-elf smiled that wicked smile again, and Danarius felt like he may just grow fond of the boy.  “She does love him.  And hates him.  He freed her as a mage who had passed her Harrowing by the skin of her teeth, illiterate, and nearly penniless with no friends or relatives—and, worse, elven.  She hated the alienage more than anything—and who do you think she blames?  Tell her that while she was eating cabbage soup and selling her body to eat it, that Fenris slept on a featherbed and dined on sweetmeats.  Tell her that while she slept in a gutter in rags, Fenris was clothed and cared for.  Tell her that.  Remember, she never hated slavery the same way ‘Leto’ and my grandmother did.”

            The magister blinked slowly, taking all of this in.  “Varania is in Qarinus the last I heard.”

            Shaislyn took a long drag on the cigar.  “That’s true.”  He grinned.  “What’s also true is that Fenris found her.  They’ve exchanged letters at least three times.”  He made a face.  “I… intercepted two of them.  Make what you will of that.”

            Danarius considered.  Resourceful, wasn’t he—his bastard son.  “And you really think she can be turned against him?”

            “With the right motivation, yes.  Which brings me to the subject of payment.”

            The magister frowned at him, watched him raise the cigar to his lips with his left hand.  Iriel had been left-handed.  “Of course.”

            Shaislyn looked at him.  “If I only wanted Fenris dead, I would poison him.  Long, lingering.  I know a poison he would never even taste, and it would take him weeks to die.  And don’t doubt I would do it.”  He inhaled on the cigar.  “He’s been in Kirkwall for ages.  It wouldn’t be hard.”  He glanced at the man who had sired him—the turn of his head more a courtesy than anything else.  “But that’s messy and dangerous for me, and besides, you want him back, don’t you?”

            Danarius paused.  “Indeed.  What do you want, Shaislyn?” he asked, growing weary of this.

            Shaislyn dropped ash into the dragon bone ash tray that had been sent along with his gift of cigars.  An expensive thing for ash, yet somehow fitting and tasteful.  The man who had sent the gifts was trying to convince Danarius to wed his eldest daughter.  “I want my mother cared for,” the half-elf said bluntly.  “Make her your apprentice.”

            The magister looked at him.  He looked at his half-bred son, his sunburned complexion, tousled hair, and fierce but pale and clouded eyes.  The boy had a warrior’s heart—like it or not, like his uncle, like Leto, but without any ridiculous notions of honour or family values.  Danarius wondered what sorts of magic the boy had learned, and if he could use those swords.  He certainly moved with them as if he could—the comfortable swagger that came from confidence.  In a way, it was almost refreshing to see someone of his bloodlines reek of confidence rather than fear.  He would rather take Shaislyn as his apprentice, and almost didn’t care about the political scandal that was the only thing that could ever be.  He was just going to die in a few years anyway, so what did he care?  “She’s old for an apprentice,” he said instead.

            “You would have little to teach her,” Shaislyn countered.  “The first several years of apprenticeship are nothing but training how to handle one’s gift anyway.  She already knows that.  Just teach her the political portion.”

            “You said it yourself—she passed her Harrowing by the skin of her teeth.  She’d never make it as a magister.”

            Shaislyn frowned.  “She would.  She’s an entropic mage—she’ll be fine.”  He frowned.  “Even so, she’ll have… me.”  He looked distant and sad when he said the last sentence.

            Danarius frowned.  “What is stopping me from taking your plan and leaving you out of it?”

            Shaislyn’s eyes narrowed.  “Me,” he said.  He raised an eyebrow.  “Even if you bribe my mother enough, I can beg her not to—and she will listen to me; not betraying her only brother is the honorable thing to do, after all.  However, even so, if you win her over nonetheless, I _will_ get to Kirkwall before you, and I _will_ warn Fenris.”  He raised an eyebrow.  “I think he may even believe me.”

            Willful and stubborn—smart too.  He was the son he should have had with Roschelle, but his wife had died, and the boy had been sired on an elven slave instead.  “Fine.  I will extend my offer to your mother, but why do you think she would accept it from the man who raped her?”

            Shaislyn looked at him.  “Because she’s desperate, and I will talk to her about it.  Just trust me.”

            Danarius could probably throw Shaislyn farther than he trusted him.  “Fine.  Shall I draw up the contract?”

            “Do so,” Shaislyn said.  The magister busied himself with what a politician did best—creating sketchy contracts.  Shaislyn would comment on the wording with frequency, demanding different and easy to understand verbs—smart kid.  What was interesting was that the teenager, not once, rose from the chair and looked at the words.  He was seeing it some other way.  The magister stopped, dipping the quill back into the inkwell.  His hands were shaking.  He stopped, and moved to open a drawer.  His fingers twitched, and they were hard to move, but he got it open.  The aching pain made lifting the vial of medicine from the drawer a chore, and he struggled, briefly, with the cap.  Shaislyn was not watching him, not in a way that he could tell anyway, but he was conscious of his presence all the same.  He cringed inwardly as he swallowed it, knowing he had to or he would never be able to write the rest of the contract.  He should have just called in someone else to do it—make it more official.  That would take longer though.

            He closed the stopper, and set it back in the drawer.  The foul taste of the medicine lingered in his mouth, and he swallowed a mouthful of white wine to wash out the taste.  Slowly, his hands stopped shaking.  Even more slowly, the pain ebbed.  He picked up the quill again, his fingers still complaining with the movement.  The quill scratched along the parchment, every mark a fresh lance of pain until the medicine dulled it, brought it away.

            Danarius paused.  Shaislyn had not asked for a single thing for himself, even though he had made it quite clear that he could single-handedly destroy the entire operation if he so chose.  Why?  “What do you want for yourself?” Danarius demanded, barely looking up from his writing.

            “Nothing,” the half-elf said, his voice soft.  “You have nothing that I desire.”

            Danarius paused.  “Surely there is something.”

            He shook his head.  “I just want my mother taken care of.”  He seemed sad for a moment.  “I can look after myself.”

            The magister looked back at him, the way he lounged in the chair, exhaling smoke, the cigar dangling between his fingers.  “Yes, I suppose you can.”

            He paused.  “My mother will want one thing, though—and this is more to ease her conscience:  She will hate seeing her brother tormented and a slave.”  He made a face.  “Oh, she might cynically enjoy it for a while, but she will grow to hate it, given time,” Shaislyn said, fidgeting in the chair in a most unbecoming manner.  “Don’t offer this immediately—just when she is interested in the offer, but trying to say no, throw it in then:  When you die, let Fenris go free.”

            Danarius was silent for a moment, thinking.  Truth be told, he had given a lot of thought to what he would do with Fenris.  No one in his family would do anything appropriate with the elf.  Send him off to fight Qunari, let him die in the sands in the coliseum or some pit, sell him—none of it was something Danarius would ever condone.  He said nothing, but in truth, he already had the papers for it, and the aching in his hands reminded him of how long he had taken to draft them up.  “If it comes to that,” he said, as if the idea pained him.  “What will you do, though, Shaislyn?  I thought you wanted him dead?”

            “As your slave?”  He raised an eyebrow, grinding the butt of the cigar into the ashtray.  “He’ll wish he was.  And what do you think he’ll do once he is truly free and has no one to run from, and no one left to hate?”  Shaislyn’s smile was cynical this time. 

            It was the worst thing he could really do to Fenris, wasn’t it?  Enslave him for a few more years, never telling him that one day he would be free forever, granting him his freedom suddenly, and then there would be no one to hate, no one to run from.  Worse, no where for him to go and no desperate need to run to urge him there.  Danarius sprinkled sand over ink on the parchment, then brushed off the excess.  He had signed it earlier, but turned it toward the boy.  Shaislyn made no move to grab it or even look at it in a way that made sense, but he was still for a while, then frowned, taking one last drag on the cigar.  “The second paragraph,” he said, grinding the stub of the cigar into the ashtray.  “I want a fail-safe for my mother.  If she doesn’t work out for you, I want you to pay her instead.  Pay her whatever you would pay your hunters—two of them.”  The pair discussed sums, and argued and bickered like old fishwives for several minutes—one having grown up arguing over tallies and sums as the money lender, and the other growing up on the opposite spectrum.  In the end, neither were exactly happy with the terms, but they settled.

            Danarius paused, sighed, and took the parchment again, scratching a quick note.  More sand, and he didn’t even flip it back to him.  Shaislyn paused again.  It was a most useful and interesting talent.  “I would pay you a fair amount to learn that trick,” Danarius told him.

            The boy raised an eyebrow.  “Sight?  I can’t teach you,” he said with a pained shrug.  “I’ve tried.  Only the blind can learn it.”  He rose, and flipped the parchment around.  He put his name to it, and Danarius was amused to see him leave out a last name completely.  “Put out your eyes, and I’ll teach you.”  Something about the way he said it implied he would be glad to help with the process.

            Danarius looked at him, at his pale, pale eyes.  “It’s almost tempting.”

            A pause.  “I’m going to Qarinus.  Meet me there soon; I’ll talk to her about Fenris.”  He breezed past him.

            Danarius had a thought, and said, “Wait.”  Shaislyn looked back at him, one foot on the windowsill.  He almost asked him how he had gotten in and out, then decided he had a better question.

            Shaislyn’s lips pressed into a thin line.  “I thought we were done, you twisted bastard.”

            “Curious,” his father said, leaning back comfortably in the chair.  “Do you hate me so much because I raped your mother, or… because it was your mother that I raped?”

            Shaislyn stopped, turning back toward him, his muddy boot falling back down to the floor.  His eyes narrowed.  “Do you know that in _every country_ I’m not really considered a person?” he demanded, pointing towards himself.  “Do you know that I’m not allowed to get married in any country?”  He swallowed back the hurt.  “Do you know that I’m a thief because it’s all I’m ‘allowed’ to do?”  His teeth clenched.  “You know no human will hire me because I’m half-elven, and no elf will hire me in a damned alienage because I’m half-human?”  He ran his hands through his hair, and shifted.  “And dwarves won’t hire me because I make their patrons uncomfortable.”  He looked away, then back at him.  He started to gesture, then dropped his hand back down.  “I’m not even allowed to _die_ for a country.  Not _even_ as a mercenary.  Why?  Because they can’t have my presence ‘causing problems’.”  He  lowered his head.  “So I steal shit, and sell information, and everything I do is illegal, because that’s my only option left.”  He was silent a moment, as if he were finished, then added, “And even then, I have to wear a hooded cloak when I deal with the fences.”

            “It can’t be that bad,” Danarius objected, but doubt clouded his voice.

            “It is!” he insisted.  “There are even places in the world where I would just be killed on sight.”  A pause as he lifted his head, staring at the man who had sired him and cursed him.  “For being half-elven, for being a mage.”  He crossed his arms angrily.  “Couldn’t you have raped a human girl that night instead?”  His throat felt dry.

            “Shaislyn, if I could make you human, if that’s what you wanted, I would.”

            The half-elven teenager stared at him, hurt and sadness beyond what he could name in his eyes, and the boy could say nothing.  He disappeared out the window, the gently billowing drapes concealing whatever method he had used to come and go.  There was more to that boy than he let on, and something he was definitely not telling Danarius.  It could be as simple as desperation; that was what the boy hinted at—choosing a mother he knew over an uncle he didn’t.

 

            Fenris had ground his teeth in silent fury when Anders moved into Hightown with Hawke.  Oh, he still spent his days, and sometimes in an emergency, nights, down in Darktown at his clinic, but the thought of him in Hawke’s arms every night—most nights—was enough to make him angry with himself, and that was the worst part.  He had always been able to blame someone else for his problems.  Now, he couldn’t.  Was this another aspect of freedom?  He hated it.

            It was made worse when Anders would touch Hawke.  Not in a sexual way even—a hand on his shoulder, their fingers brushing, a glance, maybe a chaste kiss here and there.  But when the elf saw it, it drove him mad with jealousy.  But he had had his chance, hadn’t he?

            And he couldn’t blame Hawke, and he wanted to blame Anders—mostly because of the way Anders would smirk at him—but he couldn’t really blame him either.  Anders genuinely liked Hawke, and often professed his love and devotion to him, pretty much shamelessly.  That made it worse too.  What if he had just told Hawke how he really felt?  Told him everything, unconditionally, holding nothing back the way that Anders did?  Would that be him in Hawke’s bed every night instead of the mage?

            It hurt something fierce.  And he couldn’t talk to anyone about it, or felt like he couldn’t.  Logically, he knew at least two people who wouldn’t mind talking to him about it—namely, Aveline and Sebastian.  But he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it.  It seemed selfish, maybe even immature, and he was reluctant to talk about it.

            His nightmares kept getting worse too, to the point where he was almost afraid to sleep, unless he drank.  When he drank, he usually slept dreamlessly.

            A combination of those things had brought him here.  He downed the shot of whiskey, and turned back to the whore, who smiled at him seductively.  It made him want to roll his eyes.  Most of whoring was acting.

            “Ready,” he half-muttered.

            “It’s not an unusual request,” the whore said, climbing up the stairs with the elf trailing behind him.

            Fenris chose not to comment.  It felt unusual.  It felt wrong, for that matter.  But he missed Hawke so much…  The whore took the usual steps toward seduction, which weren’t needed but were at least appreciated.

            An expected amount of foreplay—touching, licking, undressing him.  Fenris had just asked for a human male who wasn’t afraid of the lyrium.  The woman had asked for him to give her a moment, and she had come back with one.

            “Was it just the money that interested you?” he heard himself say.

            The whore looked up, and tilted his head, but put his hand where his mouth had been a moment ago.  “I wanted to see you naked,” he said bluntly.  “Do you glow during sex?  I heard lyrium glows sometimes.”

            “It always does—just sometimes brighter than other times.”

            “Hmm.”  He bent his head back.  The elf’s eyes slid closed, and tried not to think about any of his fears, or his petty jealousy.  If he closed his eyes, he could pretend it was Hawke.  It was Hawke climbing on top of him, wrapping his arms around him, nibbling on his neck, and pushing into him.  Hawke thrusting and twisting, and Hawke touching him and panting.

            Yes, he could pretend that it was, if he kept his eyes closed.  It felt better that way, made him more inclined to be more of an active participant, rather than just lying there and enjoying the way it felt.  But it wasn’t Hawke.  And he knew by the man’s back, by his shaved chest, his trimmed mound of hair at the base of his cock.  It wasn’t the _same_.

            Fenris tentatively made another request, and the whore didn’t even bat an eye.  They moved on the bed, taking another position.  The whore rode him, his hand around his throat as he thrust into him.  Not tight enough to cause damage, just tight enough to feel light-headed, making him focus more on the way he felt inside him.  The pain from the lyrium felt dimmer like that too—everything felt dimmer.  He reached down, touching himself to bring himself closer to climax.  The whore licked his shoulder, ran a hand down his chest, his fingers gently smoothed over his hand, taking control.

            He must have made some noise or expression that alerted the whore, because he stopped, his hand wrapping around the base of his member, tight—too tight.  Fenris flinched.

            “No,” he said, voice low.  “I’m not finished with you yet.  How _dare_ you try to finish.”

            His eyes slid closed.  “I’m sorry, master.”

            “You should be.”  His grip tightened until he cried out, half in pain and half in pleasure, his fingers twisting into the sheets.  “Don’t come until I tell you to.”

            “Yes, master,” he breathed, before his fingers wrapped around his throat again.  He bit his lower lip, hard and harder, trying desperately not to orgasm, even though every thrust and cry was in favor of the act.  Every minute stretched and it couldn’t have been hours, but it felt like it.  It hurt not to come, especially when he wanted to.  Especially because he knew there was no _real_ repercussion for doing so anyway.

            Still, that wasn’t what this was about.  He thought, _I’ll just get it out of my head.  And once I do, I’ll stop dreaming about it._   Maybe he would, maybe he wouldn’t.  He wasn’t so sure he cared, in the heat of the moment, about the nightmares.  Acted out in real life, under _safe_ circumstances, it felt really good.  He even felt better about the rape in a way he couldn’t explain.  Maybe, partially reenacted, it let him accept it, let him put it behind him, safe and away.  Gave him a different, safe, memory in its place.  Even a good memory.  It let him associate the rape with this instead, and he felt better about it.  He didn’t know if he could ever explain that to someone, but it was how he felt.

            And the whore pounded into him, nearly mercilessly, and he was tempted to start begging.  He had to when he flipped him onto his stomach, and he had to hold onto himself, tightly, to keep from spilling his seed.  “I—I can’t,” he whispered.

            “You _can_ ,” he corrected him.

            “No…”

            “You will fucking do what I tell you to,” the whore gasped.

            A pause, then, “Yes, master.”  The whore drove into him hard three times, releasing deep inside him, pumping gently with his orgasm.  The whore kissed his shoulder, running his hands down his back.  Fenris shivered, but still hadn’t been told he was allowed to come.  The whore withdrew, shoving him almost angrily over.  Fenris rolled, and looked at him expectantly.  The whore smiled a little, and bent, mouth covering him, teasing him in every way he could think of.  It was excruciating, and amazing, and Fenris wanted to hit him for the teasing and kiss him for how it felt.

            Finally, the whore moved the elf’s hands away, pushing him down his throat.  Swallowing his seed was more an act of simply letting it run down his throat.  Fenris fell back against the pillows, sighing in relief.  The whore climbed over him, staring down at him.

            “I still didn’t _tell_ you to come,” he muttered, and smiled again.  “I guess I have to punish you.”

            “I tried, master,” he whispered, eyes closed.

            “Not hard enough,” he said, his hand snaking between his legs, toying with his limp member.  He kind of laughed.  “On two accounts.”  That elicited a small chuckle from Fenris.  “Hmm—what shall I do with you?”  His hand cupped him, played and caressed.   “I think I’m going to bend you over the side of the bed.”

            “Not a good enough punishment,” Fenris murmured.  He opened one eye.  “I’d like that too much.”

            The whore kind of laughed, nibbling along his neck.  “Then when I’m pounding your ass, I’ll spank you, and if you continue to be so misbehaved, I’ll choke you.”  He licked along his shoulder.  “And if you’re _really_ bad, darling, you can spend the rest of the night tied to my bedpost, and I’m going to do every devious act I can think of to you—and I can be _very_ creative.”

            Fenris smiled lazily, eyes opening.  His arms raised, sliding over his shoulders leisurely, his leg rubbing against one of his.  That last idea had some promise to it.  “Nothing you could do could make me behave,” he whispered, licking along the curve of the whore’s neck.

            “Oh, darling, you’re going to keep me up all night, aren’t you?”

 

            Dawn found Fenris stretched on the whore’s bed, asleep for maybe the lesser part of two hours.  The whore was asleep nearby him, curled in a semi-circle and his hair looking better tousled than it had slicked back and groomed.  His legs ached, his ass hurt, he had bite marks, scratches, bruises, and red marks covering much of his body.  And welts, he reflected.  The lyrium made him feel raw, and it surged under his skin as if it were angry it had competition in terms of pain.

            He stretched, looking at his wrists.  The rope had been silk, but it had chafed under enough pressure.  His throat felt dry, his lips felt cracked.  No, not just his legs aching—his whole body.  _And_ he felt absolutely amazing.

            The entire night had been amazing.  He woke feeling _good_.  Not the same happy, safe, peacefulness he had felt with Hawke, but still _good_.  Like he didn’t care about the rape in his past any more.  He just felt _better_.  He felt less overall sad and depressed about the things that had happened to him.  As though, he could make it feel better, even if he couldn’t change the way it was.  The memories of the rape didn’t _have_ to hurt.  They could just be memories, like anything else.

            He slipped out of the bed, and went to dress, and saw the whore watching him.  “I like your ass,” the whore said, rolling to get a better view.

            The elf raised an eyebrow.  “I like your dick,” he countered.  His ass had felt good too, come to think of it.

            “Will I be seeing you again?” the whore inquired, winking.

            “Maybe,” he said with some reserve.

            The whore rolled, reaching toward him.  “Come back to bed.”

            Fenris shook his head, stepping away.  “No thanks.”  He worked at buttoning the tunic. 

            “Usually, when I’m doing shit like that, I prefer ‘ser’ as to ‘master’.  But I like the sound of your voice when you said it, so I let it slide.”  He winked broadly.  “In the future though, I’ll spank you if you don’t use my preferred title.”

            “Ser?” Fenris wondered dubiously.  “I never got your name.”

            “Uh…  Wensley.”

            “Wensley?” Fenris inquired, and almost laughed.

            “Shut up,” Wensley suggested.  “Or I’ll charge you double next time.”

            “That’s unfair.  And after everything we shared too,” Fenris said, his tone carrying traces of sarcasm.

            “I guess I owe you something—hell, you look bruised.  I’m sorry,” he said, flinching.

            “I wasn’t complaining at the time,” the elf reminded him.

            “Hell, you can take a hit,” he agreed.  “I felt bad about it for a while.  None on your face though, and I’m glad your neck didn’t bruise—much.”

            Fenris ran his fingers through his disheveled hair, glad it was short.  He never wanted to have long hair again.  He bid Wensley farewell, and headed back home, where he stripped and fell back into bed.  He slept well, if not dreamlessly.  But it was just the sort of ordinary dreams—dreams about falling or something about a city being sacked by Imperials and he was hiding under a staircase for some reason, and another one about cheese.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like how in this chapter, everyone else has a really serious, intense, plot-defining monologue, and Fenris gets laid.


	88. Manipulation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaislyn speaks to Varania about Fenris and Danarius. Fenris and Isabela enjoy one another's company.

            Varania almost dropped her staff when she saw Shaislyn leaning against the gates.  She looked again, knew it was him, and went toward him.

            “Shaislyn?” she inquired.  When had been the last time she had seen him?  Oh…  No, she remembered—he had run from her in tears after it came out in the open that she had murdered his sister.  She wondered if he would ever forgive her for that.  She knew she could barely live with herself for it, so how could she ask that of him, when she thought about it? 

            _Because I need him to forgive me… before I can forgive me._

            He looked up, exhaling smoke.  He dropped the stub of the cigar and ground it into the gravel, grinding out the flame with the toe of his boot.  “I need to talk to you about something.”

            He reached into his coat and removed a silver case.  He opened it, and she frowned to see it was just more cigars.  “When did you take up smoking?” she demanded.

            He frowned at her.  “A couple of years ago,” he admitted dryly.  “It helps keep me relatively calm.”  He removed one of them.  They were the thinner Orlesian variety, and something told her he had most likely stolen them.

            She walked up to him, frowning in disapproval while her son stuck the end of the cigar in his mouth, pocketed the case, and lit it with his own fire.  “Well, what did you need to talk about?”

            He blinked.  “You were lighting up the street, right?  I’ll walk with you.”  He walked along beside her as she went about the nightly chore.

            “My brother contacted me for the first time almost a year ago,” she said conversationally.

            He paused.  “That so.”

            She nodded.  “We exchanged a few letters.”  Another pause.  “I’m going to go see him eventually.”

            He gave a slight nod of his head.  “Right.”  More silence passed.  “Do you really want to?” he inquired.

            She stopped, the light gathering at the end of her staff, and she cast it up into the lantern.  “What do you mean?”

            He shrugged a shoulder noncommittally.  “Even if it really is him, he doesn’t remember you.”

            Varania turned and looked at him, eyes narrowing with suspicion.  “How do you know that?”

            Her son’s face was oddly blank, and he ignored the question.  “Do you like where you’re at right now?” he asked instead.  “Are you happy here?”  
            She started walking again, and he kept pace with her.  “No,” she admitted.

            “Would you have been happier in Minrathous, as a slave?”

            She looked down, then back up.  “It would have been easier,” she admitted.  She looked back at him.  “For both of us, I think.  And Lura too.”  A pause.  “Maybe not for your grandmother, but it really wasn’t that bad.”  A long pause.  “Better than some of the things I—we’ve—gone through anyway.”

            He looked at her for a while, smoking, as she worked.  “Do you blame your brother for that?”

            Her lips pressed into a thin line.  “I try not to,” she admitted with some hesitation.  “He was trying to make our lives better.  He didn’t—that’s all.”

            The half-elf nodded appreciatively.  “Did you know that while we were eating moldy millet soup, he was pampered?  Danarius’ prized possession, and he spared no expense on him.”

            Varania ground her teeth, but said nothing.

            Shaislyn looked at her, judging her, and took another long drag on the cigar.  “And we could have all been together if he had lost.”  He left out his suspicion—what had happened to all of the manor’s slaves.

            Her fists clenched, and she stopped at another dim lantern.  She lit it, and moved on to the next.  “What’s your point?”

            He trailed after her, and finished the cigar.  He ground it out on a low garden wall.  “How would you like to be a magister?”

            She stopped, then laughed as if it had been a joke.  He stared at her, his face stoic.  She shook her head.  “Oh, that’s impossible.”  She looked back at the magister’s lavish estate.  She thought about its gardens, orchards, she thought about the fountain in the yard and the manicured lawn.  She thought about his horses, the army of servants and pages, slaves, the foreign and expensive furniture, the exotic pets he bought for his only mageborn daughter—a spoiled thing who wanted for nothing and would never know what it meant to be hungry or cold.

            She peered closer at her son’s grave expression, and her smile turned into a frown.  “You can’t be serious, Shai.”

            He raised an eyebrow.  “I am.”  They began the walk to the next lantern.  “I’ve… come to an agreement with a magister.”

            She nodded.  “Are you finally going to join the Circle?” she inquired, thinking this must really be about him.

            He shook his head, laughing.  “I’m quite happy being an apostate, thank you, Mother.”

            “I wish you’d visit more often,” she said quietly.  “Or at least write.  I worry all the time that you might be… dead, or captured by Templars, or…”  She sighed, shrugging.

            His lips curved into a smile.  “I _have_ been captured by Templars,” he admitted.  “I got careless in Orlais one time.”

            She looked at him, wondering how he had gotten away, but did she really need to ask?  She looked at the swords strapped to his back, the confident way he walked.  She knew he was some kind of shapeshifter, likely a thief.  Was he a murderer too?  What room did he have to judge her?  But he had never killed his own child.  “Not again, I hope.”

            He didn’t say anything else about the matter.  “Don’t worry about me.”  He fell silent as she lit another lantern.  “But would you like to be a magister?”

            She frowned in thought.  “That’s a nice daydream, isn’t it.”  Of course she would be interested in that.  Fine foods, servants, a beautiful house, wealth, the power to protect herself—yes that sounded lovely.  More than she could ever have imagined.  Or hoped for.  More than she knew she could ever achieve on her own.

            Shaislyn’s lips curved into a smile.  “Not a daydream—a real possibility.”

            Varania considered her son’s words.  “How?” she demanded.

            He shrugged.  “A series of… circumstances.”

            “Such as?” she lit another lantern, and they crossed the street to light the others.

            He stretched, took another long drag and exhaled slowly.  “You do something for him, and he will make you his apprentice.”

            She looked at him.  What mess was he getting himself into, anyway?  “What favor would a magister ask of _me_?” she demanded, almost laughing.

            He watched her light another lantern.  “He just wants you to… act as bait for someone.”

            Slowly, she began to see the pieces of this puzzle, but he couldn’t mean…  “Leto?” she whispered.  “You’re talking about Danarius.”  Her fingers curled, her nails biting into her palms.  “I hate that man.  Why are you talking to him?”

            He glanced at her, pained.  “I wanted to meet my father.  I hate him—but I wanted to meet him.”  He sighed.  “And anyway, I hate seeing you here.”

            They walked to the next lantern.  Someone hurried by them carrying a parcel, and they were silent until the woman had passed.  “I’ve had worse places to stay, Shai.”

            He shrugged helplessly.  “Maybe.”  He was quiet for a moment.  “But imagine being a magister.”

            She didn’t have to imagine; she had been around magisters and their wealth and their power all her life.  That would be… a dream.  But it was Danarius he was talking about, and he had raped her.  “I hate Danarius.”

            Her son shrugged again.  “So?”

            She frowned at him.  “You want me to betray my brother to that vile man?”  
            “To be a _magister_ ,” he finished.

            She was appalled at the thought.  “It’s my _brother_.”  
            He looked pained.  “He’s a murderer, Mother,” he said, his voice quiet.  “I met him in Seheron.  He killed… so many people.”  He stared downwards.  “He’s tortured people, and left children orphaned.”  He paused.  “He isn’t the man you knew.”

            She stared at him, her jaw dropping at his words.  “That… can’t be true…”

            “It _is_.  I’ve _seen_ it.  I’ve spoken to the victims.  It _is_ true.”

            The elven mage clamped her mouth shut in despair.  That… that wasn’t Leto.  It couldn’t be.  He would never…  But maybe this person he had become—Fenris—maybe he would.  She didn’t know what to say, or even if there were words she could say.  She was appalled.  The two walked in silence, and all she could think of was what her son told her about her brother.  Had he really changed so much?  It made her heart break to think of it.

            “He’s not even the same person,” Shaislyn said after a long silence had passed.  “He’s a stranger to you.  The only similarity is that Leto and Fenris happen to have the same body.  That’s it.”

            She looked out at the street and watched a carriage go by.  She didn’t want to believe that.  “You can’t know that.”

            “I _do_ ,” he insisted.

            And hadn’t she felt resentment toward her brother anyway?  Shaislyn was saying that Leto was basically dead, and this person who had… hijacked his body was nothing at all like him.  It wouldn’t really be betraying Leto, because Leto was gone.  This man wasn’t even really her brother, not truly.  And… a magister, she?  “What… do I have to do?” she asked when the last lantern was lit and they began the walk back.

            “Nothing, not really.  Continue what you were doing.  Write him letters, sail to Kirkwall.  Meet with him.  That’s it.  Danarius will take care of the rest.”

            She looked down.  “But he’ll be a slave.”

            He shrugged.  “You said it yourself—that’s not so bad.”

            They walked past the gate.  “I couldn’t bear to see him like that.  He’d hate me.”

            Shaislyn crossed his arms.  “Maybe.  Does it matter?  So he’ll give you a condescending look now and again.”  He paused.  “But even in slavery, Danarius will still continue to treat him like a prize possession.  And you’ll see how he treats him, and remember that while we lived in that sewer they call an alienage, he slept on silk pillows.”

            “Truly?” she asked him.

            “That’s what Hadriana—er, that’s Danarius’ last apprentice—said,” he told her.

            Her lips pressed together into a thin line.  “I don’t know,” she admitted.  “It’s my brother.”

            Shaislyn sighed.  “Think about it.  I’ll see you in a few more days,” he said, and turned.  She stopped.  He looked over his shoulder.  He did look like Danarius, she reflected with some sorrow.  Some of the same expressions, something about his jaw and the set of his eyes, the way his brow furrowed when he scowled.  But he wasn’t his father, and it was nice to see him growing up into a man, and she could see parts of herself and her family in him too—and that was comforting.  “And one more thing:  When Danarius dies, all of his inheritance—the estates, his wealth—would pass to you.  That would include your brother, so think about that.  You don’t have to keep him as a slave.”

            She watched her son go.  That did change things, didn’t it?  She could be there with him.  Yes, she could betray him to his master, but Leto would forgive her over time.  And she could make sure he was well during that time.  She could look after him like he had looked after her.  And when the magister died, she would get everything, including him.  She could free him, make him a citizen like he had once done for her.  He wouldn’t be a runaway any more.  She would give him a place to stay, and maybe she could try to do something about his memory loss.  They could try to work through it together.  If she could just make him see…

            Danarius was old, she reflected.  It wouldn’t be very long, would it?  And she would be kind to her brother anyway.  There was still the issue that the magister had raped her, but that had been such a long time ago.  She wasn’t a helpless child any more, and while she would never forgive the man for that, perhaps something could be arranged at least.

            Varania turned back toward the manor, her head full of dizzying thoughts.

 

            “And…  I fold,” the elf said, laying down his cards.  The others showed theirs.  Isabela swore, shaking her head.  Fenris seemed pleased with himself as he took the coins off the table.  The deck was passed to Varric to shuffle, and Isabela called for another round of drinks.

            “One more round,” Varric said.  “Then I have some business to attend to.”

            Isabela raised an eyebrow.  “What _kind_ of business?”

            “The kind I don’t tell you about it,” he said.

            The pirate rolled her eyes.  “Fine, but higher stakes this time—because you’re cutting it short.”

            “Hands where I can see ‘em, Rivaini,” he said, glancing up.  Fenris would keep an eye on her.  Or on her cleavage—either way.

            “Anyone seen Hawke around lately?” Isabela asked the other two.

            “No,” Fenris replied without feeling, suddenly busily finishing his tankard.

            Varric shrugged as he dealt the hand.  “He’s been pretty preoccupied with everyone’s favourite Grey Warden,” he said.

            “Abomination,” Fenris corrected.

            “Apostate,” Isabela said, just making it worse.

            Varric rolled his eyes.  “Whatever—Andraste’s tits, you two.”

            Isabela shrugged.  “What?  I have nothing against Anders.  You know he uses magic in bed?  He can do this electricity thing—“

            “That’s more than I need to hear,” Varric said, speaking for Fenris as well as himself.

            “I bet he does it with Hawke,” she said, resting her chin on her hand.  She ran her tongue slowly over her lip.

            “If you’re fantasizing about a threesome with them, you can forget it,” Varric told her point-blank.  “They’re practically married.”  
            Fenris stared at the bottom of his empty tankard, wondering when the barmaid would be back.

            “Not a threesome, Varric,” she said, smiling at him slyly.

            “No.”

            Her gaze shifted to Fenris, who did not look up.  Her eyebrows raised, and she cleared her throat.  She cleared it a second time, and he finally looked up.  “You…  No.”

            She smiled instead.  “And then, perhaps, we can get Sebastian _really, really_ drunk…”  The other two laughed.  “I’m serious!”  She picked up her hand, and the three busily looked at their cards.  The barmaid came around, filling everyone’s tankards.  She coughed when she stepped behind Varric, and cleared her throat when she stepped behind Fenris.  Isabela smiled.

            The other two were suddenly suspicious of the barmaid, but she was already away at another table.

            “Of course, we’ll need to invite Merrill as well.  She’s so _cute_ ,” she said as she rearranged her cards.

            “Don’t you dare drag Daisy into your sick fantasies, Rivaini,” Varric said protectively.

            “I was teaching her how to do body shots last week, and you had no problems then!” Isabela objected.

            “Of course not; I was drunk,” he said.  “Everything seems like a good idea when you’re drunk.”

            “Mmm—and Zevran…”

            “Just shut up,” Fenris said as the round started and bets were made, cards were left and drawn.  All he could think about was Anders in bed with Hawke, and it took everything he had not to let the lyrium react violently to his mood.  All the same, he felt it pulse—once.  Everyone near him turned and looked.  It was almost normal at this point, but people still looked instinctively.  He flinched a little, and blinked, trying to keep his expression blank.

            Isabela cocked her head to the side, as if trying to guess what was bothering him.  “The Warden Commander too,” she went on.

            Varric looked at Fenris, watched the lyrium flare again.  His gaze shifted back to the pirate.  “Rivaini…”

            Fenris took a long drink from his tankard, trying to calm his emotions.  He thought about the last time he had seen Anders kiss Hawke.  He remembered the way Hawke had smiled, the soft look in his eyes that he knew to be love.  He could see it, but no one had ever looked at him like that.  No one ever would either.  He remembered the way Hawke tasted, the way his caress had felt on his skin.  And he thought about Hawke touching Anders the same way.  It hurt.  He had thought, once, that the lyrium brought him more lasting pain than anything else ever could.  He had been wrong.

            He would rather be lashed to a post again and whipped than see them kiss even one more time.  It hurt so much.  Fenris took a deep breath, and set the tankard down now that he felt he could school his emotions.

            “What?” she demanded as more bets were laid.  “You act like there’s something wrong with fantasy.  Now, picture it—an orgy of hot, naked bodies on a massive bed with silk sheets-“

            “The silk would be ruined,” Fenris pointed out helpfully, as if nothing at all were wrong.  As if he didn’t fantasize, almost nightly, about ruining silk sheets with Hawke.

            She shot him a scowl.  “Fine.  Rather than a bed, what if it’s…  What if it’s solid gold?”  Her toes curled at the thought, in glee.  “With a fountain of wine pouring onto it—both to cool us down, drink, and to lubricate.”

            “Sounds sticky,” Varric said with a huff.

            Isabela rolled her eyes.  “It’s a _fantasy_.  It has no grounds in reality.”  She sighed wistfully.  “Yet.”  She smiled, caught up in her daydream.  “And then I can fuck to my heart’s content, I get all the gold afterwards, and I can be completely wasted on wine.  Sounds amazing.”

            The other two glanced at one another, then back at the cards.  The serving girl passed by again, and they were caught up enough in the game to not notice as she went by, until she walked behind Isabela on her way to another table.  She tripped, and the rogue turned to help her up, taking her cards in her hand with her.  Fenris’ eyes narrowed in suspicion, and Varric tried to look, but neither saw the brief exchange of a single card that passed between the two.  Isabela turned back to them, waited for another round, and folded.

            “I’m out,” Varric muttered.  “But you’re a cheat, Rivaini.”

            She only laughed, and looked to Fenris.  “Strip poker, my room?”

            “I don’t think so,” he said, sipping at the ale.

            “Fine.  Strip poker, out here.”

            “You don’t give up, do you?”

            She rolled her eyes, and they had another round.  “Hey, let’s make this more interesting.  I win, you come up to my room, take off all your clothes—nah, just your pants--and I break out a pair of handcuffs and whipped cream, and we see where it goes from there.”

            He stared at her.  “And what do I get?”

            “Who cares about what you get?” she demanded, then rolled her eyes.  “Fine, if you win, we’ll go back to your manor, you take off _all_ your clothes, and I cover you in whipped cream and have to remove it all using only my tongue.  Sound fair?”

            He stared at her for a long moment.  “No.”  He looked at his cards.  “If _I_ win, you stop trying to get in my pants.”  The serving girl started to pass, and he covered his cards.  “ _And_ you shut up about it.”

            They stared at one another for a long, intense moment.  The serving girl passed them by, the elf’s cards still covered.  “Deal,” she said.

            And Fenris smirked, and laid down his cards on the table.  Isabela looked at them, and swore loudly and with feeling.  “Damn you!” she cursed.  Pleased with himself, he reached across the table for the coins.  She stared at him, her fury slowly mounting.  Then she smiled, serenely.  He looked at her, and felt like, perhaps, he should take the coins and run.

            She catapulted herself out of her chair, crashed into Fenris across the table.  She slammed him down to the floor, knocking over his chair.  Her knees pinned his arms down at the elbow, and she reached her hands to his belt, twisting to see what she was doing.

            “I agreed not to _try_ ,” she said through gritted teeth.

            “Here?” he demanded.

            “Shut up,” she suggested.

            The bar patrons looked on with mute interest.  The owner of the bar was growing more and more displeased by the moment.  By the time the barkeep had come around, she had, despite his squirming and struggling, and noisy complaints, got her hand down the front of his pants.

            “Isabela,” the barkeep said.

            “I’m busy,” she said, trying to get just a little lower while he tried to squirm out from under her without actually hurting her.  Most of his instincts screamed to attack, but he had to fight them; she was a friend.

            “Go rape the elf outside then,” he said, pointing to the door.  “Or in your room, just not here.”

            She grumbled, and pulled her hand out of his pants.  Fenris was a bit shocked, over the entire thing, and she helped him to his feet.  His belt fell to the floor, and he scowled at her.  She grinned, grabbed it, and dashed up the stairs.  He watched her go, and would have just let her have the damned thing, except that he realized, with mounting dismay, that the little wolf carving was in one of those bags.

            He swore, grabbed the coins off the table, and ran after her.

            She was standing in the hallway, outside her door, with a smile like she knew something he didn’t.  “Isabela,” he said, walking toward her.

            She dangled the belt in one hand.  “Want it?  Come get it.”  She opened her door, and stepped inside.  He ground his teeth in fury, and marched after her, knowing this was a very bad decision.    The door opened again a moment later, and Isabela peered out at him, holding something in her hand that was distinctly not his belt.  When he got closer, he realized that it was her underwear.  Oh, Maker…

            She looked at him again, sizing him up, he noticed.  Should he go for his sword?  Was that the right thing to do in a situation like this?  Or should he leave the belt and the carving and run, and beg for it back later?  Or should he try to reason with her?  No, that was impossible—one does not reason with the unreasonable.

            “I’ll give it back to you, but you have to take off your pants,” she said, leaning casually in the doorway.

            “No.”

            She raised an eyebrow.  “No deal then.  Pants, or the belt.  Pick one.”

            “Isabela…”

            She shrugged.  “Fine.”  She turned, kicking the door shut behind her.  He stared at the door, knowing this was just a horrible idea.

            He took a deep breath, and opened it. 

Isabela was faster than he was; her blade was pressed against his throat.  In her sultry voice, she whispered, “Pants or no belt.”  He glowered at her, not remotely intimidated.  She shrugged, tossed the knife away, and shut the door.  “I wonder what’s in these pouches!” she called.

            He tried the door.  It was locked.  He stared at it, wondering if he should just walk through the door or not.  “In bag number _one_ , we have…  Some coins—not bad…  Looks like…”

            “Isabela—really—this is very immature.”

            “Pants,” she called again.

            “You have got to be kidding,” he muttered under his breath.

            “Twenty pieces of silver, eight coppers,” she said.

            “Isabela!”

            “Pants,” she insisted.

            He stared at the door in indecision.  He sighed, his forehead hitting the wall.  “I’m taking off my pants now,” he called.  “They’re off, and in my hand.  Now open the damned door.”

            A long pause, and he heard the lock turn.  He slammed the door open.  She jumped back.  He dashed for the belt lying on the floor, and she tackled him.  He dropped the coins in his hand, and they scattered noisily across the floor.

            “Liar,” she accused.  “I knew it.”  They grappled, and fought like children.  She bit his arm, and struck him in the neck, knocking the wind out of him.  He gagged, and she sprang on top of him, worming her hand back into his pants.

            “Damnit, Isabela!” he gasped, squirming to get away from under her.  She scowled at him.

            “You just keep still,” she told him, and pushed the toe of her boot onto his neck, applying a minimal pressure to keep him gagging, but still.  He complained and they continued to fight, but she managed to force his pants down to his mid-thighs.  “I think you like being choked.”  She smiled lazily at him.  He rolled his eyes.

            Now the tricky part was coming up.  She put her hand around him, and waited for him to just give up.  She eased the pressure off of his neck as he started to become more erect.

            He gasped, breathing hard.  “You are determined,” he told her.

            “It wouldn’t have come to this if you would just give in,” she quipped, her hand moving expertly down his length, two fingers working along the space between the shaft and his testicles.

            He rolled his eyes, then shivered as she ran her thumb in slow circles over the tip.  “You’re a fucking rapist,” he accused her.

            She looked back at his erection in her hand.  “You can’t rape the willing.”

            “ _Willing,_ ” he laughed.  He sat up, knocking her down.  He pinned her to the floor, glowering down at her.  A little frustrated, he wormed his way out of his pants, kicking them aside, shoving her tunic out of the way.  She smiled up at him, and gasped when he pushed inside her.  He kept her pinned to the floor, even when she struggled, and kicked, and wanted to be on top.  No, especially when she did that.

            She writhed under him in a desperate attempt to get him deeper inside of her, and when she kissed him, it was like she was trying to devour him—it was hungry, full of passion and desire.

            The pair shifted, tangled together, never apart and hungry for more—always hungry for more.  They couldn’t seem to find enough positions, at times disagreed on positions and there was always a battle for which one.  Sometimes, he lost, sometimes he won—but he felt like even when he lost, he didn’t, not truly.  Isabela liked being on top.  She liked being in control, and when it was taken from her, it was exciting and almost frightening at the same time, and she liked that too.

            The lyrium was glowing, bright enough to light up the small room and illuminate all the dingy corners, the silver and copper coins glinting on the floor, their clothing strewn haphazardly about the room—things to trip over and fall against.  He shuddered, and breathed, and had to try something.

            He felt his soul slip away from him.  It had once been—not painful exactly—but uncomfortable.  It took a piece of his body and mind with it, as ever it did.  He, as always, was conscious of someone, or something watching.  But it had always felt benevolent before.  He had long ago accepted that it might just be a demon watching him, but it had never approached him.  The presence was only that—a presence—something watching and waiting, but never able to partake.

            The experience left him able to touch the world around him, but able to move through it like he couldn’t before.  He could push deeper into her than before, more inside her than before—but oh so careful not to hurt her.  It could kill her, if he were not very, very careful.  He tried to judge where he was inside her with one hand on her belly, and then he looked at her, her face contorted in ecstasy and wonder, and passed his hand into her stomach.  He could kill her if he wanted to.  Rip out her intestines inch by inch and she would be powerless to stop him, but he didn’t.

            It took every effort not to harm her, to touch her in places no one else could, sensations that had never been achieved before—save perhaps through other dark magics.  And he could touch himself too, brushing against her, watching her shudder and scream, her whole body shaking.

            She was so wet it was a small wonder he could stay inside her, the torrent of her orgasms almost fighting against him as much as welcoming him.  He pulled his hand away, as gentle as could be, and pulled back, just enough.  He was tired of being careful.

            He relaxed, his form melting back from the Fade, and he bent to kiss her again.  Or, would have, except that her arms snaked around his head and she yanked him down to kiss him savagely.  She was wanton and mad in her lust, and asked him to do it again.  And he did.

            The pair twisted into every position they could think of, against every object in the room, heedless of any kind of noise or breaking anything, and when they stopped, it wasn’t from orgasm—it was from being too tired, too breathless, bodies too sore to keep going and simply passed out, one atop the other.

            Fenris woke up when Isabela rolled off of him.  She groaned groggily, and rolled her head to look at him.  “Want to go again?”

            Of course he wanted to go again.  He kissed her breasts, caressed her legs.  He lapped along her cleavage, down to her naval.  He kissed down between her legs, his tongue pushing against her.  He liked the feel of her muscles in his hands, her firm buttocks, her gorgeous breasts.  He liked the taste of her, liked the way she felt.  He liked being inside her, and he knew she liked him inside her.

            She took him in her mouth, tasting herself on his member.  Her fingers ran along his ribs, touching his stomach, curving around behind him.  He thrust deeper into her mouth, and she took him, her beautiful lips pressed against him.  Slowly, her tongue escaped her lips, rolling downward to barely stroke his balls.  Her hands cupped him, touched him, held him like a worshipper held a holy artifact.

            Her fingers entered him wet, and he moaned.  She licked across his testicles, against where her fingers were, and nibbled along his thigh.  She lapped the salt from his erection, toying with it in her mouth.  She rose, kissing one of his nipples.  She took it between her teeth, and pulled, gently, making him rise with her mouth.  She let go, and he sighed, pushing against her fingers.  She smiled, her hand slipping away.  She pressed her breasts against his hips, his erection mashed between her cleavage.  He touched her shoulders, his hand going down to her bosom.  He pushed them together, gasping as he pumped against her breasts.  It was an entirely new sensation, slick with sweat and her saliva.  He could control the way it felt by how hard he could push against his breasts.  She had amazing breasts.

            The way she had worshipped his cock and testicles, he knelt and worshipped her breasts.  He kissed them, caressed them, covered every inch of them with kisses, soft caresses, kneaded them, and _needed_ them.  He sucked on her nipple like a newborn babe, lapping against it slowly.  He could never fit her breasts in his mouth, but he could get as much of them as possible.  He lifted her breasts in his hands, loved the way they felt.

            He had only ever been with men.  Been raped by men, fucked men, made love once to a man.  A woman was an entirely different experience, and he loved it.  He kissed her nipples again, and she slid down on his dick. 

            He watched her breasts bounce as she rode him, touched the curve of her ass, the bend of her waist, her heaving chest.  She was so wet that it soaked his hips.  He gasped, shivering at the marvel of how a woman could orgasm and just keep fucking.  He, alternately, was finished when he reached his orgasm, as ever.  He dressed quickly, and had intended to leave before she distracted him again, except that he had glanced back at her.  She was sitting on the bed, her legs spread, her chest bare and glistening with sweat.  He had stared, longer than he had intended to.

            “You don’t have to leave,” she told him.

            He wasn’t looking at her face when he said goodbye.

            Varric saw him leaving, and laughed.  “Ah, the Walk of Shame,” he mused with a knowing nod.

            Fenris sighed, and rolled his eyes, but self-consciously picked at his hair.  “Shut up, Varric.  What time is it?”

            The dwarf briefly debated pointing out the controversy in telling someone to shut up and then asking them a question, but decided otherwise.  “About noon.”

            “Hell.”  His entire body felt sore, and by the time he made it to Hightown, he felt like he was dying.  It does no justice to describe the particular ecstasy he felt when he peeled off his clothes and armor, and fell face-first into bed, with the intention of never moving again.

            _So,_ he thought half-sarcastically to himself.  _That was sex with Isabela._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And you do it again, don't you, Fenris? The world is conspiring against you, and you go have sex.


	89. Signatures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varania and Danarius strike a deal. Fenris apologizes to Hawke and they work at being friends.

He should have expected it, but Isabela went around to everyone in the pub talking about how amazing the sex had been, and mentioned it to nearly everyone he knew too, not to mention pestered him for more.  It didn’t take much, though, and they were tangled in his sheets.

            He didn’t even really know _why_ he did it, just that he did, and the pirate would give him these lusty looks even in public—blatant and proud to let the entire world know it.  Though she did reminisce that she would like to have a threesome with him and someone else—nearly anyone else, it seemed like.  She would lament only that there was not at least two of him.

            Apparently, he couldn’t be in all of her orifices at once, though he did make the attempt, and this was the only fault she found in the sex.  Not a bad fault, he had to say.

            Though it did fill up his nights (and mornings, and sometimes a little bit of afternoon, and occasionally evenings), it didn’t entirely take his mind off of Hawke.  Oh, in the heat of the moment, sure; he didn’t think about anything except savage lust.  But afterwards, he would wonder, _If I had just stayed that night, would it be any different?_

Hawke told him that he was happy for him, and that just made the entire thing worse.  _I’m only fucking Isabela because I can’t fuck you,_ he wanted to say, but instead he plastered the face he had worn when Danarius killed that little boy, and nodded.  Mentioned that the sex was fantastic.  Hawke had laughed and they talked like old friends.  He supposed they were, if grudgingly.  It was… strange having friends.  He was new to the concept, and uncertain in a lot of ways, but they had known one another for many years, had fought side by side, and he liked Hawke anyway.

            It just hurt to see him with Anders.

            Fenris felt like he couldn’t bear to spend another moment in his mansion.  It was too big, too empty.  Someone’s memories resided here, and he had dwelled there for a long time, but he, in many ways, was a stranger in the place he lived.  He didn’t belong anywhere.  He left, with no real intent or purpose, and found himself outside of Hawke’s manor, the gentle rain running down his face.  When he went inside, Orana spotted him.  She was standing on a ladder, dusting off the Amell family crest.

            “ _Are you looking for Hawke_?” she asked, in perfect Tevene.

            Fenris had to think about the translation for a moment, and mentally kicked himself for it.  It was his first language, and he was losing hold of it because no one else spoke it.  “ _Yes.  Do you know where he is?”_ he asked, halting only once.  His pronunciation was lacking.  If he spoke to Orana more often, he might remember more of it.  She was the only one he knew who spoke it, after all.  Likewise for her, he thought, which is why she did it.  Not that she did not also speak the Trade tongue fluently—very much a household slave, her past.

            _“He left—oh—about an hour ago.”_   She started to climb down, missed a peg and yelped as she clutched the ladder.  Fenris moved to catch her should she fall.  Orana took a deep breath, and continued the rest of the way down without incident.

            “ _Do you know where he went_?” he asked, as she couldn’t fall to her untimely death now that she was safely on the floor.

            She shrugged, then frowned in thought.  She giggled a little and said, “ _Maybe to see Anders—he had that look on his face he gets when he’s thinking about him_.”  She blushed, covering her mouth as if she had said something she should not have.  It was slow-going, but she was gradually learning what it meant to not be a slave.  Why, she had even asked for a personal day or two.  Progress was progress, he supposed, and in many ways, this was the best place for her; Hawke kept her out of the alienage, with the express desire that she really should never go through Low Town alone.

            Fenris forced a smile, for her sake, so she would know that she had not offended him inadvertently.  She was still a bit nervous about talking to Hawke and any of his friends, even when asked direct questions.  It wasn’t a slave’s place, but she was learning.  She had always been most comfortable with Fenris, who understood, completely, what it was like.  That he spoke Tevene helped.  “ _Thank you, Orana_.”

            “ _You’re welcome, Fenris_.”

            He bit his lip as he left, wondering if he should really go all the way to Dark Town.  He could just walk back in to the mansion, hide in his library maybe, and wait for him to show up.

            He didn’t really feel like it though.  Every minute that passed was another minute that he lost his nerve.  He needed to apologize to Hawke for his actions.  He needed to be accountable for his actions.  And, though it hurt, he needed to tell Hawke how he felt about him, even though he knew it would only hurt more.  Even when he knew Hawke would stay with Anders.

            So he followed the streets down to Low Town, and finally to Dark Town.  The glowing lyrium was even more evident down here, and people looked at him.  He was careful of where he stepped, cringing with nearly every footfall.  The stink alone was bad enough.  It was even worse than the alienage, and that was saying something.

            The clinic, though, was _cleaner_ if not exactly clean, he had to admit—a wooden floor and everything.  It even looked swept.  It did nothing at all for the smell, however.

            He opened the door.  Anders was sitting down, a young child on his lap, and he was smiling gently, speaking soothingly.  Blue healing magic flowed freely from his hands, and the child cradled his wrist as if it were broken.  The child’s eyes were red, nose runny.  A mother stood nearby, grateful and relieved.  Anders had not yet noticed Fenris.  The child suddenly hugged Anders, happy to be healed, and grateful.  The mage was shocked briefly, then smiled.  He hugged the child once, and seemed happy for a moment, before he passed the child to its mother, who hugged him in turn.  They exchanged a few words, and the woman hurried past Fenris.

            Anders looked at him, and frowned.  “Isabela give you a disease?  She does that, you know.”

            Fenris sighed.  “Is Hawke around?”

            The apostate’s jaw set, lips pressed together.  “Haven’t seen him since we were in bed this morning,” he said a little smugly, leaning against the table.

            Fenris’ eyes narrowed.  “I don’t care what you and Hawke do, but I don’t care to hear about it either.”

            “You’re so jealous,” he laughed.

            It was true, at least.  But he hadn’t come here to pick a fight with Anders.  “I was the first man who fucked him,” Fenris hissed, and immediately regretted it.  He had to say that, didn’t he?  He couldn’t just change the topic, or leave, could he?  He _had_ to say it.

            Anders looked briefly annoyed, a flash of his own jealousy.  “But not the last.”

            “You know they say you never forget your first—all the ones in between—but not the first.”

            The human crossed his arms.  “And not the last either.  He loves me, Fenris.  Not you.”

            The elf stared at him, his temper riled.  “He’d still be with me.  He wanted me.  He chose me over you.  When I left him, he went to you.  You were his _second_ choice.”

            The remark stung.  “If you have regrets, it’s a little late for that, elf.”  Anders smirked.  “It’s me in Hawke’s bed every night, and you need to get over it.”

            _Where I’ve been only once_ , he thought miserably.  “If I had stayed that night, you’d still be down here alone, mage.”

            “What’s going on?” a new voice inquired, and Fenris stiffened when he knew it was Hawke.  He turned and looked at him, his rage ebbing.  Hawke looked at him curiously, then his eyes slid to Anders, and his expression changed.  His gaze was softer, fonder.  There was an adoration in his eyes, a longing in his lips.  The look on his face confirmed it for him.  Hawke had never looked at Fenris that way.  His entire argument with Anders was stupid; the mage had won.  It wasn’t even that Fenris had walked out that night; Hawke had never once looked at Fenris the same way he looked at Anders.

            His heart rose up in his throat.  He needed to apologize to Hawke.  He needed to say something.

            Anders smiled warmly at his lover.  The two kissed but briefly, and Fenris looked away.  “Fenris was looking for you,” Anders said warmly, as if they had not been in a heated argument a moment before.

            Hawke looked back at Fenris.  “Did you need something?”

            The elf looked at him, then back at the floor.  “No.  Never mind.”  He turned, and put the clinic quickly behind him, but Hawke followed him.

            “I heard some of that, Fenris,” Hawke said quietly, catching up to walk beside him.  The elf paused, wondering how much he had heard.  “I’m sorry that you’re jealous.”  He shrugged.  “But I thought you had Isabela.”

            Fenris sighed, but didn’t say anything immediately.  They walked, and made it up a flight of stairs before the elf said, “He just provokes me, that’s all.”

            “Anders says the same about you.”  Hawke paused.  “Look, I understand that you both hate each other, and that’s fine.  But I’d appreciate it if you could be civil to one another.”

            _Then tell him to stop smirking at me and bringing it up!_   “I wanted to apologize for walking out on you that night,” he said quietly.  “And rejecting you.  I should not have done that.”

            Hawke shrugged.  “Apology accepted.” 

Fenris looked away.  The apostate just didn’t grasp how poorly Fenris felt about the situation, but why would he?  He had Anders.  He had wanted to apologize and tell him how he felt.  He had done one of those things at least, but now…?  No, he couldn’t tell him; he couldn’t bear it.  The apology was enough for now.

 

            Varania’s eyes squeezed shut as she tried to ignore the man’s fumbling hands.  _Just think of something else_ , she thought.  There were other things to think about, too.

            She thought about the chores she needed to do, what was left of the day to be precise.  There was help needed in the infirmary—there had been an accident in the fields earlier.  There was the magister’s wife’s little chapel that she spent much of her time in, praying to Andraste and the Maker for one reason or another.  Perhaps for her corrupt husband’s soul.  It was Varania’s duty to keep the fires ever-burning and they required care a couple of times a day—just a touch of magic was all.  Then there were the lights…

            _His hand slipped down the front of her robe, between her breasts…_

After that, she would be finished for the day—another day’s wages anyway.  She could eat, rest, and begin again the next day.  She wondered what Leto would be like, when she finally got to meet him.  Did he look any different with all that lyrium on his skin?  She did wonder…

            The man suddenly stopped, and she blinked, more confused that he had frozen than anything.

            “Touch my mother again, and I will cut it off and stuff it down your throat,” a voice hissed.  The man dropped his hands away from her.  Shaislyn?

            “I’m a _Senior Enchanter, boy_ ,” he reminded him, half of a threat.

            “I don’t care.  Fuck off,” he said.  One of the twin blades he kept at his back were drawn, pointing at the other mage.  The man made as if to fight him.  Shaislyn reached for the other sword.  “I’m a mage too.”

            “Apostate,” he sniffed, hurling the word like a grave insult.  Shaislyn tilted his chin in opposition.  The man glared at the pair.  He pointed at Varania.  “A month’s pay I’m deducting, for what your brat did.”  And he turned and stomped off.

            Her mouth dropped.  “Shaislyn, why would you…”

            “Are you all right, Mother?” he inquired gently, sheathing the blade.  He looked truly concerned, and it was difficult to be angry with him.

            “A month’s pay!” she tried again, flustered.  “What am I going to _do_?”

            He seemed unconcerned.  “I’ll take care of it,” he said, and fished at a leather pouch at his hip for a moment, and produced two gold coins.  “Here, take it.”  He shoved them into her hands, and ran his fingers through his curly hair.  “I’m sorry; I just…  I can’t…”  He sighed.

            Varania looked down, embarrassed.  “He’s never raped me,” she insisted.

            He didn’t look like he believed her, his face twisted into grief.  “Did you consider my offer?”

            Varania looked away.  “I don’t know…  I just… how can I make that kind of decision?”

            He shrugged a shoulder nonchalantly, and they began to walk.  Varania walked toward the infirmary, and he followed beside her.  “I would do it,” Shaislyn said pleasantly.

            Varania missed a step.  “But… you don’t understand.  Leto wouldn’t—“

            “He isn’t Leto any more, Mother,” her son insisted.  “Different person, same body—that’s all.”  He was silent for a moment.  “Fenris murders, kills, even tortures.  Was Leto like that?”

            She wanted to say no, but thought about all the times he had come back from the coliseum, and he had bragged about whatever bloody feats he had accomplished.  But he had never tortured anyone, had he?  He had never been a party to something like that, had he?  Or… was her brother never the person she thought he was?  Had she just been too young and naïve to see it?  She didn’t know any more.  It had been such a long time ago…  “Even if I could betray my brother, how could I ever ally myself with that man?”

            His hand around her arm stopped her, and she looked back at him.  He looked disheartened.  “If you won’t do it for you, and you won’t do it for what it meant when he set you free, will you do it for me?” he asked, his voice quiet.  “I just want to see you happy.”  He lowered his head.  “I can’t stand seeing you here.”  His hand fell away from her arm, but she stayed rooted to the spot.  “If you do this, you’ll be rich, and need nothing, and I won’t worry about you any more…”  He looked up again.  “I’ve never asked you for anything—won’t you do this for me?”

            She looked at her son, a son she knew she had never loved the way that she should have, who had loved her more than perhaps she deserved.  He had never asked for anything, had he?  He had made so many sacrifices, and done everything he could to try to provide for her, to try to make her happier, all to gain her approval and her love, and she had never really given it to him, had she?  She had been pushing him away all his life, and he had always kept reaching out to her, and loving her, and it had crushed him to pieces when she admitted to what she had done to his sister, what she had intended to do to him.

            And it broke her heart to say it, but she did, “I can’t.”

            He stared at her, his blind eyes filled with tears.  “Why do you love a brother who sent you away more than a son who has done nothing but try to help you?” he asked her.

            “He was trying to help me,” she objected.

            “He didn’t, though—not really,” he pointed out, blinking away the tears.  “He made things _worse_.  You said so yourself.”

            “Not on purpose,” she continued to defend her brother.

            Shaislyn shook his head, as if in despair.  “Grandmother _died_ and her last words were for him,” he whispered.  “Not you.  Not me.  _Him._   Always _him_ and he wasn’t even _there_.”

            “I have to go,” Varania said, and turned, dashing into the infirmary.  She thought about what her son had said for the rest of the day.  She fell asleep thinking about it.  She woke thinking about it, and the bitterness Leto had left her with.  She thought about all she had had to do to get by, all the things she had to bear alone.

            Shaislyn came back the next night, and said not one word.  He sat in her room, and she brushed her hair, and set the brush down, and said, “He’ll make me a magister?”

            “Yes,” he said quietly.  “You’ll have everything you’ve ever dreamed of, Mother.  And more.”

            Varania was silent a long moment.  “If I agree to this, I want something from you.”

            His chair squeaked as he rose from it.  “What do you need?”

            “I don’t trust Danarius.  I just want you to keep me safe,” she said honestly.  “And…  Please.  Join the Circle, Shaislyn.  I worry about you as an apostate.  It’s not safe.”

            He looked down.  “I’ll keep you safe from Danarius.  But I won’t join the Circle.  Any Circle.”

            “What if you get caught by Templars somewhere else?” she insisted.  “Orlais?  Or the Free Marches?  Or anywhere?”  She bit her lip.  “I’d never see you again, Shaislyn.  If you’re a Tevinter Circle mage, you can at least say that, and they would have to send you back home—especially if I were a magister.”

            His lips pressed together into a thin, tight line.  “No.”

            She blinked, and sighed.  “Fine.  Tell Danarius my answer is no.”

            He looked at her, and seemed angry for a moment.  “Fine.  But only after we get back to Minrathous—with my uncle.”

            Varania nodded, and hesitated.  She stepped toward her son, and hugged him, tightly for all the times she should have held him and had let Lura or her mother do it instead.  She wanted to love him; he was becoming a good man and she knew he deserved a mother’s love.  It was just… so hard when every time she looked at him, she saw a little of his father in him.

            What would it be like being that man’s apprentice?  She reasoned that Shaislyn would be there, and he had promised to keep her safe.  She knew that her brother would be there, but she couldn’t say how he would react after so long—and after what she was going to do to him.

 

            The gull winged across the Nocen Sea, searching, and finally found what it was looking for.  It changed direction only slightly, and in what seemed like no time at all, with a fair wind to guide its wings, it landed on the deck of the ship.  No one paid the bird any heed, until it began to glow, and one of the sailors gave a cry of alarm.

            Shaislyn strutted past him, utterly ignoring him.  They had best get used to it, anyway.  He was challenged once, by two sailors, and it might have come to blows, except Danarius heard the bickering, and knew it could only be instigated by one person.

            “Leave him alone—he’s welcome,” Danarius said with barely a glance their way.

            Shaislyn smirked at the sailors, and leaned against the railing.  “I went to talk to my mother,” he said, cocking his head to the side.

            “How long has it been since then?”

            “Two weeks,” he said.  He quirked a smile.  “She consented, but she’s a little uncertain; I’m confident she’ll come around.”  He looked out at the sea.  “The whole thing will have more weight if she can talk to you though.”  He glanced at him.  “And if you aren’t civil, this whole thing is off.”

            “I’m nothing but civil.”

            Shaislyn raised an eyebrow, but chose not to comment.  “An _apology_ might do more than a promise of enormous wealth and power, you know.”

            “An apology for what?” the magister said flatly, watching the dolphins.

            Shaislyn watched them too, for different reasons.  He had trouble watching marine life, and as a result, had no aquatic forms at his disposal, something he believed should be remedied.  “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation,” he muttered, and cleared his throat.  “My existence.”

            “Ah, that.”

            “Yes, that.”

            The magister looked at his bastard child.  “An apology would imply that I am sorry about it; I’m not.”

            “You could _at least_ go through the motions,” he insisted.  “Surely, you can say that raping a fourteen-year old girl was at least in bad taste.”

            He frowned at him.  “Perhaps.”  He looked back at the water.  “But I still don’t care.”

            Shaislyn ground his teeth.  “Then _pretend_ you do.  This will be so much easier if you can at least _pretend_ to have any kind of decency or moral standards.  Or at least sympathy.”

            “Are you quite finished chastising me for not living up to your ‘standards’ of morality?”

            “No,” the half-elf said, but fell silent anyway.

            “How did you fly so far?” he inquired.

            Shaislyn shrugged.  “I flew up to the Eyes and hopped around the islands, and flew along the coast of Seheron—I hate trying to cross the sea, in case you were curious.  I figured you wouldn’t be too far from Minrathous, and I was right.  Got a little distracted in Alam, or I would have found you sooner.”

            “’Distracted’.”

            “Fine.  I was whoring, which is illegal there, so that’s more difficult than it sounds.”

            He rolled his eyes.  “At least you aren’t thieving.”

            The half-elf smirked.  “Oh, I did that too.  How do you think I paid for the whores?”

            Danarius made a face.  “Sometimes, you disgust me.”

            Shaislyn raised an eyebrow.  “And sometimes _you_ disgust _me._ The whores are at least willing.”  He frowned at him.  “And I only steal from people who can afford the loss.  Which is more than you can say, with your raping and your taxes and fines.”  He stretched until his shoulders popped.  “Anyway, I’m going to head back and see about my mother, but I thought I’d let you know what was going on.  See you in a couple of weeks.”  He grinned.  “And we’ll see Fenris soon enough too.”

            _At least there are small things to look forward to_ , Shaislyn thought as he winged northward, back to Seheron.

 

            Hawke sat across from Fenris in the dark bar.  Varric had gone to bed an hour ago, complaining about the merchant guild, and Isabela had just gone to walk Merrill home.  Hawke was on a steady losing streak to Fenris—cards, dice, and arm wrestling.  He was determined not to lose this one.

            Their hands locked together, arms straight.  Fenris smirked when he saw Hawke’s arm start to go down.  The mage grimaced, and kicked the elf— _hard_ —in the knee.  Fenris jumped, and Hawke slammed his hand down against the table.  He drank to his victory.

            Fenris scowled.  “That’s cheating.”

            “Still won.”

            “By cheating,” he muttered.

            “Grow a pair,” the mage countered.  The other rolled his eyes.  Hawke grinned, and finished off his mug of ale.  A trace of a smile remained on his face.  “I used to do this with Carver all the time when we were kids.”

            He raised an eyebrow.  “Cheat at arm wrestling?”

            “Only when he started beating me.”  He glanced down at his empty mug, and signaled for more ale.  He ran a finger absently along the brim of the cup.  “I once stripped him naked and tied him to a tree too.  It was funnier than hell.”

            “It’s a small wonder he doesn’t hate you,” Fenris commented.

            Hawke shook his head, laughing.  “That’s what having siblings is about, Fenris.”  Then his smile faded, as he again realized.  “Sorry,” he said quietly.  Hadriana had mentioned a sister, and he hoped he hadn’t accidentally struck a bad cord.

            Fenris shrugged noncommittally, but otherwise said nothing.

            Hawke looked at him, watched him stare into his ale.  He leaned forward on the table.  “How old were you when the Ritual happened, Fenris?” he asked gently.

            The elf glanced up, green eyes peering out at him.  “I was eighteen when I woke up.”  Even that was debatable; Danarius consistently did not remember Fenris’ exact age, and Fenris had certainly never been told after he woke.  He had been afraid to ask, embarrassed that he did not know.  Taggart had once haphazardly guessed his age to be late teens, but he didn’t really _know._   If Fenris did the math, from that one day that Danarius had told him his age, he guessed 18, but he could be wrong.  Or maybe Danarius was even untruthful; he had no way of knowing.

            Hawke’s lips twitched in sympathy, and started to say something, then stopped.  He considered all the embarrassing things he had said and did when he was a teenager, the mind-numbing things that had happened in his preteens.  He leaned back in the chair.  “I actually wouldn’t mind forgetting a good portion of my life from when I was 12-17.”  He cocked his head to the side.  “I mean, sometimes I think about how fucking dumb I was, and I just would rather not remember any of that.  I mean, you say something dumb, and then you think about it for eight years—being alive is hard.  I think I’d rather not remember.”

            Fenris decided to take it good-naturedly, even catching himself smiling as he thought about a man like Hawke doing something “dumb”.  “Do a lot of embarrassing things, I take it?”  
            He cringed inwardly just thinking about it.  “Yeah.  Mostly normal stuff—puberty, awkward erections, Mom walking in on me masturbating—things like that.”  He laughed at himself, face even flushing a little.  The barmaid filled up his mug and went on her way.  The mage looked at Fenris.  “What was it like when you woke up?”

            Fenris shrugged a shoulder, not really knowing where to begin.  He glanced at the ceiling, stained with years of smoke and grime, a story of its history like a tangible memory.  He looked back at Hawke.  “I was confused.  I had no idea where I was, who I was.  I had apparently been comatose for about six weeks after the Ritual, so I was very weak too; I couldn’t even stand.”

            Hawke’s eyebrows rose in surprise.  “Six weeks?” he said, wondering if he had somehow misheard him.

            The elf nodded in confirmation.  “It might have been more or less—I had no concept of time.”  He was silent a moment.  “It took a lot to be able to walk again,” he said quietly.  “All I wanted in the world was to walk.  I felt so useless.”

            Hawke wondered what he could possibly say to that.  He tried to imagine someone like Fenris—muscular, active, strong-willed—bedridden and weak.  He couldn’t.  “I’m sorry,” he said instead.

            The other hesitated, taking a sip of his ale.  “I wasn’t unhappy, though, that first year anyway,” he confessed.

            He leaned forward again, both because Fenris was speaking softly and because he was suddenly curious.  “Really?” he inquired.

            Fenris nodded absently, looking away.  “I was relearning how to walk, run, even some basic motor functions.  A little bit about combat and fighting.  I barely even saw Danarius.”  He looked down at the ale, the liquid tranquil in its cup, undisturbed by even a ripple.  “My master had horses—he bred destriers—and they needed to be exercised.  It was good for me; it helped me gain back some of the muscle I had lost.  So I rode them often.”

            This was something Hawke could have never guessed about his friend.  Fenris never talked about any of his personal interests.  Hawke had been half-convinced that all he really cared about was, well, his hatred of slavery and all things Imperial, his hatred of mages, and occasionally his love of alcohol—Fenris also enjoyed combat, he recalled.  This was a more pleasant change of subject.  “Really?  You like riding horses?”

            The elf peered at him curiously, wondering why Hawke was suddenly so interested.  It was such a small thing.  “I loved it,” he admitted, smiling shyly.  “It was the only time…”  His voice suddenly trailed off, the smile fading with his own uncertainty.  _It was the only time I felt free, even though I didn’t know that yet._   “I was happy,” he said instead.  When he said it, he knew it was true.  He _had_ been happy training in the sun with Taggart and the dwarven woman.  He had been happy on the horses, learning to ride.  There was a particular joy to it, especially with a high-spirited animal.  He remembered the way the animal would move beneath him, leaping at his urging, its hooves racing across the earth faster than he could ever hope to move, bearing his weight effortlessly.  Hawke watched, content to see the hint of a smile on the elf’s face, the way even his eyes would glint as he thought about a happy memory.  Fenris had few of those, and Hawke was glad to see it.

            “Maybe I could rent a couple horses for a day,” he said slowly.  Fenris looked up.  “Do you want to go riding with me?”

            Fenris picked up his ale.  “It’s been a long time since I was on a horse.”

            Hawke laughed.  “Longer for me, and I bet you’re a better rider than I am.  We just had a plough horse.”

            Fenris actually laughed.  “As I mentioned before, Danarius bred destriers—war horses.  You taught me to read; I can teach you to ride.”

            The mage looked at him.  Fenris seemed almost happy at the mention of it.  Seeing him happy made his heart melt, the part of his heart that would always care for him rejoicing to see something so rare.  What he would do to see him happy all the time…  “I’d like that,” he said.  He blinked.  “I’m sure Anders wouldn’t object to me spending time with you.”

            Fenris’ smile withered, and he busied himself with the ale.  “Don’t tell him,” he said, taking a long drink of it.  “He won’t like it.”

            “There’s nothing between you and I anymore,” Hawke pointed out.  “And I do love Anders, and he knows that.”  And Hawke smiled, hoping to still the sudden awkwardness between them that had not been there a moment ago.  “So.  Tell me all your secrets:  How is it that you are the best lay Isabela has ever had?”

            Fenris set the mug down, and gave a seductive smirk.  “Well, serrah, I’ll tell you all about it.”

 

            Shaislyn waited by the docks, watching for the ship.  He talked with the workers, chatted with the whores, gambled with the sailors, until he saw the ship pulling up to dock.

            He slipped away, and strolled toward it, but stayed back a fair distance until he saw the magister, then he waited, arms crossed, at the opposite end of the pier.  Danarius saw him, but made no rush to get to him.  That was fine; there was a nice sea breeze and the gulls were crying.  A boy in nothing but tattered trousers had cast a line off of a dirty dock.

            One of the magister’s servants went past him on some errand.  Shaislyn watched him pass, followed by another.  One for transportation, one for an inn, he assumed.

            Rightly, as it was.

            The magister finally approached him, followed by a large contingent of guards in his house’s livery.  “Where is she?” the magister seemed bored, and a little apprehensive.

            “Waiting for you,” Shaislyn said with a shrug.  He cocked his head to the side.  “At the inn, matter of fact.”

            “Which inn did you presume I was going to?”

            Shaislyn turned, and began to walk up the steps to the street, but turned his head as he spoke.  “ _Nacona’s Pearl_ ,” he answered.  “Best inn in the city, nothing less for your rank.”  He said the last bit with a touch of sarcasm.

            The carriage drew up, and Shaislyn insisted that he would walk, and he got there sooner.  He had to lead his mother out of her room—something Shaislyn had put her in to keep her away from the local magister while this was going on—it conveniently fell on her off day, anyway.  He hugged her for reassurance, told her that it would be all right, and promised to stay with her the entire time.

            By the time he had coaxed courage into his mother, the magister had already arrived, and the staff were rushing about seeing to his every desire.  His mother and the man that had raped her sat down to a table, and talked.  Shaislyn watched them from what would be a distance to most people, but he adjusted his vision so that he was practically sitting beside them.  Unfortunately, it did nothing for hearing them, but he could read the forms that were laid out, and see his mother’s anxious expressions.  He really should learn how to read lips.

            At the table, the pair discussed Shaislyn’s uncle.  “Why doesn’t he know me?” she demanded of Danarius.  “Why doesn’t Leto remember me?”

            The magister looked at her.  “The Ritual was a very traumatic experience for him; he lost his memories.”

            Varania frowned.  “What are you not telling me?”  Her eyes narrowed.  “If you’re lying to me, I’ll have no part of this.”

            Danarius raised an eyebrow.  “He _sold_ his memories, Varania, if it pleases you to know.” 

Her jaw dropped.  “Why would he do that?  _How_ could he do that?”

The magister took a sip of tea.  “He did it for you.”  He smiled a little.  “Remember how I gifted to your mother a small purse of silver?  That was what his memories were worth.  His memories paid for your crossing to Seheron.”

Varania wanted to cry.  He had sold his memories… for her?  And she was doing this to him?  Then she felt angry.  All his memories were to him were a few pieces of silver?  That was it?  He wanted them away so badly, and sent her and her mother on a ship to get rid of them?  “Why?”

The magister frowned.  “I offered.”

The elven mage’s eyes narrowed.  “And why would you offer?”

            Danarius blinked.  “I didn’t want him to remember; he was so much more obedient when he had no past, after all.”

            Varania looked at him.  “That’s sick.”

            He shrugged.  “I did offer him; I never forced him.”  He left unsaid that he would have, if it came to pass.

            She looked down, disturbed.  Then she looked back up.  “Did you hurt him?”  She looked about to cry.  “Did you hurt Leto?”

            “No.”

            Then she realized what she had said, and covered her mouth in horror.  “I sold you Shaislyn so that you wouldn’t hurt him… then you…”  Her eyes watered.  “You changed his name…”

            The magister nodded, and gestured back to the scroll on the table.  “Loopholes, my dear, are something I’ll teach you about.  You’ll learn to exploit them.”

            She looked down at the scroll.  “I shouldn’t be doing this.”

            Danarius looked at her, raising an eyebrow.  “Believe me, Fenris is nothing like Leto, if it puts your mind to ease.”

            She stared downwards.  “Will he ever remember me?”

            “No—probably not.”

            She did not move.  “You… hurt my brother.”

            “Fenris is no more your brother than your neighbor is, Varania,” he said serenely.  “They’re just not the same person.”

            She barely heard him.  “Why would you hurt him?”

            He frowned.  “Why did I ever have Leto whipped or beaten, Varania?  When he did something I disliked, he was punished; that’s all.”  A pause.  “He’s my slave.”

            “It’s my brother,” she whispered.  She stared down at her hands.  “Or… what’s left of him.”

            “Varania,” he said gently.  “He would betray you in a heartbeat if he thought it would keep him out of my reach for even a week longer.”  He sighed.  “I fear that’s my fault; I did train him to be ruthless.”

            She hesitated.  “Let’s get this over with,” she sighed.

Then finally, his father signed the form, and handed her the pen.

            Shaislyn watched her tremble as she accepted it, watched her hand shake as she signed her name, and placed the pen down.  It was done; bargain struck.  Varania signaled for Shaislyn, a curious frown about her lips.

            “You have to sign as well,” she said.

            He nodded.  “I know,” he said, and took the pen, and signed the new document.  The original one he had signed was also on the table.  Varania had made a couple demands, though, he saw.  She wanted it in ink that Fenris would be released from slavery upon his death—no loopholes, nothing.  She wanted it confirmed that he wasn’t going to simply gift or sell her brother and put him forever out of her reach.  She also had made it said, in no uncertain terms, that her brother was to be treated well.  She had insisted it say that he would not be killed, nor mutilated in any fashion.  She was explicit.  Shaislyn was pleased; she had learned.

            On the ship back to Minrathous, Danarius and Varania discussed what sorts of lies they would tell Fenris.  She of course had to tell him that she was moving to Minrathous; Danarius would pay for her tutors, as a show of good grace, while she worked under the employ of a magister that owed Danarius a favour or two, as a tailor.  She agreed not to mention that she was a mage to him.

            “It will make him suspicious,” Danarius said.  “He seems to hate mages.”

            “I wonder why,” Varania muttered under her breath, but consented.  She wrote him a letter when she arrived, telling him about the voyage over there, about her new job and how an acquaintance had helped her acquire it.  She lived at her employer’s tower, and went to Danarius’ manor to study about politics, law, and etiquette—and any other thing he could think to teach her.  Shaislyn sat through many of the lessons, often more to keep her at ease than out of a desire to learn about them, though it did help her to study. 

Danarius mentioned that, one thing that might intrigue Fenris, would be to mention Seheron, so she did.  She commented that she had gone to Seheron with their mother and learned how to sew.  She said that she had fled on the ships when the city was sacked, and come to Qarinus when it came limping into port.  Fenris’ reply letter was only to be careful in Minrathous, as well as a couple other comments about the voyage, congratulating her on the new position.  He also mentioned that he had been there when the city fell, which is why he had escaped.  They both mutually lamented how close they had been to meeting once.  Varania wondered if she should dare to mention that she had glimpsed him, once, during that awful night, but thought better of it.

Varania once wrote of how their mother had taught her to sew, and Fenris was very much intrigued to know more about their parents, though Varania was fairly guarded with such information, saying only that “I’d love to tell you everything I know, but I could write pages and not be finished.  Can we talk about it face to face when we finally meet?”

            But, truth be told, she did very little tailoring.


	90. Acceptance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merrill gives Fenris a gift. Shaislyn finds acceptance from Danarius, and Varania finally tries to reach out to her son.

            The afternoon heat warmed the room, the sunlight fading the carpet and the curtains, highlighting the dust that had gathered.  A wisp of a sigh could be heard, and she rolled, awake but with her eyes still closed, legs tangled in dirty sheets.

            “Come back to bed,” Isabela called.

            Fenris reclined in the chair, still mostly naked.  He looked up, watched the gentle rise and fall of her breasts, the way her dark skin perfectly accented the eggshell sheets.  When she opened her eyes, the sun glinting golden off of her cinnamon complexion, the faded gold paint on the bed a beautiful match for her gilded eyes, he was almost tempted though.  Isabela, for all her dueling, pirating, thieving, and whorish behaviour, was unquestionably beautiful—more beautiful still, because she was confident.

            It would be easy to love Isabela.  Their friendship was easy; their sex life was easy, one fading into the other and back out again like paint on canvas.  If he wanted to do something, or for her to do something, that might be unconventional, she had either already tried it before, or was open to trying it, and that made him more than willing to experiment, to play sexually.  In friendship, she preferred to be open and nonchalant, often choosing to banter and tease him rather than let him sulk—it was what he needed, and she seemed to sense it.  However, when she saw that what he needed was to sulk, she would be there for him, saying nothing, her arms around his shoulders reminding him that he need never be alone.

            He couldn’t talk to her the same way he had been able to talk to Hawke; he would never be able to tell Isabela about the Fog Warriors, but he could talk to her about other things.  She had told him what her marriage had been like, the awful things that had happened to her in her past, and he had finally confided in her some of what he had been through in a way he had been too ashamed to talk about with Hawke.  But Isabela had wrapped her arms around him, said she understood, that she had been there.  He supposed it was why being with her was so easy.  He put little to no effort into their relationship, and it always worked.

            He could do nor say anything to truly provoke her.  He and Hawke always seemed moments away from an intense argument, the heat of their twin passions either used for lust or for anger.  Isabela was too agreeable, her attitude too lackadaisical.  She had no strong feelings about mages, and what feelings she did have, he almost agreed with; she wanted freedom for _everyone_ , and while they might _argue_ their points on occasion, things just never became heated.  She didn’t like to argue; she was fine with making her points of view made and leaving it at that.  She said, “You have your opinions, and I have mine.  Can’t we agree to disagree?  It’s so much more fun when we aren’t arguing about something stupid; neither of us are mages, so what does it matter?”

            She had once asked him to tell her the real reason he hated Merrill.  She understood the blood magic, that she was a mage, but she pointed out that Hawke was a mage, and Fenris had no real qualms with him.  She pointed out that Anders was an abomination, but he tolerated him for Hawke, could even be civil when Hawke was nearby if he tried hard enough.  “If we’re being honest,” he said cautiously.  “—I should admit I am jealous of her.”

            She laughed, her fingers exploring the dips and curves of his chest and stomach.  “Why?  Not of her being a mage?”

            “No,” he said quickly.  Then he had sighed, staring up at the ceiling forlornly.  “She had everything— _everything_ —I have ever wanted, or dreamed about.”  He shifted his head, staring at her, wondering how he could convey to the woman who had also abandoned her life of her own choice to seek a new destiny.  Maybe that was why she understood Merrill, and the two got along so well.  “She had a home, and a family, and people that cared about her—all the freedom _no_ other elves have.  And she just threw it all away to go chasing the past.”  He closed his eyes, pained.  “I would give anything for that.”

            He looked back at her, saw her fighting with two different desires.  One, he didn’t doubt, to tease him—to laugh and tell him he was being silly and jealous.  The second won over.  “Oh, Fenris,” she said gently, and kissed him softly.  She understood.  He _did_ want a home, a family, a life—love and happiness and everything he had never known.  But they were things he had seen with other people.  He had seen rich men miserable, and the poor happy, because of family.  He had seen a magister suffer and a slave joyous because of love.  But he didn’t know what either of those things was like.

            He thought about Varania.  He hoped he could find true family in her, and with it a familial love.  He wasn’t sure, but he could dream, and crave it.

            There was no strange tension when he and Isabela were out with the rest of their friends or adventuring with Hawke, no awkward glances, no hidden touches.  They could just as easily be friends as if they had never had sex.  Isabela completely expected that they would not last forever, and approached their relationship in that way.  If he wanted to break things off tomorrow, there would be no hard feelings.  If he wanted to love her, he could, and she might even love him back—with the same approach.  Easy, harmless, and not at all something he could expect to last forever.  But then, what did?  His relationship with Isabela was perfect.

            “Not in the mood,” he told her.

            She sat up, the sheet falling to her lap, exposing her nipples.  “Something on your mind?”

            There was, but nothing he was willing to talk about.  “Just you,” he told her.

            Her smile was somewhere between coy, seductive, and all-knowing.  “Well, if we’re not going to have sex, I’m going to go visit someone.”

            “Aveline?” he guessed.

            She scowled, slipping out of bed.  “How’d you know?”

            “Lucky guess,” he said, watching her as she bent at the waist to pick up her things from the floor.  If he didn’t know better, he would say that Aveline and Isabela hated one another, but that wasn’t the truth at all.  They were both strong, independent women, their political and personal views different, but in many ways exactly the same.  If they didn’t fight all the time, then he would know they really did hate one another.  Men and women were so different; Isabela and Aveline seemed to argue and undercut one another constantly and they were actually good friends, whereas Fenris and Anders bickered all the time and truly hated one another.

            Isabela kissed him before she left.  He got dressed eventually, and flopped back down in the chair, looking at the wolf carving.  His fingers ran over its buttery surface, trying to guess at its origin.  When he looked at it, somehow he felt at peace.  He wondered if Danarius had ever found the little halla carving he had left at the mansion, and what he had done with it if he did.  Destroy it, he imagined.  He would have been angry that Fenris had such a thing, probably.

            He smirked a little.  Oh, how angry he would be to know that he had had sex with Hawke, with whores, with Isabela especially.

            He heard the door open, and wondered who it could be.  Some kids had tried to break in to drink a few months ago, thinking it perhaps completely abandoned.  It had been quite simple to chase them out.  He just let the lyrium engulf his body completely, and now most of the neighbours thought it was haunted.  Why hadn’t he thought of that years ago?

            He heard someone trip going up the stairs, and he frowned, looking at the door.  He was a bit surprised to see Merrill.

            He sat up, setting the carving down on the stained coffee table.  “Hi, Fenris!” she said brightly, as if she had no idea that he did not like her at all.  Well…  That was an overstatement, he guessed.  She was a stupid kid that did stupid things, and he really wished she would see that.  Isabela had copious amounts of sex, but always half-expected disease and the possibility of pregnancy.  Merrill used blood magic, much worse than Isabela’s promiscuity, yet expected only positive results.  It was maddening that she was this naïve.  Her heart was in the right place, but she did everything the wrong way.  He imagined that being burdened by Merrill was exactly what having a little sister would be like, sans blood magic.  _Varania…_

            “Merrill,” he sighed.

            “I have something for you,” she blurted.  She grinned, then it faded.  “I know that Wintersend was two weeks ago, and it’s a little _late_ …”

            He raised his eyebrows.  _Oh, Maker, no, please…_

            She smiled again.  “But it took me a long time to make everyone one, and…  Well, sorry.”

            He frowned.  “I didn’t get anything for you.  Or anyone, so…”

            She waved the matter off.  “It’s fun to observe human holidays sometimes, don’t you think?” she babbled on.  “Sebastian told me all about the human holidays—they’re really interesting, and each country has slightly different celebrations.”  She plucked a package from her basket.  “This one is for you.”  She started to hand it to him, then stopped, and glanced at it again.  “Yes.”  She blinked, thrusting it toward him.

            He sighed, not knowing what to do except to accept it.  He looked at the brown paper package, tied up with a brightly coloured string.  Each package’s string was three different colours that she had braided together.  His was black, white, and green.  His finger curved around the string, running his thumb over the yarns.  He had used to braid his hair when it was long.  A slave had taught him to braid his hair, a human girl that had been pregnant.  He couldn’t remember her name any more.

            His eyebrows were black, and he wondered if his hair had been such an ebony shade before, or if it had always been alabaster.  The green, for the vineyard, for the deep green of the bay.  Or were the colours for the Arlathan forest?  The black for the shadows he had been lost in, the green for the evergreen trees that had all looked so similar to him, then white for the snow that had been nearly the death of him.

            “Fenris?” Merrill asked, sounding concerned.

            He blinked, looking up at her.  “It’s nothing,” he said automatically.  She looked at him, concern etched across her tattooed face.  “Thank you, Merrill.”

            She scowled.  “Well, open it,” she insisted, rocking back excitedly on her heels.  He sighed, and pried apart the string.

            “Why’d you choose those colours?”

            She shrugged.  “I just picked up three balls of yarn, and that was the combination for you, I guess.”

            He snorted.  Indeed.  “Are you sure you didn’t just think of me when you had them together?”

            She laughed.  “If I were going to pick a colour for you, I’d pick…”  She thought about it for a moment, frowning at him.  “Neutral colours.  Black and white are too stark for your complexion, Fenris.”  She blinked.  “I mean, it’s fine for your hair, I guess, but not to _wear_.”

            He realized she was teasing him.  “They wouldn’t match the lyrium at all, would they?”

            She shook her head, laughing.  “Brown actually looks good on you.  Maybe a dark grey, a little gold or silver—tarnished brass?  You might even get away with certain shades of green, or muted blues?  It would depend on how it’s done.”

            “Red,” he said, to nettle her.  “Crimson.”

            She stared at him in horror.  “Oh, that would make all the red pigment in your skin…  Oh, that would be awful.”

            He laughed.  She was the only one he could do this with, he realized as they talked about colours.  Humans, he had long-since discovered, were practically colour-blind compared to elves.  He wished that Merrill was not a mage.  Especially not a blood mage.  What she did was wrong, and he didn’t want to be there to watch her become possessed.  And, dare he say it, didn’t want to have to be the one to kill her if it happened.  And sometimes, he would get so angry to think of things she would do, and for what?  For something that had died a long, long time ago.  How could anyone go forward if they were always looking backward? 

He just wished she would grow up.  She had all this potential, all the potential _none_ of their kind had, and she threw it away as if it were nothing.  It was everything, all the freedom he could only dream at, love and family and everything he ever wanted in his life, and she threw it all away.  And that— _that_ —more than the blood magic, made him angry with her.

            But he didn’t want to start an argument today; she had come with good intentions.  It would be childish and immature to bicker right now.

            The paper crinkled as he unwrapped it, revealing the scarf folded neatly inside.  He lifted the scarf from the paper, tossing the wrapping on the table.  He looked at the scarf in his hand, running a thumb along the yarns.  It was green—different shades of green:  Sage green like his eyes, forest green like the Arlathan forest, seafoam green like the Nocen Sea in spring, grass green like the garden in Minrathous, bright leaf green like…

            A flash of memory—laughing eyes, bright and leaf-green, the features blurred.  He blinked, shaking off the remnants of memory.  “I thought you were making sweaters.”

            Merrill sighed, flustered.  “It was too hard,” she said, defeated.  “Is it awful?”

            He set it down.  “No.”  He paused.  “Thank you, Merrill.”  At least if she were knitting, she couldn’t be doing blood magic, he reasoned.

Merrill smiled.  “You’re in a good mood, Fenris.  You’ve usually yelled at me by now,” she commented brightly.

He shrugged a shoulder dismissively.  “Isabela just left.”

The elven mage frowned quizzically.  “What does that have to do with it?  Does she usually make you happy?”

Bemused at her ignorance, he smiled.  “She usually finds one way or another to, yes.”

She blinked.  “Well, that’s nice.  It’s nice to see you happy once in a while.  What does she do, though?”

He almost laughed.  “Merrill.  Isabela comes over to have sex.”

Her face turned bright red with a sudden rush of blood.  She covered her face with a hand, trying to hide her own embarrassment.  “Oh--my!  Well…”  Her eyes caught on the carving.  She blinked in surprise, and lifted it from the table.  “This is cute,” she exclaimed, smiling as if delighted to see it.  He watched her look over it.  Perhaps she might have more insight into the carving than he did, but he doubted it.  “Is it Dalish?”  That last question was mostly to herself.  She looked over it again.  “It’s so old, I…”  Her eyes widened.  “Oh!”

            He frowned.  What had she seen?  “What?”

            Her smile faded into mere curiosity, brow furrowing as if she were trying to figure out a puzzle.  “That’s… strange.”

            His own curiosity piqued.  “What?”

            She stared at him oddly.  “Where did you find this?”

            He wondered if he should tell her.  He hesitated, and admitted, “I found it hidden in Danarius’ slave compound—in Minrathous.”

            He watched all the colour drain from her face.  She looked back at it, and he could see her heart sinking as she looked at it.  She set the carving down.  “Excuse me—I’m sorry.  I need to go.”

            She was so upset that he couldn’t ask her what she had seen in the carving, and gone before he knew the words to say.

 

            The stave made a small creaking sound as the bow bent back.  Peacock feathers brushed against his cheek, and the arrow flew, landing solidly in the target.  It had time to quiver but a moment before another one followed it.  _Thok!  Thok!_   To anyone but Danarius, it would look like each shot was wildly farther away from the target than the other.  Six more arrows had landed, exactly where he wanted them, by the time he noticed the cat sitting on the fence behind him.

            “Shaislyn,” he commented, drawing back again.  Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the light from the boy’s spell.

            “You’re getting better at noticing me,” the teenager commented.

            “You don’t behave exactly like the animals you impersonate either,” the magister pointed out, drawing again, firing.  “You can, but you don’t.”

            “Fair enough.”  The boy cocked his head to the side in a very wolfish manner.  He spent so much time as animals that he adopted their habits in every form.  Soon, Danarius imagined, he would find him eating worms from the garden.  “How’s my mother?”

            “Ask her yourself.”

            A pause.  “She hates me.”  He shrugged hopelessly.  “It makes talking to her awkward.  At least talking to you, the hatred is mutual.”

            “I don’t hate you.  Nor do I hate your mother,” Danarius said bluntly.  “I have no reason to.”  _Thok!  Thok!_

            “That a spiral?” Shaislyn asked, raising his eyebrows a little.  “Here I was thinking it was random and you just sucked at aiming.”

            “Indeed.”

            “So.  I know this guy—really great archer.  He got a blue ribbon for putting an arrow through another arrow—“

            _Thwok!_   “Like that?”

            “Yeah!”  Then he added, “Damn.”

            “Don’t be too impressed; I used magic to aim that time.”

            “Isn’t that cheating?”

            He shrugged.  “It’s a natural ability.”

Shaislyn laughed.  “I don’t know how to use a bow.”

            Danarius shrugged.  “You don’t need to.”  He glanced at his son as he knocked an arrow again.  “If you wanted to hunt, you can turn into an animal and do it.  And if you needed to not use magic for any reason, you have swords.”

            “So, you hunt?”

            “I used to.”  He was quiet, thinking about the last hunting incident.  It was always hunting, wasn’t it?

Shaislyn cocked his head to the side, watching him.  “It’s not really a fair fight, though, is it?  You and the deer, I mean.”

Danarius glanced back at him.  “No, not really.”  He drew back on the bow again.  “Maybe if I weren’t a mage, and was trying to kill it with a knife, then it would be a fair fight.  But they do have superior hearing, and they can run much faster.”

“But you’re _armed_ , and a person is smarter than a deer.”

“So I guess that would balance it out then.”

“No it doesn’t,” Shaislyn argued.  “Intelligence always counteracts physical abilities.”

            Danarius said nothing, but smiled softly.

            The boy was quiet for a moment as he watched him shoot again.  “So.  About my mum.”

            “She’s fine.  She even talks to me on occasion.”

            His eyebrows raised a little.  “She seems happier.”  A pause.  _Thok!_   “You said she talked to you on occasion?”

            “More frequently since I gave her something I found in Fenris’ quarters.”

            The half-elf was interested in this news.  “What was it?”

            He paused, for breath.  He wasn’t as young as he used to be.  “A carving—I thought it was a goat at first.  After inspection, I realized it was a halla.  She cried all day, and after that, she’s been pretty amiable.”  A pause.  “But it’s disturbing that he had it.”

            “Why?” the other inquired.

            “Because Leto had it.”

            The young mage was silent as he thought about what that meant.  He had read all about the Ritual in his spare time, and knew about the spells that had gone into it.  “That is… kind of disturbing.  Do you suppose… a part of him remembers?”

            Danarius sighed, drawing again—the last arrow this time.  “I _know_ a part of him remembers.”  _Thok!_   He stretched, sighed again.  “Fortunately, one of the things I instilled in his mind was an aversion to the truth, or he’d know by now.”

            Shaislyn was intrigued.  “Blood magic?  You tampered with his mind a bit?”

            “A fail-safe,” Danarius explained.  “Call him by his real name, and it will rile his temper.  Things like that.  He won’t _want_ to think about it.”

            “That’s interesting.  But how does it work?”

            “I can tell you about the mechanics of the spell if you like.  Or are you more interested in how he’s averted to it?”

            The teenager frowned.  “Both, leaning more towards that second bit.”  He shrugged.  “Spells are useless to me.”  He kind of laughed.  “ _You’re_ a mage; I’m more of a swordsman who can use some magic.”

            A slave plucked the arrows from the feathered target.  “His past will just be unpleasant for him to think about.  Imagine stepping on a slug every time you thought about women, Shaislyn.  Eventually, you would stop.”

            Shaislyn laughed, and then said seriously, “I’d just think about men—realistically speaking.”  He frowned, then brightened.  “Oh, I get it.”  He frowned again.  “But why would that be unpleasant?”

            “It just creates an unpleasant sensation.”  He paused.  “Except once, that is.  I’m uncertain as to why, but I have some ideas.”

            Shaislyn blinked.  “You _know_ when he has memory breaches like that?”

            “It’s _my_ spell.  Don’t you always know what you are looking at, when you use magic to see?”

            “But that’s different,” Shaislyn argued, pulling himself up to sit on the fence, his legs dangling off the ground like a child’s.  “How do you know?”

            The slave returned with the arrows.  “I sense Fenris through a… particular link—I believe it might be through you even if I can’t sense you—and I know when he is in danger, or when one of my spells comes close to breaking.”  A pause as he knocked the bow again.  “It was truly breached, and I feared broken, only once.”  He kind of smiled as he drew, and let loose.  “Fenris’ aversion to it is partly to blame, I imagine.”  And a damn good thing he had added that fail-safe.  If he suddenly remembered Varania, this latest trap in the making would have no chance of working.

            Shaislyn paused.  “I don’t know,” he confessed.  “If I lost my memory, and then gained it back suddenly, and lost it again, I think… I think that would be enough heartbreak that I wouldn’t try again.”  He was silent for a moment, staring downwards, as if lost in thought.  Danarius wondered if Shaislyn was having second thoughts about this.  Everything would go to ruin if he were, and the months of planning he was putting into this were spiraling down the drain if he didn’t keep the boy from feeling guilty.

            The half-elf looked up suddenly.  “Don’t get me wrong, Danarius.  I think Fenris is a fucking asshole and I care more about my mom’s well-being than that bastard.  So don’t worry about me ruining this whole fucking thing.”

            “Your breeding is quite apparent in your speech,” the magister muttered.

            “What?”

            He didn’t respond, but knocked an arrow again, thinking, _I’ll empty the quiver again, and then I’m done for the day._

            Shaislyn watched in silence for three shots before he piped up again, “Hunting as an animal is kind of dangerous.  I can kill deer as a wolf or something, but they have hooves and antlers; they could kill me or seriously hurt me if I’m not careful.”  A slight pause.  “I don’t know how to heal either.”

            “Is there _anything_ you can actually do besides spy on people and sleep in the sun?” Danarius said with some amount of sarcasm.

            “I’m an accomplished thief,” Shaislyn complained.  “And I’m great with swords.”  He frowned a little, watching the magister with the bow.  “That doesn’t look that hard.”

            “Do you want to try it?” he asked him, beginning to get the idea that that was what he had been hinting at the entire time.

            The half-elf perked up, sliding off of the fence.  “I’d love to learn a new way to kill things,” he said cheerfully.  The task proved more difficult than he had thought.  For one, he wasn’t used to moving his muscles in the same way the bow demanded he move them; and for another, aiming was more difficult than he had assumed.  The first shot was terrible, the second he listened more and used the offered guidance and words of advice and at least hit the target, the third he missed again completely.

            “Start closer to the target.”

            “You were hitting it from this distance!”

            “And I’ve been doing archery since I was seven.  Move closer.”

            Shaislyn made a face, and tried to aim again, but his hands shook when he pulled the arrow back.  The arrow pulled away from the shaft awkwardly, and clacked against it again.  Shaislyn gave an irritated noise, trying to steady his hand again, and shot a little prematurely.  He stared at the arrow, which had only gone about five feet, listening to the magister laugh.

            “This isn’t the best bow to start with,” he admitted.  “And it’s a bit too long for you.”

            Shaislyn scowled; he knew he was short by human standards, and about average by elven standards.  “I’ve seen people use bows a lot bigger than this,” he complained.

            “And I imagine they were more skilled than you,” the magister said gently.  “Were you always so skilled with the sword?”

            “Well…  No.  I just thought… archery looked a lot easier.”

            “Magic doesn’t look that difficult either, to those that know nothing about it,” he reminded him.  “Keep practicing, and remember what I told you about keeping it level.”

            Shaislyn looked back at him as Danarius turned to leave.  “Where are you going?”

            “I have to see how your mother is doing in her studies.”  Shaislyn hesitated, but decided to leave it be for now.  He was sure that his mother would be all right, and anyway Danarius seemed fairly mellow compared to how Fenris, Lura, and Varania had described him as being.  Maybe that was his age; the half-elf wasn’t sure.  He aimed again, keeping his back straight, both feet firmly planted, his arms steady, muscles taught.  The feathers brushed his cheek as he released the arrow.  It was a much better form, but his aim was still terrible.

 

            It was later than Varania had wanted to be out.  She wore a warm cloak in the chilly early spring air, but a breeze kept pushing the hood off of her head, so she had given up on keeping her ears warm.  She stayed in the light areas, and places that were guarded.  In Seheron, she would have been accosted, demanding to know what she was doing out of the alienage so late at night.

            Here, people were more likely to assume she was on some errand for her master.  Well, she didn’t live in the alienage, and furthermore, she was headed home for the night.  Ordinarily, “home” always meant an alienage for an elf—or their master’s slave quarters.  But she was a mage, and thus had certain privileges.

            A letter had come from Fenris this morning.  She had not had time to read it, but she had left it sitting on her desk.  She wondered what it said.  It was the second reply she had gotten since she had written to him after she moved to Minrathous.  Letters were slow things—especially across territories like this.  It took months to get from one place to another, and she was always concerned that the letters would be lost.  How long had it been since she had moved here?  Almost a year, she realized.

            She was beginning to not feel guilty at all about her scheming.  Danarius and Shaislyn were right; Fenris really was nothing like Leto at all.  He was hesitant, and reserved, and wouldn’t really talk very much about his personal life, though she did inquire.  But at least, in that respect, they were both the same way, always feeling that it would be easier to talk in person.

            Varania was as happy as she could remember being.  She saw what her life would be like if she were a magister, and experienced a bit of it now and again, always learning.  She was not yet an apprentice, per se, not officially, but she was always assured that she would be.  It was exciting, and new, and she felt a particular joy in her heart that she had never had time for before.  She felt a sort of pride, and knew that this was something she would be good at.  _That_ made her almost giddy; she had longed for years for something she would be good at, and now here it was!

            It was everything she could ever want, really.  No more alienage, no more moldy millet soup, patched linens, and sewing.  All her life, she had watched those around her be and become skilled at things that she had no innate skill for.  She had watched Leto and Ginger fight; watched Mother sew; watched Lura as she charmed those around her and socialized; watched Shaislyn become as resourceful as he had turned out to be.  And what had she been good at?  Nothing, not really.  She could get by in sewing, and she knew enough about magic to defend herself, but she was shy by nature and not very confident.  Now, though, it was like everything had changed.  She _liked_ studying politics and the like.  She understood it in a way she had never understood anything else before.

            She felt like it was something she would be good at, given time.

            She heard footsteps, and her son fell into step beside her.  “I thought I’d walk with you,” he said.  “Just in case—it’s dark and all, I mean.”

            She nodded, and they walked in silence for a bit.  “You’ve been spending a lot of time with Danarius,” she said, with some displeasure.

            He shrugged a shoulder nonchalantly.  “Guess so.”

            She was quiet for a long time.  “You shouldn’t talk to him so much.”

            “He is my father,” Shaislyn said bluntly.

            “And don’t you ever forget _why_ ,” she hissed, anger heating her words.

            Her son was quiet, and did not even take offense to the affront.  “Over the past year, he’s been more of a parent to me than you have my entire life,” he said, carefully picking all the bitterness from his voice like seeds from a grapefruit.  “He’s never lied to me, or kept anything from me when I ask, and has never tried to kill me either now that I think about it—directly anyway.”

            Varania wanted to be angry.  She even bristled, and the words she wanted to say were on the tip of her tongue, then she looked at him, and stopped.  One thing that she had realized in her life, that was vitally important when dealing with others, was controlling her anger.  She had learned that in slavery:  Control your emotions and always stop before you speak.  If she didn’t, she could be beaten, even sold or killed if she were too out of line.  It was a habit she rarely forgot, and often wished that others around her had learned it.  “Shaislyn?  If I had known you would be the man you are—if I had known, when I was a fourteen—that you would grow up to be… smart, and strong, and resourceful, and the best person who could ever be in my life…  If I had _known_ that that is the kind of person you would grow up to be, when I was fourteen and thought you would grow up to be as cruel and awful as your father…  I never would have tried to hurt you.  Or your sister.”

            He stopped walking, not crying exactly, but with an expression as if he wanted to.  He looked alone, she thought.  Alone, and desperately wanting her acceptance.  “Really?” he whispered.  “Really, Mama?”

            She stepped back toward him, her green eyes full of compassion, and as much love as she could muster for her son who would do anything for her.  And he had never really asked for anything in return, had he?  All he wanted in the world was her acceptance and her love.  “Really,” she said, and her eyes watered.  She blinked, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to spill as she looked at her son.  Tears of guilt over the hurt she had caused him, tears of sorrow, and pain.  “I’m so sorry.”  She took a step toward him.  “For… everything.”  He looked at her, pained.  “I’m _sorry_ about your sister.  And that I tried to kill you too.  I wish I could take it back—I _do_.”  She swallowed hard.  But she had been so young, and she hadn’t been ready, and it hadn’t been fair.  “And I’m _sorry_ I never cared about you the way I should have.  And I’m _sorry_ I never loved you the way I should have either.” 

She hugged him, and he started to move to return the gesture, then stopped and pulled away.  She looked at him.  She didn’t understand.  She had thought…  No, she had imagined that it would be this easy, but it wasn’t.  It was in stories, and songs, and books.  It was this easy there.  But the reality of it was that he was still hurt.  She had apologized, but it didn’t take the hurt away.

            “It doesn’t fix it,” he said, his voice so low she had to strain to hear it.  “I love you, Mama.  And I’d do anything to make you happy.  And I’d do anything to make you love me.  But one apology doesn’t fix a lifetime of shunning and neglect.”  She stared at him, and did not know at all what to say, or where to start.  He stepped past her.  “You don’t have far to go from here.  You should be okay.”  With that, he turned the corner.  She was frozen for a moment, shocked at his words, and hurt, and knew it was true.

            One apology couldn’t fix everything.  But it was a start.  She would have to do something, anything, to make this right.  But what?  She hurried after her son, rounding the corner.  “Shai—“  She stopped.  The street was empty.  “—slyn.”  He was already gone.


	91. Passion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris and Hawke spend some time together and Shaislyn causes Aveline problems.

            Fenris said that Hawke rode like a sack of potatoes, and he guessed, watching the elf vault over a fallen log, the way he leaned in the saddle, he was right.  Fereldens did not have many horses; they had dogs.  Hawke’s dog trailed along after them, tongue lolling happily out of his mouth.  It liked to run along beside the horses, but Hawke was uncertain about the galloping.  Fenris had made faces until Hawke had sighed and told him to go on ahead, and he had.

            Fenris had taken the younger, more spirited of the two horses, and the horse seemed to catch on to his mood quickly.  Maybe the animal was just glad to have a skilled rider.  Fenris actually had a lot of talents, Hawke mused.  Fighting, he spoke three languages come to think of it, he was one of the most well-traveled people the apostate had ever met, horseback riding apparently—anything in bed.

            That last thought came unbidden, and he felt guilty for it.  Anders knew, of course, that Hawke still cared about Fenris.  Anders even respected that; because Anders still loved Carl.  Hawke knew, from the bottom of his heart, that if Carl had never died that night, if he had never been made Tranquil, Anders would never have been with Hawke.  And Hawke respected that.  Anders knew that if Fenris had never walked away that night, Hawke would be with Fenris.  And Anders respected that.  Late at night, sometimes the pair would talk about it, how it was as though fate had carefully removed the obstacles leading to one another in each other’s paths.  Hawke in no way thought of Anders as just someone he had gone to when he was lonely and craving the touch of another body.  He in no way felt driven into his embrace.  He was there because he wanted to be.  He loved Anders, loved him more than he had thought himself capable of.  He adored him, mind, body, and soul.

            Even knowing that, even with his heart belonging wholly to another, he watched Fenris.  He watched the horse almost fly along the surf, its hooves kicking up sand as the tide lapped at its ankles.  Fenris looked happy, Hawke reflected.  He had never known he could just _look happy_.  He knew that his friend could _be_ happy.  He knew that he smiled, and laughed, and could even tell jokes and had a sense of humor.  But just _being_ happy was something entirely new to Hawke.

            Fenris _looked_ happy in that moment.  _He actually feels free_ , the apostate thought, a peaceful smile adorning his features.  It wasn’t fair really; if Fenris had only been human, his skills and talents could have earned him knighthood, but he was an elf and the best he could ever hope for was a mercenary, even when he was stronger and more talented than most knights.  He didn’t think Fenris cared about that though.

            Hawke had to stretch his legs; his thighs burned.  He swung out of the saddle, hopping awkwardly out of the stirrup.  His dog got excited, and nearly knocked him over.  He shoved him aside, and tied the horse to a large piece of driftwood.  He spread out a blanket, and quickly weighted it down with another piece of driftwood and a couple of rocks.  He sprawled down on it, waiting for when Fenris would show up.  The elf took a long time in coming, and the apostate just as quickly grew restless.  He had brought lunch, assuming they would be out all day.  He got up, and started unpacking the small meal.  Bodahn had packed it, so he had no idea what was actually in it.

            He saw Fenris finally make his way toward him.  The elf hopped out of the saddle as if he did it every day, and busied himself with the horses.  Hawke frowned, watching him remove their bridles and used their lead ropes to secure them instead.

            Fenris glanced at him.  “Well, how would you like to have a piece of metal shoved in your mouth?”  The elf plopped down beside him.  His legs were wet from the surf, his hair wind-tousled, but his eyes were still shining.  Hawke said nothing, but he smiled, hoping Fenris’ mood would last.  He looked beautiful when he was sad, but Hawke liked him best just as he was right now.

            “Shove this in your mouth,” Hawke said, thrusting a sandwich toward him.  The dog whined, just at the edge of the blanket, eying the food hungrily.  Hawke sighed, rolling his eyes, and looked for something for the dog.  He found a small container that was obviously meant for the hound.  He opened it slowly, making faces.  “I don’t think you really deserve this, mutt,” he muttered, holding it high above his head.  The dog whined again, head low to the ground.  He sighed as if relenting, and set the tin down near the animal.  It excitedly went to work at it.

            “You aren’t really doing much ‘teaching’,” the apostate teased Fenris.

            The elf blinked, and swallowed.  “Sorry,” he said, but wasn’t sorry at all.

            He laughed a little.  “It’s fine.”  He gave a crooked smile.  “You looked happy.”

            He studied his sandwich, as if analyzing where the next best place to bite would be.  “I guess I was.”

            “’Was’?” he demanded.

            Fenris looked up, and gave a small, tight-lipped smile.  “Am, sorry.”

            “Do you miss riding?” Hawke asked innocently.

            The elf considered that.  “You once asked me if I missed anything about Minrathous—I miss my damn horse.”

            Hawke laughed, then frowned.  “You had a horse, though?  I thought…”

            Fenris shrugged a shoulder.  “In a manner of speaking, she was mine; I was the only one who ever rode Siren.”

            “Siren?  Did you get to name her?”

            “No.”

            Hawke took a bite of his sandwich, chewed, and swallowed.  “You and Isabela.  Is it serious?”

            He shook his head.  “No.”  He looked at him.  “And I prefer it that way.”

            Hawke feigned disappointment.  “Shame.”  Hawke leaned back, propping himself up on one elbow.  “Isabela has an amazing rack.”

            Fenris nodded once in agreement.  “I am infatuated with her body,” he agreed.  “Maker, though, she has beautiful breasts.”

            The apostate took a bite of his sandwich.  “Enjoy them while they last—breasts that big tend to sag when they get older.”  He gestured to emphasize his point.

            Fenris scowled.  “Stop ruining my fantasy.”

            “It’s true,” he insisted.  “Gorgeous in the meantime though.”  He raised his hands, curving them in the air like one would hold a woman’s breasts.  “I just want to bury my face in her cleavage.”

            “She wouldn’t be adverse to that if you’d ask.”

            “Anders would kill me.”  He sighed.  “But, hell, I just want to play with her tits.”

            “It is fun to play with her tits,” the elf said agreeably behind a mouthful of sandwich.  “I like being with men—I understand how a man’s body works—but with women it’s like…”  He struggled, taking another bite.

            “Like new territory,” Hawke finished.  “They have all these parts that I don’t, and their body does things that I don’t, and it’s fascinating, and fun, and when you go down on her it’s like you’re an explorer on an undiscovered continent or something.”

            Fenris swallowed, and gestured.  “Yes—that.  _That_ exactly.”

            The human looked at Fenris, finding a rising jealousy somewhere in the pit of his stomach, or maybe lower.  He didn’t know why; he was happy with Anders.  But something about how Fenris had described to him that first night he had spent with Isabela made him jealous.  Fenris hadn’t _remembered_ with Isabela.  He hadn’t left her, and kept coming back to her night after night.  They had done things that Hawke had never experienced with him, Fenris trying things that he had never dared with Hawke.  And he was _jealous._ The realization made him uncomfortable.  “So, do you prefer vaginal, or anal sex?”

            Fenris considered the answer for a moment.  “I don’t know what it’s like to _receive_ vaginal sex, so I couldn’t say for sure, but I like _giving_ vaginal better than anal.”

            Hawke nodded, sighing deeply.  “And I will never get to plow a pussy again,” he lamented, then laughed.  “No, but really, I won’t.”

            “Anders not enough for you?” Fenris inquired, his tone teasing.

            The apostate raised an eyebrow.  “Anders gives amazing head—he once gave me a ten-minute long orgasm using only his mouth.  He gives the best head I have ever had.  Plus he can do this electric thing—and ice too.  I’m not exaggerating—he is… _amazing_ in bed.”  Hawke gave him a knowing look, then gestured with his half-eaten sandwich.  “I digress.  But I do occasionally miss the feeling of a wet pussy.  I imagine Isabela is unnaturally wet.  But isn’t she really loose, too?  I mean, all things considered…”

            Fenris shrugged.  “I try not to think about it, to be honest.  But…”  He made a face.  “I could probably fit two of me in her with not… too much work, yes.”

            “You should have a threesome with her.  Tell me how it turns out,” he insisted.

            “Right.”

            Hawke nodded to him, saluting him with his sandwich.  “I’m serious.  I want all the details of it.”

            “She’d want it to be with another woman, and while I am not adverse to that—the opposite, actually—I feel like it is slightly unfair that she gets all the attention.”

            Hawke laughed.  He raised his flagon of summer wine.  “I’ll drink to that.”  He tapped the flagon against Fenris’, still sitting on the blanket, and drank.  “You just want to get fucked in the ass once in a while, right?” he teased him.

            Fenris raised an eyebrow.  “You’ve no idea.”  He took a sip of the wine.  _Orlesian_ , he thought.  He was partial to Tevinter wine, and hated himself for it.  “Isabela _does_ do her best to accommodate, but frankly, it isn’t the same.”

            Hawke groaned.  “Oh, fuck, I miss fucking women.”

            Fenris laughed.  “That sounds like a personal problem.”

            “Well, you wanna hear how my last sexual encounter with a woman went?”  Hawke did not wait for a reply.  “Sit on that driftwood; I’ll illustrate.”  Hawke eventually got Fenris to sit down, still eating his sandwich.  Hawke knelt in front of him, his arms on his legs.  “She was sitting exactly where I am, and imagine you’re me.”

            Fenris suddenly slouched, legs spread considerably farther, as if he were trying to take up as much room as possible.  Hawke scowled.  “While you’re down there,” he commented, gesturing toward his crotch.

            “Asshole,” Hawke muttered.  “Is that really how I act?”  Fenris stuffed some sandwich into his mouth rather than answer.  Hawke had half a mind to hit him, and decided to just progress with the story.  “So, she said—“ The apostate impersonated his best feminine voice.  “—‘You wanna know what I did yesterday?’  So I said, ‘sure’ thinking it would be some stupid sex story—and it was.  Oh, Maker, it _was_!”  Hawke wheeled away for a moment.  Fenris continued eating the sandwich, vaguely amused.  Hawke propped himself back against the other’s legs.  “So she says, ‘I was at my sisters, and she has this dog.  I had just gotten out of the bath, and I was all _wet_ and _steamy_.  I bent over the tub to drain it, and the dog—‘”

            Fenris stood up abruptly, knocking Hawke over.  “No.  _No_.”  He marched away, cringing.

            Hawke chased after him.  “I have to finish it!”

            “No!” the elf cried, throwing the remains of his sandwich at the other.  Hawke swiped lettuce out of his hair.

            “I _can’t_ be the only one who knows this story!”

            “Tell Anders!” the elf insisted, moving away from him.

            “I can’t; I want him to have sex with me again!”  Hawke strode purposefully toward him.  “You’re hearing the rest of it.”

            “No.  No I’m not.”  Fenris turned and fled.  Hawke chased after him, and tackled him on the sand.  They grappled, and Hawke came out on top, pinning the elf down under him.  Hawke was laughing too hard to continue his story, every time he tried, it just dissolved in fits of giggles over how juvenile they were acting.

            Hawke grinned mischievously, and tickled Fenris instead, because he could.  He remembered all the places that Fenris was sensitive to the touch, and tickled him there.  The elf kicked, shoving him, yelling at him, but Hawke only laughed and kept at it.  They wrestled in the sand, and Hawke tormented his ribs and narrowly avoided getting kicked in the face when he attacked his feet.  They sat on the sand, panting and laughing.  When Hawke had finally caught his breath, he said, “And then the dog fucked her.  And she _fucking thought I would be turned on by that_.”

            Fenris laughed, and struck him in the shoulder.  “I didn’t want to hear that.”  He laughed again.  “So, did you fuck her?”

            “ _Fuck_ no.  Never again.  I will never visit another whore again, for the rest of my life, I swear.”

            Fenris smirked.  “It’s only a matter of time, Hawke.  You’ll want to go back and bend her over a bathtub like the dog.”

            Hawke punched him in the shoulder.  “Shut up, you.  I mean, seriously, do I really seem like the kind of man who would be interested in that?” Hawke asked Fenris.

The elf’s eyes strayed immediately to the mabari hound, chasing seagulls and blissfully unaware of their conversation.  As soon as he did it, Fenris jerked, looking back at Hawke, hoping the mage had not noticed the direction his eyes had strayed.  “I--”

Hawke was staring at him flatly.  “I can’t believe you.”

Fenris made a face.  “You’re the one with a dog.”

The mage was aghast.  “You really think I’d…?  Really?  Your opinion of me is that low?”  Hawke frowned.  “You must think even less of me than you do Danarius.”

Fenris raised an eyebrow.  “I have no doubt he enjoys his hunting hounds.”

Hawke burst with laughter.  “Wow.  That.... _wow_.”

Fenris smirked.  “Anders seems to prefer cats though.  Perhaps they are more suited to his size?”

Hawke abruptly stopped laughing, but was still smiling.  He shook his head.  “You…”  He stopped and shook his head again.  He chuckled a little.  “I have no words.  If you’re asking about his size, he leaves nothing to be desired, elf.”

“Am I supposed to feel insulted?”

Hawke shrugged, his lips curving into a lopsided grin.  “You are kind of…”  He made a gesture, moving both of his hands near to one another.  Fenris glared at him and Hawke grinned devilishly.  “Slender.”

“I’m circumcised.”

Hawke smiled a little.  “You never needed to impale me.”

Fenris rolled his eyes.  “You’re an asshole.”

Hawke frowned at him, feigning offence.  “You just accused me of being attracted to my dog a minute ago, and I make one joke about your dick, and now _I’m_ the asshole?  You can give it, but you can’t take it, can you?”

Fenris’ eyebrows rose innocently.  “I can take it just fine, Hawke.”

“With some lubrication,” Hawke added, knowing exactly what he was talking about.  He raked his hands through his hair.  “So.  Thoughts?”

            Fenris chuckled.  “You fucked a whore… who fucked a dog.”

            He scowled.  “Maybe I shouldn’t be so quick to judge; I’ve fucked a wolf too,” Hawke quipped.  Fenris hit him.  Hawke hit him back, and they walked back to the blanket. 

            “You’re cute when you’re playful,” Hawke commented.  Fenris glanced away.  _Really cute_ , he sighed inwardly.  “Why don’t you always just act like this?”

            Fenris felt his face heat, suddenly embarrassed.  He had forgotten, if only temporarily, all his problems, all his woes and past grievances.  Slavery, the lyrium in his skin, Danarius; they had all floated to the back of his mind and there hadn’t been anything except Hawke and his awful, awful story, the beauty of the day, and the horses.  Everything had been so perfect and disgusting, he just hadn’t thought about any of the things that usually occupied his mind.  “I guess…  I just wasn’t thinking about anything else.”

            “Well…”  The apostate hesitated.  “Do it more often.  It’s out of character for you, but it’s a good change.”  He paused.  “I liked it.  I liked seeing you happy, and laughing.”

            Fenris didn’t know how to say that he had too.  It had felt good, even freeing.  Forgetting misery was a blessing.  He sat back down on the blanket and took a long swallow of the wine.  “We could do this more often,” he offered, looking back at Hawke.

            The apostate sat beside him.  “It would be fun,” he agreed.  Fenris glanced at him, then looked away.  Hawke let out a long sigh, taking a drink of his wine.  “And that’s my last sexual encounter with a woman.”

            “That’s traumatizing,” Fenris said sympathetically.

            Hawke watched his dog dig around in the sand for a while.  “So.  When was your last experience with a man?”

            Fenris considered lying and saying it had been with Hawke, but that would make it awkward, wouldn’t it?  “I… requested a few things from a whore.”

            Hawke grinned.  “Sounds like a story.  Let’s hear it.”

            The elf shrugged.  “I might have asked him to choke me…  And bite me.  Slap my ass…”

            “Not too abnormal.  I’ve done that shit.”

            Fenris raised an eyebrow.  “And tie me to the bed.”

            “Still not that weird.”

            “And cane me.  And hit me with a riding crop…”

            Hawke’s eyebrows rose in surprise.  “You’re kind of kinky, aren’t you?”

            He only looked at him.  “I was covered in bruises and welts.”  He left out the rest, what he had wanted reenacted; that was private.

            Hawke nodded, as if none of this really surprised him that much.  “Varric and I did once vote you most likely to be into kink.”

            “Really?  You didn’t vote Isabela higher on that scale than me?” he demanded.  He didn’t care that neither of them had ever mentioned it to him, or that the two had talked about him like that.

            Hawke shrugged helplessly.  “Isabela was voted most likely to come down with weird, new diseases.  You’re really perfect for each other,” he insisted.

            “Are you and Anders perfect for one another?” Fenris asked mildly, finishing off the rest of his tankard.  He mentally kicked himself for saying it.

            Hawke smiled a little, staring down at his wine.  “He’s… the most amazing man I’ve ever met.  I love him.  I wish you knew what that was like, Fenris.”

            Fenris stared at him, and wanted to punch him again, for entirely different reasons.  Hawke was being genuine though.  He genuinely wanted him to feel love and be loved in return.  He sighed.  It was too late now.  “He’s really better at oral than I am?”

            Hawke laughed.  “Still hung up on that?”

            “I find it hard to believe.”

            Hawke smirked.  “Full of yourself, aren’t we, Fenris?”

            He raised an eyebrow, giving him a seductive stare.  “I think you’ve just forgotten what I can do.”

            Hawke stared at him.  Maybe he had.  Maybe he had forgotten, somewhere between Anders’ kisses and Anders’ arms, the way Fenris felt.  Was that an invitation, he wondered?  Something about the sun, and the shore, the blue sky, and how close they were made him feel incredibly warm.  He stood up suddenly.  “Can you swim?”

            “No…”

            Hawke pulled himself out of his clothes, and ran toward the sea.  He leaped into the waves.  He had only barely managed to half-convince Fenris to come down with him.  The elf stood, mostly naked, and scowling at the water.  Hawke stood up, a wave crashing against his back.  He walked slowly back toward shore, and didn’t ask; he just scooped the elf up in his arms.  Fenris complained, and demanded to be put down.  Hawke walked out to the waist-deep waves, and dropped Fenris in it.  He didn’t think he would ever be too old to play in the waves, or too old to have fun.

            He swam out farther, where the water was gentle, urging Fenris to join him.  He taught him to swim, how to float.  The water was chilly, but it was a warm day, and Hawke liked the water.  His dog swam out too, playing with them in the water before it ran back to shore.  Back in shallower water, they walked, side by side, chatting amiably about swimming.

            A large wave knocked Fenris forward, and Hawke caught him automatically.  The elf, regaining his balance, looked up at him, intent on thanking him, and stopped.  He couldn’t say which of them had kissed the other, except that it happened, and he wanted it.  The waves crashed around them, drenching both of them all over again.  Water dripped down their hair, off their bodies.

            Fenris ran his hands down Hawke’s muscled chest, moaning against his lips.  Hawke’s grip on his arm tightened, one of his hands falling to the elf’s side, fingers trailing down to his hip.  Fenris clutched Hawke’s shoulder as another wave hammered them, his other hand falling down to the man’s stomach.  His fingertips had just touched the top of Hawke’s soaked underclothes when the apostate’s eyes opened wide.  Hawke jerked, stepping away from him, shoving Fenris almost violently aside.  The elf stumbled in the surf, staring at him.

            Hawke was watching him as if he were something horrible, as if he were his undoing, his eyes wide.  He touched his lips as if he had swallowed poison.  Fenris didn’t know what he had been expecting, but he felt like he should not have been surprised.

            Hawke turned and walked quickly away from him.  He was still wet, but he dressed anyway, with all due haste.  He fumbled a little with the bridles while Fenris got dressed, and couldn’t quite figure out how to get them on.  Fenris took the bridle out of his hands wordlessly, and did it himself.

            “Fuck,” Hawke finally said.  “Hell.”  He glared at Fenris, as if it were entirely his fault.  The elf stared downwards, just as angry that Hawke blamed him.  “I have to tell Anders.  Maker.”

            Fenris busied himself with the horses.  “Don’t,” he advised him.  “Nothing happened.”

            “I kissed you.  Or you kissed me, or _whatever_.  It doesn’t matter.  I have to tell him.”  The elf’s teeth clenched.  Hawke started packing up the remains of lunch.  He shoved the things mindlessly into the saddlebag, wadding up the blanket.  “Fuck,” he said again.  “I’m sorry.  Look, I…  What do I _say_ to him?”

            Fenris stared at the way the horse’s flanks heaved as it breathed.  “He’ll forgive you,” he whispered.  “Tell him that it was me.”  Anders already hated him.  One more thing to hate him about would not make much difference, the way he saw it.  And maybe he had been the one to kiss Hawke anyway, and the other had just…  _He kissed me back.  I don’t care who moved first—he kissed me back._

            Hawke bit his lip.  “I love Anders.  What…?”  
            Fenris stepped closer to him, frustrated.  There were so many things he wanted to say.  Nothing felt right.  What could he say?  He grabbed onto Hawke’s arm, pulling him to a halt in his pacing.  He stared at him, and still the right words never came to him.  _I love you_.  He stepped toward him, and kissed him again, hard, fierce, trying to communicate in passion and touch what he could not bear to say aloud.  Hawke’s lips barely yielded.

            Fenris was back in the saddle in a heartbeat, wheeling the horse away.  He kicked it into a gallop.

            He had seen the look on Hawke’s face when he had pulled away.

           

            The jail had a damp floor, and smelled strongly of urine.  The ceiling dripped and the walls oozed with an unidentifiable dark sludge.  In the little cell was a bench carved out of the same stone as the walls and floor and was the only thing in the room, except the lone prisoner, staring angrily at the shackles on his wrists, as he had been since late the night before, when he had been dumped into the room.

            Shaislyn’s vision guttered out for the umpteenth time.  The shackles restricted his flow of mana.  Someone had known enough about him to know that he was a mage.

            He heard the heavy outer door creak open on whining hinges, footsteps making their way down the hall.  A few short words exchanged, and one set of footsteps walked the rest of the way down.  Some of the prisoners stirred in their cells at the man’s passing, others taunted.  One of them threw something, and it made a wet sound and a smell that told anyone what it had been.  There was a splashing sound, water being dumped on the prisoner, and then it was silent for a moment, and the person continued walking.  Shaislyn wondered if the missile had hit, but doubted it.  Visibility was poor between the bars, and they were so high up that one was given the choice between just barely being able to see, or being able to throw something out.

            In the chill of the jail, the water being dumped on the man was more or less a death sentence, though.

            The footsteps stopped somewhere near, and keys jangled, a heavy bolt thudded as the lock turned.  Shaislyn jumped when the door opened, but couldn’t summon the mana to see who it was.  This was the truly frustrating part about being blind.  In ordinary circumstances, outside of jail, he might deduce who it was by where he was, or sounds the person made.  But here?  He didn’t know the sounds well enough here, or the people well enough yet.

            “Typical that I should find you here,” a familiar voice said, the tone criticizing.  He hadn’t gone back to the manor in weeks, as he had been avoiding his mother, and whoring.

            Shaislyn made a face and sighed, hanging his head.  “They won’t tell me what I did,” he complained.

            “Theft,” his father informed him.  “Someone saw you with that necklace you stole.  Or, more accurately, they saw the whore you gave it to.”

            “Did you see her?  Isn’t she beautiful?  She can do this thing with her legs—“

            “Spare me.”

            Shaislyn shrugged.  “Couldn’t they have at least waited to get me until _after_ I’d left the whorehouse?  My entire arrest was extremely awkward for everyone involved.”

            “You disgust me sometimes.”

            The young mage was silent for a moment in thought.  He sought the arms of whores because no one else would ever want him.  His own mother didn’t want him, and all he ever wanted in the world was acceptance.  And no one but the people he paid to give it to him ever gave it.  “You and everyone else in the world.”  A short pause.  “So, did you come here to criticize my life choices, mock me, or something else?”

            “Get up.  I have work for you to do.”

            He lifted his hands.  “Shackled.”  The chain ran to the ceiling, assuring everyone that Shaislyn was trapped.

            The magister unlocked them and the half-elf sighed in relief, rubbing his wrists.  He stood up, able to see once more.  “What’s the job?” he inquired.

            “I want you to go check on Fenris, and while you’re there, do you think you could set a small fire?”

            He crossed his arms.  “What kind of fire?  Metaphoric or literal?”

            “Literal,” Danarius answered, leading the way out of the jail.  “Specifically, I want you to burn all the documents about the house I own in Kirkwall.”

            Shaislyn let out a low whistle.  “Any idea where they are?”

            “I have a map for you.”

            “Why?”

            “Fenris is getting curious, it seems.  Someone is prying about it.  And, while I don’t believe he will run away again if he knows I actually do own it, that could make things… inconvenient for me.”

            Shaislyn raised an eyebrow.   “’Inconvenient’ _how_ exactly?” he inquired.  The magister’s eyes flicked to the bars they passed, as if to remind him that their conversation was not so very private.  Shaislyn’s mouth opened in a small “o” of understanding.  “I hope you have copies of it, or you’ll lose it.”

            “I do.”

            He nodded seriously.  “I can do that.  What do I get out of it?”

            “Don’t get greedy; I just paid your bail.”

            The half-elf pursed his lips, and thought about arguing, then sighed.  “Fine.  Don’t tell my mother I got arrested.  She worries enough about me.”

            “I’ve half a mind to,” Danarius said, more than a little irritated with his bastard son:  A thief, a whoremonger, and exasperating all at the same time.

            “Please don’t.”  Shaislyn smirked at the guards, and picked apart the storeroom they kept prisoner’s belongings.

            He found his coin purse sitting desolate on a shelf.  “I had more money in this when I came in,” Shaislyn complained, loudly and with feeling.

            “From ill-gotten means,” his father reminded him.  “Are you finished?”

            “I can’t find my swords—Oh.  Nice.”  He swore as he pulled them out of the box, the belts getting tangled on the other belts and baldrics in the box.  He looked at the handles and inspected the blades before he strapped them back on.  “Right.  I’ll leave first thing in the morning.”  He strolled past Danarius, who fell into step beside him, then proceeded to lead him out, their prison-guard-made-escort following them instead of the other way round.

            “You’ll leave within the next hour,” the magister admonished him.

            “The hell?” the boy complained.  “I’ve been in prison for two days.  I’m tired, and don’t ask me about the pig slop they feed us.  I need a long nap and some real food before I go—“

            “You’ll have a short nap in the carriage, a light snack, and then you’ll go after I get you your map, and the documents I want you to plant.”  His tone brooked no argument.

            “Ah.”  Shaislyn fell silent, sensing when a battle was lost.

            At the top of the stairs, there was a door that a guard on the other side opened at a knock, and Danarius’ bodyguard sighed with evident relief, and followed them.  In the carriage, in relative solitude, Shaislyn yawned, and looked at his father.  “So why am I setting the fire?”

            He was not a man used to having orders questioned.  “Outside Tevinter, slavery is illegal.”

            The half-elf’s eyebrows rose.  “You were conducting slave trafficking through the house.”

            “Among other things.”  A pause.  “Lyrium smuggling, wine, drugs…  I had a hand in a few different things.”

            “And it’s completely illegal,” Shaislyn added as the carriage rolled to a halt.  Danarius was dodging high taxes on slaves, lyrium, wine, and drugs by smuggling them through other countries.  He may have removed himself from the business, it sounded like, but he could still be traced to it if he were not very careful.  Imperial law would frown upon such behaviour.  And, if there was a full investigation going on, the city guard in Kirkwall might want to tear apart the house looking for clues.  He frowned as he stepped out into the sunlight after the magister.  “I’m a bit curious though—were you ever in Kirkwall that night I stole your slave breeding book?”

            “You stole that?” he asked, a bit surprised as they headed into the mansion.

            “How do you think I found you?”  A pause.  A servant opened the door for them.  “Fenris seemed to think you had accompanied the slavers.  Did you?”

            “No.”  Danarius gave a small frown.  “I wonder why he thought that?  But there were mages there, and they did have access to the manor.  Maybe he found the key is all.”  The magister paused.  “By the way, you’ll still be standing trial a few weeks from now, Shaislyn.”

He made a face.  “What’s the point?”

“Do you like your apostate status, or would you prefer ‘executed criminal’?”

He made a face, and sighed.  “I understand,” he said meekly.  “So.  I’ll stand court.  But what’s my… punishment, exactly?”

“Eight years in prison.”

“Fuck that.”

Danarius nodded.  “Plead guilty, spare my friend the judge a headache, and you’ll lose your left hand instead of prison.”

Shaislyn blinked, and actually laughed as if it were a joke.  “No thanks.”

“I’ll have a healer re-grow it for you.”

He gave a cocky smile.  “I’ll pass, thanks; I’m kind of attached to my hand.”

Danarius was not amused.  “Run, and you’ll be executed.”

Shaislyn searched his face, looking for any hint of relent, but saw none.  He groaned.  “C’mon, that shit will hurt.”

Danarius raised an eyebrow.  “So will execution.”

“Can’t you do anything for me, Danarius?”

He snorted.  “I did.”

He groaned, looking down at his hand.  “Does it have to be my left?  You know I’m left-handed, right?”

The magister sighed.  “The right then.”

Shaislyn glanced down at his hands.  “How long will I be one-handed?”

The other mage shrugged a shoulder dismissively.  “A few hours maybe.”

He clenched the fingers of his right hand, then relaxed them, imagining what it would be like for a blade to cleave through flesh and bone and leave him with a bleeding stump.  He wondered, too, what it would be like to have it regrown.  Did it hurt?  “You’re sure she can do this--the healer I mean?”

Rianda was quite a skilled healer.  He had seen her credentials; this was more than within her ability.  “Yes; she has before.”

“What was the end result?”

“It looked just like the original.”

“I’m skeptical.”

“That’s understandable.”

“Think I’ll pass.”

“You’ll be a wanted criminal.”

Shaislyn groaned.  “I hate you.”

“If you prefer to be executed, it can still be arranged.”

“I get it, all right?”

“See that you don’t miss the hearing.”

            Shaislyn nodded absently, falling silent as they walked toward Danarius’ study.  Danarius gave an order to a passing servant, and the man left in a hurry.  The magister went to his desk.  “These are the papers I want you to plant,” he said, touching a small bundle.

            “’Kay,” the apostate said.  “So, about that food you mentioned…?”

Danarius gestured toward the door.  Shaislyn turned around in time to see a cart being pushed into the room, laden with food.  Shaislyn fell upon it before the servant had even removed the lids.  The older mage sat at his desk, rereading another document idly while he waited for the half-elf to slow down his eating.

“Since I’m not allowed to sleep, I better get going,” Shaislyn said around a mouthful of bread.  He walked up to him, lifting the bundle off the desk, taking another bite of the roll.

            “Before you go, I have something for you,” the magister told him, walking around to the other side of his desk.

            The half-elf cocked his head to the side.  “Like what?”  When he saw the document Danarius lifted from a drawer at his desk, he sighed.  “Am I planting that, or just delivering?”  He stuffed the last of the roll into his mouth.

            “Reading,” he corrected him, and handed it toward him.

            Curiosity piqued, he grabbed it, and looked at it.  He had to reread the first paragraph twice before he understood it, and was afraid that he did.  He was not afraid of what it meant, but he was afraid to jump to conclusions about what it meant.  He read through the rest of the first page, flipping to the next.  “What is this?” he inquired.

            “Not very long ago, you were upset that no country considers you to even be a person.”  He gestured to the papers.  “Tevinter does.”  A pause.  “I didn’t even forfeit your status as an apostate.”

            “Not yet,” Shaislyn laughed, but stared at the papers somewhat reverently.  He set them back on the desk, biting his lip.  It wouldn’t make people hire him.  It wouldn’t make people get over their prejudices.  But it was something.  He was a citizen of the Imperium, and that was something—Soporati by default.  It meant he could own a house, land even.  It meant he could get married, in that unlikely event.  It was actually the most precious thing anyone had ever given him.

            The last time he had been this close to being a real citizen anywhere, he had been a slave and that was just being able to label him as something.  Even living in the alienage in Seheron, he had discovered, they had not been able to classify him as a citizen.  Not even when they did a census, he had not been counted.  He had been a child at the time and had not understood, but his mother had admitted the truth of it to him.  She had said that the man collecting the papers from them had sneered when she had asked about Shaislyn.  He had said, “We can’t count half an elf and half a human.”

            “How did you manage to do this?”

            “I’m a magister,” he said, as if it explained everything.  Maybe it did.

            “Why?” he whispered.

            Danarius shrugged dismissively.  “Think of it as a gift.”

            “Thank you,” he murmured.  A detailed map and the documents in hand, Shaislyn, still eating, left as if in a dream.  He was a citizen.  A real citizen.  Common peasantry, since Danarius had left him his apostate status, but it was something.  It was more than something.  It was more than anyone had ever given him, more than anyone would ever give him, outside of Jameson’s books anyway.  Technically, Shaislyn was Liberati, but he would never speak of it; those documents, like so much else in Seheron, had burned, and no liberated or escaped slave was going to admit that status.  No, if they could pretend to be Soporati, they would.

            He still liked his first form—the little sparrow that had saved him time and again.  That form which was so useful for spying and fitting into small places, but for distance travel he much preferred either a raven or a mighty eagle.  The eagle was better at gliding, and he liked gliding, riding the wind and not having to flap a wing for hours.  High above the world, everything just seemed peaceful.

            He watched a flock of geese ahead, and his eyesight was so spectacular as to observe much of the goings-on below as well.  He passed over forests and fields, rivers and lakes.  The Tevinter Imperium was a beautiful country, he mused.  Beautiful forests, rich farm lands, a nice climate—and one of blood magic and slavery.  But, he knew, the only one to openly oppose the Qunari.  The only one not to enslave mages to the Chantry.

            He supposed, with a sad feeling in his heart, that every government had problems.  He had been to many countries, after all.  Antiva had beautiful leather workings and the most feared assassins in the world, but their governments were a farce at best and so it was run by greedy politicians and often just whoever was the most feared.  Rivain had fantastic ships, exotic women, and great craftsmanship, but a lot of them were pirates, thieves and ruffians—a crowd he did not mind so much, except he was a foreigner there and looked the part in every way.  Ferelden was another beautiful country—especially in winter when the snow covered everything like a blanket, except it smelled like dog and the food was terrible.  Orlais was gorgeous as well and its cities breathtaking, the Cathedral there a work of the highest art, yet the Templars there behaved like common thugs towards mages.  The Free Marches were also quite lovely, and he liked the high mountains and the sea, but there was that problems again with the Templars, and each city-state had its own rules and guidelines, which were irritating.  The Anderfels had been all right as far as the people and the customs even if they were a bunch of religious zealots, but he had not liked the desert at all.

            And so it was that he always returned to the Imperium.  He simply saw no other option.  His mother was probably right when she insisted he join the Circle.

            Caught up in his thoughts, when he heard the creature roar it caught him unawares.  He looked up, and saw in the distance a young dragon, hovering low, burning something in a rocky field.  It roared again, as if in triumph, as it landed.  He winged toward it, curious, diving down a little lower to see it.

            As he neared, he saw that it was greedily tearing into the smoking carcass of some poor farmer’s cow.  He wheeled over it, watching, trying to study it.  It was so unlike any other animal, he could not even use another as a base.  His first inclination was to think it must be most like a lizard, but as he drew near, saw that wasn’t so at all.  And then, perhaps a bird—it did fly after all.  But it wasn’t like a bird either.  If he learned to take the form of a dragon, he would have to watch it the way he had watched every other animal for the first time.  Countless study, knowing its every sound, its every habit and action, and he knew he did not have the time for it.

            And watching that creature for so long was incredibly dangerous.

            He heard bones snap as the dragon bit into them.  He would be but a quick bite to the creature, juvenile or no.

            He flew on, knowing he had best put as much distance between it and himself as possible.

 

            The door closed with a soft click, and Aveline sat back down in her chair, staring at the report on her desk.  She had just finished giving a thorough verbal thrashing to the guards responsible for guarding the vaults.  How could a fire of that size get so large before anyone had even smelled the smoke?  Of course she hadn’t believed them when she heard their rebuke.

            They were just lucky that not _all_ those documents were lost.  The tax collectors were even now in fits, and many of the homeowners as well, now scrambling to find the documentation for their homes.  Tax documents were lost, the older catalogues of payment and many other papers were destroyed before it had been put out.

            The night it happened, even a couple of the Templars had come to investigate.  Of course, it was too late to tell for sure, at that point, if a mage had indeed caused it.  But the Knight Commander was _insistent_ that it must be an apostate.  But she saw blood mages everywhere.

            That morning, Aveline and she had had rounds—again.  They were always fighting, and neither woman would back down.  If Aveline dared to, the city would be in the Templars’ unforgiving hands, and she simply refused.  Their little discussion had began with the fire.  Meredith had, naturally, insisted that it had to be a blood mage.

            “How else could someone sneak past a guard, set fire to the vaults, and escape—all without being seen or caught?” the woman demanded.

            “It’s been a day,” Aveline had argued right back.  “Whoever did it only hasn’t been caught _yet_.”  An accident had been ruled out almost immediately.  The vault had ventilation shafts but no windows—nothing large enough for a person to fit through, and one door that had a guard outside it, and a bolt that was found to be secure.  And even if it were a mage, how did _they_ get past?  The guard who was guarding it didn’t even have the key.  There was no evidence of the lock being picked either, the door locked when the fire was discovered.  The key to the vault was in the tax collector’s office, which had been, again, found locked down to its windows.

            And Meredith would only continue to accuse blood mages, and Aveline would only continue to point out the facts and the evidence.  “We can’t jump to conclusions about _anything_.  Whatever damage was done was _annoying_ , but whatever they were doing, it just destroyed property records.  Look at disgruntled homeowners.”

            And still with the accusations, until Aveline snapped, “ _No one_ got in through that door.  There is _no other way_ into the vault.  If—If anyone got in, it was through the ventilation shafts, and no one could ever fit through those.”

            Meredith only left when Aveline agreed, tacitly, to having the guards posted to the door that night tested for signs of blood magic tampering with their minds.

            The entire thing made her angry, and even more angry when it was proven, beyond doubt, that her men were, of course, free from any such tampering.  There weren’t even any leads to follow--just a freak fire that had destroyed some old documents. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Way to send mixed signals, Hawke.
> 
> Yes, adults act like that. Source: Am an adult. Can confirm.


	92. Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is love, anyway? You can't touch it, can't pick it up and explain it to someone. Fenris struggles with the same question.

            Aveline heard an impatient knock at the door.  She frowned, wondering who it could be—and on her day off no less!  She hoped it was a personal matter, and not a work-related one.  The last thing this city needed right now was a crisis.

            She raked her fingers through her hair as she got off the sofa, and the person at the door knocked again.

            “I’m coming!” she complained.  She heaved a sigh, but was in no rush to get to the door.

            “Aveline!” a familiar voice complained from the other side.

            She frowned.  “Isabela?”  She opened the door, greeted by the Rivaini pirate.  She stepped aside, letting her in.  She did not wipe her boots on the matt as she stepped past her.  “I appreciate you knocking this time,” Aveline commented.

             “Well, last time I saw a little more of you and Donnic than I liked,” she laughed.

            She let the door swing shut.  “I do appreciate it, Isabela.”

            She nodded absently.  “I need to talk to you,” she said, getting right to the point.

            Aveline’s eyebrows arched in surprise.  “Something the matter?  Do you want some tea?”

            In the kitchen, Aveline put the kettle on the stove, and she sat down across from Isabela at the table.  The woman fidgeted in her seat, making faces as if she didn’t know where to begin.  Aveline cleared her throat, and she looked up.  “What’s this about?”

            Isabela let out a flustered sigh.  “Fenris,” she muttered.

            Aveline cocked her head to the side.  “You’re not pregnant, are you?”

            She laughed.  “Oh, I wish it were that simple!” she said honestly.  She leaned back in the chair.  “No.”  She blinked.  “Fenris talks in his sleep.”

            The guard captain wondered what this could really be about.  “If it bothers you, you don’t have to sleep with him.”

            She made a face, and stared down at the table.  “He has nightmares.”  She looked up at Aveline.  “There’s nothing I can do except wake him—and I know how he’d feel if he knew I knew.”

            Aveline’s eyes softened.  Isabela was just worried about their mutual friend.  And here Aveline had been expecting something else entirely.  “Nightmares?”

            She shrugged a shoulder absently.  “I don’t know—he’s cried a couple times.”  She flinched.  “I can’t stand to see it—so I wake him up, pretend he wasn’t talking in his sleep.  I don’t know what else to do.”

            The other paused.  “I don’t think there’s much else you can do,” she told her.  “Except be there for him.”

            Isabela seemed sad for a moment.  “I just… feel helpless.  I can’t do anything for him, and I’m afraid to bring it up.”

            The other nodded her head in agreement.  “Bad idea—that.  He won’t take it well.”

            She kind of smiled.  “No, he wouldn’t.”  She frowned, remembering the bits he had said.  Fenris was her friend before he was a lover, and it hurt to hear him say some of the things she had heard him say.  She liked to joke, tease, and go on, but only when it wasn’t hurtful.  She liked to feign ignorance, or Fenris would know how much she really knew.  If she stopped suddenly, he would get suspicious.  So she liked to tease him, ask if she could oil him up so he would glisten and things like that.  If Fenris knew the kinds of things she had heard spill from his lips, she didn’t think there would be any salvaging their relationship.  And, frankly, the sex was too good to give up.

            The pirate sighed.  “It’s not only nightmares though.”  She stared up at the ceiling, and opened her mouth to continue.  The kettle let out a loud whistle, and Aveline rose.  Isabela waited until her hostess had prepared the tea and honey and sugar.  While they waited for the tea to steep, the pirate continued, “Fenris is in love with Hawke.”

            “Everyone but Hawke knows that,” Aveline agreed.

            The other smiled crookedly.  “It’s cute, isn’t it?”  She stirred her tea, lost in thought for a moment.  “He says it a lot in his sleep.  It’s sweet.  But I feel bad for him—because Hawke loves Anders.”

            Aveline shrugged.  “It happens.  It’s not even unusual—he’ll get over it.”

            She looked back at her.  “Do you think so?”

            The redhead frowned, a suspicion lurking in her mind.  “Probably.  He has to.  I’m honestly more concerned about his nightmares than his unrequited affections.”

            “Do you think I should say something?”

            “About the nightmares?” Aveline asked, growing concerned that Isabela might.

            She shook her head.  “About Hawke.  You think if I just told him, point blank, ‘Hey, Fenris is in love with you’—what do you think would happen?”

            “Nothing,” Aveline said bluntly.  “Awkward tension—for everyone.  Fenris especially.”

            Isabela made a face.  “You’re really saying the best I can do for the poor boy is nothing?”

            Aveline raised an eyebrow, leaning forward.  “You’re not in love with Fenris, are you, Isabela?”

            She gave her a flat look.  “I’m in love with his sexual prowess,” she said pleasantly.  “He makes a decent friend, and I enjoy his company—which is why I care.”

            “Some people have gotten married for less,” she teased her.

            Isabela straightened.  “I’ve never felt so insulted.”

            Aveline laughed.  “Fine.  You don’t love Fenris.”  She dropped a sugar cube into her tea and stirred.  “But maybe mention the nightmares—don’t tell him he talks in his sleep—but maybe talk about things he could do about them?”

            The other nodded.  “Maybe a medication.”  She snorted a laugh.  “Hell, maybe just more alcohol.”

 

            Fenris went to Hawke’s mansion—he was slowly working through the library actually—and saw them.  That is to say, he saw Anders with his back to the railing, Hawke with his arms wrapped around him, and they were kissing.  Probably didn’t even notice him.  As a matter of fact, Hawke probably did not even known he was there, as the elf had gone straight to the library, where he worked his way through another thick volume.  He was a couple hours into its inky depths when Hawke wandered into the library, finding Fenris curled up in an armchair like a contented cat.

            “What are you reading?” he asked him. 

Fenris tilted the book so Hawke could read the title.  “I don’t know how you can stand to read history books all the time,” the mage confessed.  Things had been strained between them since that day at the beach.  Hawke was treating it as if it never happened, and Fenris supposed that that was for the best, really.  Nice to see that, if he had told Anders, there was no hard feelings between the two mages.  He almost wished there was.  Was that petty?

            “It’s comforting to know that some people have lived a more difficult life than my own,” he said without looking up.  Not having his own past often made him curious about other people’s pasts too.  History, biographies, accounts of people’s lives—he devoured it.  History was a fascinating concept to him, the patterns and the mystery involved in it.

            There was some silence for a bit, and Fenris went back to reading, until Hawke spoke again.  “So.  How long does it take to get from Seheron to Kirkwall, anyway?  Where all did you go?  Or did you just get lost?”

            Fenris looked up, and thought about telling him to mind his own business, except that the man was staring at him, and he felt something low in his stomach churn.

            He set the book down and walked over to a large atlas book that Hawke kept—and likely had no idea was here; he spent very little time in the library.  Fenris lifted it out, and flipped to a map of Thedas.

            He set it down on the table and beckoned Hawke over.

            He pointed to the city in Seheron that the Qunari had attacked.  “Seheron:  This was the city my master abandoned me in.”  Hawke laughed.  Fenris said nothing, because he had felt abandoned then, but he let Hawke think he was being sarcastic.  He trailed his finger along the map, along the coastline, and stopped, hesitating, and then moved his finger away from about the area he knew that wreckage of a city to be.  He could not remember the city’s name any more.  He stopped at another place, and swallowed hard.  It was only his best estimate, and that somehow made it worse.  “This is…”  He stared at the spot on the map.  Not even a place with a marker.  Had anyone burned the bodies?  Buried them?  Or had they been left to rot out in the sun?  His heart felt heavy.

            Hawke touched his arm gently.  Fenris stared down at the map, remembering all too vividly the feel of the mage’s caress on his skin—but also the way the blood from the dead Fog Warriors had stained his hands.  “It’s okay; you don’t have to tell me anything.”

            But he was only saying that because he knew why Fenris had fallen silent—or at least had some idea.  He moved his finger away from it, trailing along the paths he had taken alone, trying to remember.  He stopped at the town he had met Annalkylie, but said nothing about it; he had promised, after all, whatever that meant to anyone.  He trailed his finger along to the cove they had met the smugglers at.  “I stowed away on a smuggler’s ship, and they decided to keep me.”  He forced a rueful smile.  “We stopped here, in Seere.”  He pointed to a place in Rivain, and trailed his finger along the coastline, to a place in Antiva.  “And Rialto.”  He wound his finger along to all the other places they had stopped, and gone, and trailed it all the way up to Rivain again, close to Tevinter, stopped in a small cove by the Arlathan Forest.  He was silent again, and he knew that Hawke was trying to guess what had happened there.  Fenris didn’t want to talk about it though.

            He said instead, “I left.”  He snorted.  “Nearly died in the forest, too.”  He didn’t mention the hallucinations he had had.  Or demons—whatever they had been.  He trailed his finger along the map.  “And I stopped here, and here…  And then I came to Kirkwall, looking for Danarius.”

            “And whatever was in that chest,” Hawke commented.  Still curious after all this time?  “What was in the chest anyway?”

            Fenris looked at him, aware of how painfully close they were, yet so, so far apart.  What if they kissed?  Just once?  Would that be so wrong?  He didn’t know, and that was the worst part.  But Hawke certainly felt otherwise.  “It was…”

            “Hawke?” a familiar, irritating voice called.  Fenris stepped away, and turned.  He walked away from Hawke when Anders entered the room.  “Can I talk to you about something import--Oh, you.”  The distaste in the mage’s voice was plain, but the feelings were mutual.

            “Be nice,” Hawke snipped, but he said so with a warm, adoring smile that made Fenris seethe when he looked back at him.  “What do you need?”

            Anders could see both of them from doorway, and smiled lovingly at Hawke, and Fenris felt like part of that was to pique the elf’s rage.  Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t.  Either way, he wanted to hit him.  It spoke volumes of his self-control that he did not.  “Ah, actually, could it be more private?”

            “I’ll leave,” Fenris volunteered, and started to walk past Hawke.

            Hawke said, “No—it’s fine.  We’ll just go to another room; you were here first.”

            Anders blinked.  “Well…”  He seemed suddenly reluctant as the elf and the human were at a stand-still.  “Hawke, just meet me at my clinic sometime, all right?”

            The mage sighed, and shrugged.  “All right.  Are you going now?”

            Anders nodded once.  “Yeah.”

            Hawke brushed past Fenris.  The elf took a step back, watching Hawke walk over to Anders, his gaze flitting once to his backside before his eyes shifted back toward Anders, who wasn’t even looking at him.  “Not without a kiss from me, you’re not,” he corrected him.  Fenris turned his back when the two apostates embraced, and tried not to hear it.  They were standing in the doorway, and he couldn’t just slink away like he wanted to, so he watched the cold fireplace instead.

            Some days, he wanted to tip off the Templars about Anders, though Anders was frequently insistent that they knew anyway and possibly just didn’t want to cause problems with the Wardens or something.  All the same, the Knight Commander would happily take an apostate, even if the Grey Wardens disliked it.  Even if it outraged them, he thought.  But…  What would Hawke do?  Fenris couldn’t bear to see the mage heartbroken, and he would never overcome the guilt of causing Hawke pain.  Besides… what would happen if Hawke loved Anders enough to go to the Tower with him?  He would lose him forever.  And Hawke would hate him if he ever found out, no matter what the outcome would be.

            “Can we get a kitten?” Anders was asking Hawke, who only laughed and kissed him again.  Fenris wanted nothing more than to leave, but a quick glance over his shoulder affirmed that they were still at the top of the stairs.  “Merrill said that there was a cat in Lowtown that had kittens.”

            “You’re so cute…”

            “I’m serious,” the mage complained.  “I’d really like a tabby…”  They started whispering to one another, occasionally laughing, and kissing.

            As Anders turned to go, Hawke said, “I’ll think about it.”

            Anders made a face, and waved vaguely as he left.  Hawke turned back around, and when the elf looked, he had kind of a wistful look on his face.  “Well, I’d better go see Merrill.”  His lips were curved into a small smile, and Fenris could guess what he was up to.

            Fenris sighed, and watched him go.  Try as he might, he couldn’t get back to the book.  He was anxious anyway; Varania was supposed to be coming in a couple of weeks.

 

            Shaislyn flitted back and forth from one ship to another.  Danarius’ ship trailed behind the other by a day, and was the more luxurious of the two but he by far preferred his mother’s company, which didn’t say much because she still hated him.  He flew to the shore and stayed there most of the time, thus.

            His mother asked him to go check on his uncle, which he did.  He flew all the way to Kirkwall, and looked into the matter.

            He remembered that he was supposed to have collected a gaatlok recipe, and never had turned that in to the Bonny Lem.  He wondered how that had panned out?

            After he dropped in on Fenris and made sure that he seemed to be well—anxious looking, even a little depressed—and lonely—but well enough.  Was that the beginnings of guilt Shaislyn was feeling?  Why?  Maybe…  Perhaps, if he could just talk to Fenris…  No, that was absurd.  He deserved what was coming to him; he was a terrible person, who had done horrible things.

            He brushed it aside and moved on, down to Darktown.  He haggled a bit with the fence there, asked him if someone ever got that recipe during their discussion of business.

            “In a manner of speaking,” he replied with a shrug, scratching his grizzled jaw.

            The half-elf raised an eyebrow.  “Oh?”

            “Thought they had stolen it,” the man said with a laugh.  “Stole something else instead.”  A pause.  “Say, I have another inquiry about the powder, though.”  He frowned a little.  “If you can get it…”

            “A bit harder with the Qunari gone,” Shaislyn admitted with a shrug.

            “So it’ll pay more, because I can charge more, you know what I mean.”

            The half-elf nodded.  “See you around.”

            He flew back to check on his mother, saw that she was well, and took off again to check on the rapist who was his father, tell him that nothing was amiss and all that—maybe borrow a pen and parchment; he needed to write something.

            What he found when he got there was… not what he had been anticipating.  The elven healer would not let him in his room, and she, for the longest time, would not tell him why.

            He badgered her, and threatened her, and eventually she conceded to explain the situation to him.  “The magister is ill,” she said bluntly.

            “You’re a mage, and a healer—do something about it,” he said, pointing at her accusingly.

            She looked pained.  “Not like that—it’s his heart; I can’t do anything about it.”

            Shaislyn blinked.  “His… heart…”

            She sighed.  “He’ll be weak for a couple more days.  It takes time to recover.”

            “We’ll be in Kirkwall in almost two weeks.  Will he be well by then?” Shaislyn inquired.

            Her eyebrows raised.  “Depends on what you mean by ‘well’,” she countered.  Her arms crossed, her hair blowing in the sea winds.  “He has a bad heart, and what he really needs is to be at home.”

            “Has this happened before?” he asked gently.

            She hesitated before she admitted, “Just once before.”

            Shaislyn looked past her, at the door dispassionately.  _You just need to live long enough to put pen to paper and set my mother on the right course.  That’s all_.  “I see,” he said, and slipped away.  He asked her frequently about his recovery, and she seemed anxious but cheerful all the same.  She assured him that he would be fine, and just needed to rest.

            A squirrel wriggled under the magister’s door one night, and a teenager sat in the chair in the dark, and watched the man who had sired him, and thought about what it meant to be alive.  The magister looked weak and frail laying in the bed, doing nothing but breathing and sleeping like any other person.  It was difficult to believe that he could be anything other than a magister, but there it was.

            He sat for a long time, and considered his own mortality, before he could sit and think about it no longer.  He began rifling through the desk, and came across what he sought.  He sat in the dark, and wrote.  At the time, he never would have thought he could have memorized the recipe.

            “Were you worried about me?” a voice inquired, sounding half-mocking.

            Shaislyn did not look up.  “If you die, this entire thing is pretty pointless, isn’t it?”

            “What are you writing?”

            He stared at the letters on the page, and continued.  “A recipe,” he said blankly.  “For a friend—asked for it.  I’m great at cooking.  Mixing things, all that.”

            “One day, you might even speak in full sentences when you’re lying.”

            “I wasn’t lying.”  He frowned.  “The truth is so much more fun anyway.”  It was partially true.  By the time he had recovered the recipe, the uprising had happened, and he had thought it prudent to leave as soon as possible.

            Shaislyn finished, and looked at him.  “Are you feeling any better?”

            A slight roll of his eyes.  “I’d be better if that damned woman would stop barring me from leaving the room--and eating.”

            He nodded once.  “She’s just doing what’s best for you,” he said.  “She seemed concerned.”

            “About her pay, maybe,” he grumbled.  “Light a candle, would you—it’s dark.”

            “Oh,” Shaislyn blinked, and a flame formed above his upturned palm.  He cast about for a candle, and found one on the desk.  He sent the flame into it.

            Danarius watched him do this, and frowned at his form.  “Lay your palm more flat when you do that—it’ll keep it steadier.”

            “My palm is flat,” Shaislyn complained.

            “Do it again.”

            The boy sighed, and upturned his palm, a new flame springing to life.  The magister frowned at him in disapproval.  “Your fingertips are curled, and your wrist isn’t bent far enough.  Flatten your fingers and bend your wrist back a bit farther—yes, like that.  See?”

            Shaislyn grudgingly replied, “I guess that works better.”  He frowned.  “But it’s not comfortable.”

            “Form a bowl with your hand, as if you were drinking from it,” he went on.

            The half-elf sighed and did that, a bit surprised when the flame rolled in on itself—just as bright but a smaller flame.  “I can’t do a whole lot of magic,” Shaislyn heard himself say.  “For a mage, I mean.”

            “Because of your vision spell?”

            “Exactly,” the teenager replied, looking at the tiny flame in his palm.  “I mean, if I were to do a Harrowing, I would fail.”  He stared hard at the fire.  “Mother wants me to join the Circle, but that means I have to do a Harrowing--I’ve never even seen a demon, and what hope do I have in the Fade against one?”  He was quiet for a long moment.  Even in the Imperium, it was important that they knew which mages could control themselves and which could not; they did not want to release abominations out into the general public.  “Which means I’ll get the brand, won’t I?”

            “No.”  Danarius stared at him as Shaislyn extinguished the light in his palm.  “You only have to say ‘no’ to the demon when it happens.  You’ll have any magic and weapons you already have with you in the Fade, because you’ll believe you have them.”

            “But you’re a blood mage; you didn’t say ‘no’,” Shaislyn was quick to point out, putting the cap on the bottle of ink he had been using.

            “You don’t really _need_ to summon demons every time you use blood magic.  That’s a good way to get possessed—and the Magisterium does not condone _possession_.”  Danarius looked at him for a long moment.  “And furthermore, everyone says ‘no’ at the Harrowing.  It kept the Templars happy.”

            Shaislyn actually laughed.  “The Templars in Tevinter are a joke.”

            “In a way,” the magister agreed.  “Used to find apostates, same as any other country all the same—and sort of a private guard.”  A pause.  “Are you afraid of the Harrowing?”

            Shaislyn was quiet a moment.  “The only reason I know what it’s like is because I read books I wasn’t supposed to even know about,” he said, and kind of flinched.  “My mother wants me to join the Circle, and I feel like that’s going to be the end of my freedom, and maybe my death.  Or the end of my mind at least.”  He looked pained, and scared suddenly—not a mage or a swordsman at that moment, just an ordinary scared teenager.  “I’m not much of a mage.”

            “You don’t have to be,” his father told him.  Not the magister, or the slave owner, not even the man—but his father.

            Shaislyn looked at him, and didn’t know what to say.  He stuttered, and looked back down, and swallowed.  “Really?”

            “You just have to prove that you can rule your own magic, not the other way around,” the other mage told him.

            Shaislyn nodded thoughtfully.  He knew he could do that; he had been nothing but the master of his own magic since he was a child, and completely at peace with it since childhood.  “I mean, I would never _not_ want to be a mage.”  He blinked.  “I’m happy being a mage.”  He gave a crooked smile.  “But, my mom thinks she’s an awful mage, but she’s great at entropic spells, and those are actually pretty amazing, and difficult to learn.”  He sighed.  “And other mages are good at sculpting, or combat, or healing, or all these other things.”  He snorted a laugh.  “I use it to see, and I can turn into a dog.”  He rolled his eyes.  “So basically, all of you can change the world, and I can read a book, or play fetch.”

            Danarius looked at him, and seemed wistful for a moment.  “I don’t know—a lot of people would give up their whole lives for the chance to fly once.”

            Shaislyn kind of smiled.  “And many have tried.”

            “It’s been the dream of humanity for centuries to fly.”

            Shaislyn rose.  “I’m not human,” he objected, snatching his recipe off the table.  He stopped, and turned back toward him.  He swallowed.  “Would you have wanted me, had I been completely human?”

            Danarius was silent, and Shaislyn bowed his head.  “It would make… the politics much simpler.”

            The boy looked at him, pained with things he could not name.  His mother hated him, and his father rejected him because of the same heritage he had forced upon him.  “I… need some air.”

            But when he left onto the deck, the sky was dark and he couldn’t see the stars to navigate, so he stayed the rest of the night, sleeping in the hold.  In the morning, he was on deck to watch the sunrise, and stiffened when his father joined him, his fingers curled tighter over the rail.

            “Would you have been happier had I taken you from your mother when you were an infant?  Let her go on to Seheron without you?” he asked, as if Shaislyn had never walked away from their conversation.  
            He looked down at the water, and briefly contemplated just throwing himself into it.  “Would you have at least pretended to care about me?” he whispered.  _Like my mother never did?_

“Your mother never did, did she?” the magister said, rather than reply.  Had he read his mind?  Blood magic could do that, but Shaislyn didn’t think that was the case this time; he felt like it had become obvious last night during their conversation.  Shaislyn noticed, and chose to say nothing.  It seemed appropriate.  The half-elf’s stomach twisted.  He had pointed out, casually, a few times that his mother disliked him or even hated him, but he didn’t think Danarius had really believed him about that until their last conversation.  The magister sighed.  “I should have kept you.”  He looked out at the sea.  “I never should have let you go to Seheron.”

            The boy looked at him.  “You should have taken my sister and I away from my mother when we were born,” he said quietly.

            “Perhaps,” he agreed.

            Shaislyn leaned his hip against the rail, frowning in thought.  “Aren’t you… apprehensive--at all?”          

Danarius frowned.  “Why would I be?”

            The young mage shrugged a shoulder, gesturing with the other hand as he spoke.  “Fenris killed Hadriana.  What if he _does_ kill you?”

            The magister was unfettered by the idea.  He had come to terms with the possibility long ago, and when it came down to it, it wasn’t the worst way to die.  … Or even the most likely.  “Then he kills me.”

            The teenager’s expression bordered between a confused frown to a scowl, and settled on a scowl.   _He really does look like me,_ Danarius thought to himself, mildly amused.  How had _Fenris_ , who had spent three months with the kid, not noticed?  “You don’t even care?” Shaislyn demanded.  No, it was when he was making facial expressions that he looked like Danarius; an angry scowl, when he smirked, or rolled his eyes.  When he was sad, quiet, when he smiled shyly, that was when he looked the most like his mother.  Danarius could even see some of Leto in him, when he held his swords, the way he would walk.  When he laughed…  Danarius had never seen him laugh, not truly.

            Danarius shrugged a shoulder dismissively, glancing at him sidelong.  “No matter the outcome, it will be preferable to dying old and toothless in bed.”

            The other mage stared at him, baffled.  “Even if he rips out your vital organs?” he reiterated.

            The magister only shrugged noncommittally, as if he truly did not care.  “Then what I created will destroy me.  There are worse things.  I trained him to be ruthless, and I wanted him to survive.”  He frowned a little.  “When I recreated him, I instilled in him a strong will to live--if he interprets it as slavery meaning death, he will act upon it.  If he kills me, then I have been my own undoing, and I will accept that.”  
            Shaislyn was quiet for a moment, considering what he knew about the Ritual.  There had been so much death involved in it, so much pain.  His uncle had nearly died going through it, and then slept in a coma for weeks afterwards.  A strong will to live might have been the only thing that had motivated him to do so during that time.  Of course it had been a good idea, but it still seemed cruel to force an integral aspect of a person’s personality upon them against their will.  Or maybe Leto had always had a strong sense of will, and when Danarius took everything away from him, he had left that one piece of who he had been, and Fenris had clung to it like a lifeline.  Shaislyn almost wanted to respect the mage, though, for taking responsibility for his own actions, even knowing that his actions might result in his death.  “I could think of fewer worse ways to die.”

            The human was quiet a long moment, saying nothing.  The magister’s fingers started to curl around the rail, then stopped.  The magister flinched from the movement, and glanced down at his hands, studying them, a sadness lurking in the depths of his ice blue eyes.  The half-elf looked away, thinking about the older mage’s last heart attack, how mortal he had looked.  He bit his lower lip for a moment.  Wouldn’t he rather die in combat, or even an execution, than from something like that?  He didn’t want to grow old and deteriorate, and watch his body fall apart.  Perhaps the man who sired him didn’t want to either.  Furthermore, he would have to retire without Fenris, and he knew that Danarius, like Vanessa, like Jameson, wanted to die as he had lived.  It was still stubborn as hell, but Shaislyn respected him for it, against his better judgment.

            “That’s what you want, then?” the half-elf inquired, his voice soft.

            The magister’s gaze trailed away from his hand, setting his palm back against the rail.  “We can’t live forever, Shaislyn, and I’d rather lose my life because of my life’s work, than die in bed.”

            He smiled crookedly.  “What do you have against dying in bed?”

            Danarius glanced at him sidelong, his thoughts on how his mother had died.  Watching her waste away had been one of the worst things he had ever witnessed.  Roschelle had died in bed, lost to childbirth, her face frozen in pain and fear.  Hadn’t Shaislyn’s grandmother, too, passed away in bed?  “It is very undignified,” he said instead.

            The half-elf snorted.  “So is having your throat ripped out.”

            He raised an eyebrow.  “How would you like to die, Shaislyn, if you could choose it?”

            The younger mage grimaced in thought.  “Suddenly,” he said decidedly.  “A few seconds of pain, maybe.  And I’m terrified of getting old, so while I’m still young-ish and active--Oh, damn it.”

            Danarius laughed.  They were more alike than either of them would ever admit.

            Shaislyn’s lips twitched into the beginning of a smile, his face heating as he came to terms with his own error.  Then he frowned, glancing away.  “I’ll… meet you in Kirkwall.  Try not to have another heart attack.”  Shaislyn pulled himself up, onto the rail.

            “Shaislyn?”

            The half-elf glanced back at him.  “What?”

            “Take care.”

            He felt a little uncomfortable, and like he wanted to trust him because he was his father but he couldn’t because he had raped his mother.  He wanted someone to care about him—anyone.  He wanted to be _accepted_ and _loved_ , and _wanted_ above all because he never truly had been.  He wanted that acceptance from anyone, and was afraid of it at the same time.  But he still wanted it more than anything.  “Yeah,” he said before he threw himself off of the railing, an instant of falling toward the sea, a moment of sheer bliss as his magic wrapped itself lovingly around him, and excitement as he winged toward the shore.

 

            The door opened, and closed.  “You never came to visit me,” Anders complained.

            Hawke looked up.  “You’ve been gone for days,” he whined.

            “I’ve been busy,” Anders said.  “It’s flu season.  Anyway—I guess it’s not so bad; I wouldn’t have had the time.”

            Hawke picked up the sleeping ball of fur beside him on the bed.  “I got you something.”  It wouldn’t make up for what Hawke had done at the beach, but Anders wasn’t looking for gifts to amend that wrong; they had already reconciled.  This was just an ordinary gift.

            Anders had his back to him as he set down his staff, and shrugged out of his coat.  “I hope it’s your cock,” he answered bluntly.  “Hell, I would love to—“

            “Mrowr?” the cat inquired.

            Anders whirled around, eyes lighting up with obvious delight as Hawke presented him the little grey tabby.

            The kitten yawned.  It fussed a bit in Hawke’s expectant arms.  The apostate looked at the healer, eyebrows raising as he waited for a reaction.  Anders grinned, hurrying toward him.  He scooped the kitten out of Hawke’s arms.  “Oh, she’s adorable,” he said, cuddling the kitten.  The cat seemed to generally accept the abuse-worship with the kind of strained tolerance a god would have for its most devout followers.

            Hawke kind of smiled.  “I haven’t named her yet,” he said.  “I wanted us to name her together.”

            Anders laughed, scratching her ears affectionately.  “Oh, I love her,” he cooed at the little tabby. 

            Hawke just smiled adoringly at his lover, so wrapped up in something so simple and innocent as a kitten.  No mages, no Templars, no Qunari, no _Justice_ …  Just Anders, being Anders, with a kitten.  He wished life could always be like this.

            Hawke raised his hands, clawed and bitten.  “I gave her a bath when I brought her home—well, Sandal and I did anyway.  I don’t recommend trying it again.”

            “Did you get her any toys?” he inquired, the kitten now resting comfortably in the crook of his arm.  She seemed quite content there, peering out at the world with crystalline blue eyes.

            “Yes, yes.  She’ll be very spoiled,” Hawke answered, but his smile was more for Anders than for the cat.  He just looked so happy, and it made him happy to see him happy.  Was that what love meant?  “So, what do you think we should name her?”

            “Hmm,” Anders said as he thought, and sat down beside Hawke.  “Ser Pounce-a-Lot was my last cat’s name.”  The kitten was purring contentedly as he pet her.  “But he was a boy cat.”  He smiled a little.  “Did I ever tell you why I named him that?”

            Hawke cocked his head.  “No, you didn’t.”

            He kind of smiled.  “When I was a kid, at the tower, I would draw pictures in the margins of the books I was supposed to be studying.”  Hawke laughed.  “I drew…”  He chortled a laugh.  “One of them was a little flip-comic I made in the corner of the pages--of a Templar getting mauled by a tiger that I named Ser Pounce-a-Lot.  Because he was always pouncing on Templars—and eating them.”

            “I love you,” Hawke informed him, and kissed him until the cat complained of this intrusion.  “What shall we name her?”

            Anders looked down at the kitten again, who was by now trying to climb out of his arms.  He set her down on the bed beside them, and watched her chasing after their shadows on the bed.  “I’ll name her ‘Warden’.”

            Hawke was silent as he tried to understand what he meant, then laughed when he finally understood the joke.  “Because she’s grey.”

            He nodded seriously.  “And the Commander of the Grey Wardens in Fereldon is taking care of Pounce-a-lot right now.”  A pause.  “He’s an old kitty, these days.”

            “I thought you said the Wardens made you get rid of him.”

            Anders made a face.  “Slight exaggeration.  Those bastards said I couldn’t pack him around with me anywhere, and I had to leave him at the Keep.”

            “The Deep Roads is hardly anywhere for a cat anyway!”

            “The Deep Roads are also terribly lonely and… well, depressing.  It was nice to have the cat.”

            The apostate fell silent as he considered the wisdom in that.  The Deep Roads _had_ been a horror.  Any modicum of comfort was a welcome sight.  Hawke looked at Anders, feeling a slight tug of a smile on his lips.  “So after your friend then?” Hawke asked him.

            “Yeah,” he said, with a small smile, then it faded.  “Hawke…  I need to tell you something.”

            Hawke looked at him, and the smile on his face died when he saw how grave Anders looked.  “What is it?”

            “It’s about… the Wardens…”  He seemed pained.  “I can’t tell you everything, but…”

            “Why not?  I thought you left.”

            The mage just shook his head.  “No, I really can’t.”  He sighed.  “But anyway… it’s about the Calling…”

            Hawke looked at him, clearly confused.  “The ‘Calling’?”

            “I don’t… know exactly.  But…  One day, I know I’ll return to the Deep Roads.”  He looked up, at Hawke.  “For the last time.”

            The mage suddenly seemed worried.  “Anders, you don’t mean--?”

            The other laughed.  “Not now!  Maker, no.  But… One day.  Years from now, I think—I _hope_.”  He sighed as Hawke wrapped an arm around him.  “But one day I _will_.”

            The mage’s hand slipped from his shoulder to slide his hand into his, and squeezed it affectionately.  “Why?”

            Anders looked pained.  “Even if I fully understood it, I couldn’t tell you,” he said with a sigh.  “But in the Deep Roads…”

            The kitten chose that moment to bound onto Hawke’s lap, and then lunge for a loose string on Anders’ tunic.  Both of them laughed, and the previously grave topic was left alone, until they laid in each other’s arms, the kitten prowling around the room safely on the floor.

            “What were you saying about the Deep Roads earlier, Anders?” Hawke asked him, running his fingers through the other mage’s disheveled blonde hair.  It had fallen out of the tie he usually kept it in some time ago, between a kiss and a caress—sometime after a layer or two of clothing had fallen to the floor.

            “Nothing,” the other lied.  “I don’t want to talk about it right now.  Just hold me.”  His eyes slid closed.

            Hawke kissed the top of his head as the other fell asleep.  “No matter what, I’ll always be with you,” he told him.  He didn’t know if Anders heard him, because he didn’t reply, not even to say something corny or silly.  Maybe he was already asleep.

 

            Fenris had found a book about the different races of Thedas in Hawke’s library—an old, musty tome that could use some airing out.  Some of it was obvious, some less obvious.  There was an entire chapter on half-breed children, and he thought about Feynriel—and Shaislyn.  The book considered them to be “born human” but that wasn’t completely true.  Both of them looked more human than elven, yes, but their breeding was still very much apparent.  _And both mages_ , he mused.  Elves bred only slowly, and with great difficulty, always being pressured to have children.  A male elf and a female human were extremely unlikely to reproduce—ranging in the uncanny field.  A female elf and a male human somewhat more likely, according to the book.  The book seemed to suggest that the breeding problem lay primarily with the male elves.

            He felt like rolling his eyes.  The Imperium had caught on to that idea quickly; it was why they had multiple male partners for their female slaves.  He shivered a little at that.  Somewhere, right now, a girl was getting raped by the men she had to work and live beside, because of someone else’s orders.

            _Chance of sterility_ , he remembered, looked at the lyrium in his palm.  He sighed inwardly.  It didn’t make him feel like less of a man exactly.  More as if… another part of his life was robbed from him.  If he…  If he could ever find a woman, and marry her, and try to make a real life with her, there was a very real chance that they would never have children.  He didn’t need that exactly, but…  _Family_.  He wouldn’t mind having a family, a real family.  Someone to care about, and be cared about in return.  Someone he was important to, to protect, and love.

            _Love_ , he thought, staring blankly at the page.  It was such an abstract concept—love.  So foreign, so intangible.

            He paused for a long time before he resumed his reading, turning pages, trying to stop thinking about love, and the daydream of a real family, of belonging somewhere.  He had a sister somewhere, he reminded himself.  That would be enough—that would be more than enough.

            The book mentioned, much more briefly, human and dwarven half-breed children, which were even rarer.  The social stigma, for a dwarf, was even worse than that for an elf or human.  It said that such things were _possible_ but so rare that there were no documented cases of such.  There were a few sentences about Qunari, and it was only that it was unknown, and Fenris knew why.

            Guiltily, he thought about Zekiel, who had performed the taboo of coupling with someone not of his race.  The Qun did not condone sex for pleasure, and outside of race least of all.

            Fenris heard the door to the library open, but he didn’t look up.  It might be Orana, or Sandal, or even Bodahn—maybe Hawke.

            He heard footsteps down the stair, angry stomping footsteps—or maybe just clumsy ones.  Sandal?  He looked up, and twitched.  It was Anders, his face drawn into a glare.

            “You need to leave,” he snapped, pointing accusingly at Fenris.

            The elf blinked.  “Hawke said I could come and go as I wished—and this is his house.”

            “I live here too,” Anders hissed.  “And I’ve tolerated you coming and going, but no more.”  His arms crossed.  “I want you to leave, and you’re not welcome back.”

            Fenris dropped the book on the table, rising from the chair.  Instinct demanded that he argue, that he plop back in the chair and demand to know what Anders intended to do about it.  But that was childish—beyond childish.  It would be immature and petty to do, and worse, would drag Hawke into it.  And he didn’t know what he would do if Hawke sided with Anders on the matter.

            “That was sudden,” he muttered.

            “Hardly.”  Anders quaked with barely controlled rage, but there was no sign of Justice.  Must not have to do with mages or anything.  “Hawke told me about what happened on the beach.”  Fenris froze.  Had he really expected Hawke not to say anything?  “And while I forgive _him_ , the fuck were you thinking, Fenris?”

            The elf held his head up, lips pressed together to keep from saying anything.  Saying anything—anything at all—would only make this worse.  He walked past him, intent on leaving.  This conversation did not need to escalate.  _Took you long enough to come to a decision on that, Anders.  But it’s only been a few days._   Had he just been waiting for the right moment?

            Anders turned as Fenris passed.  “What _is_ wrong with you?  _You_ left _him_.  It’s too late for second thoughts, elf.  You had your chance, and you blew it.”

            Fenris whirled back to him, angry.  The lyrium flared with his temper.  Anders did not back down.  “I love him!” he barked, the lyrium fading when he realized it was true, and his face turning red when he realized he said it aloud.

            Anders’ eyes narrowed.  “So do I.  And he loves _me_.”

            _Don’t you think this is hard enough as it is?_   He wanted to scream.  He wanted to throw one of the chairs against a bookcase and watch the books tumble to the floor.  The truth hurt, more than any wound he had ever sustained.  It hurt more than a collar around his neck and the tinkling of the silver chain.  It hurt more than getting on his knees for his master, more than the whip.  More—even—than when he had killed the Fog Warriors, and he had never thought something could hurt as much as that.

            “Get out, Fenris,” Anders whispered.  “You’ve hurt Hawke enough, and your petty jealousy is disgusting.”

            He knew that too.  The truth was a bitter taste in his mouth, a painful thing to swallow.  He _had_ hurt Hawke enough.  His jealousy _was_ disgusting.  It even disgusted him.  “I love him, Anders,” he whispered, staring downwards.  Slowly, he looked back at him.  “And if you ever hurt him, _I will kill you_.”

            Anders’ temper cooled.  He knew that Fenris had accepted it, at least.  He knew that Fenris was backing down.  “I love Hawke,” Anders answered.

            Fenris stared at him, wondering why he thought Anders was hiding something.  He walked away, back out into the streets, puzzling over what Anders had said.  There was something… wrong.  _If you ever hurt him, I will kill you.  I love Hawke._   As if a proclamation of love was all there was to not hurting someone.  Maybe it was all there was to it.  How could he ever have known?  The only person he had ever loved, he had hurt.  He had pushed him away, and only continued to hurt him.  Maybe he just didn’t know anything about love.


	93. The Dalish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varania gets to Kirkwall. Shaislyn spies on Fenris, and Fenris berates Merrill for her life choices. Merrill chooses to be vindictive, and withholds information from Fenris.

                Shaislyn sauntered down to Darktown, and was annoyed, briefly, to not find the fence where he usually was.  He did some inquiries, and eventually knew he had to wait.  Not really one for sitting around and waiting for people, he wandered up to Hightown to do some breaking and entering, and removing of various expensive items.

                He preferred to look around as a bird, and did so, but noticed that there were a lot of guards out.  Since the uprising, the guard had been on tight patrol.  Maybe this wasn’t a good night for something like what Shaislyn had in mind.

                Did he dare risk going to cause some mischief at the local Circle?  Bad idea; Knight Commander Meredith, he had heard, was a bitch with a stick shoved so far up her ass that it was a small wonder she could speak past the end of the stick poking out her mouth.  He wondered if he could manage to seduce one of the Templars…  There was some mild sport in that, anyway.

                Bored, he fluttered back down to Lowtown and wandered about in the form of his birth, wondering vaguely if any of this would ever affect the way he aged.  In fact, most disturbing, since the animals had _shorter_ life spans than himself, it might actually speed up his aging.  Or maybe his body’s aging stopped while he was an animal…  His head began to spin, and he felt like it was infinitely better not to think about it.

                Even if it did speed up his aging, he wouldn’t give it up.  How does one give up flying?  He had no idea.

                He found himself in a bar half an hour later, chatting up the barmaid, who of course had heard it all and everything else before, but was good enough to humor him.

                He watched the rest of the bar, and laughed when a man tried to drunkenly serenade another patron, who only rolled her eyes and shoved him off of his barstool and swaggered past.  She leaned against the bar, calling for the bartender for more whiskey.

                Shaislyn looked, but not in a way that anyone would notice, at the length of her legs, and her very exposed chest.  Nice to look at it, but by the way she swaggered about and acted, probably very used.  He looked back at the rest of the room, enjoying the sights, the sounds, the smells.  There was always so much to see and experience in places like this.  He wished he could adjust his hearing the same way he could adjust his sight.  Hearing was so much more _useful_ than simple vision, after all.

                Now, why hadn’t he ever thought of trying to find a spell like _that_?  Probably, too busy maintaining the one for his vision!

                He noticed a dwarf at another table with a tall mug of ale that seemed scarcely touched.  What the dwarf was primarily looking at were papers—something Shaislyn knew to often be more valuable than gold or trinkets.  Sometimes, people would whisper things to him.  Sometimes, they made faces when he spoke back and smiled.  Other times, they seemed pleased, and still other times even upset.  All the while, money seemed to flow in both directions—always more toward the dwarf.  He wondered who he was.  Had he seen the dwarf somewhere before?

                And that woman, too?

                He couldn’t recall exactly…

                Someone leaned against his table, and he made himself look up, a little startled.  The woman smiled down at him.  “Haven’t seen you around before,” she said, her lips pursed into a smile that could be cunning or welcoming, or both.

                “No, I guess not,” he replied, returning the smile in kind.

                “What brings you to the Hanged Man?” she inquired, sitting down across from him.

                “Not many other places to go to at this time of night,” he said.

                She wasn’t at all deterred by his evasive answer.  “How’d you get to Kirkwall?” she inquired.

                Innocent enough question, but one he dreaded all the same.  Had any ships come in today?  Was it safe to say it was a ship?  He couldn’t say he had flown.  Was it safe to say he had walked?  Or maybe it was best to just be cryptic?  “What makes you think I’m new in town?”

                She laughed.  “That accent, for one.”

                He rolled his eyes.  It was hard to miss, wasn’t it?  Tevene was his first language, and he spoke the Trade Tongue well, but the accent he had never been able to lose.  “Fine.”  He smirked.  “I was dropped out of the sky on a ball of flaming cheese.  You did see the crash site, didn’t you?  It’s that smelly Orlesian cheese—I think I still smell like it.”

                She laughed good-naturedly.  “You’re all right,” she told him, before she left for more drink.  She looked so familiar, and that bothered him.  Where had he seen her before?  It was driving him absolutely mad.  Where…?

                The woman walked over to the dwarf, said something to him, and the dwarf looked toward Shaislyn—very briefly.  No one else would have noticed, in fact, but it was Shaislyn, and he could see everything he wished.  And those two bothered him.

                Then he remembered.  He had seen the woman with that man Hawke, and Fenris, in Darktown once before.  He had seen the dwarf when Fenris killed Hadriana.

                All the colour drained from his face.  He needed to get out of here—now.

                Moreover, this was supposed to be the meeting place.  Maybe he could create some reason for Hawke to go on an excursion—maybe get those two out of the bar for a couple of days—even a day—for the trap to be laid properly, without rousing either of their suspicion.  He would need to stalk the bar for a couple more days to see.

                He kicked himself inwardly.  He had _talked_ to one of them.  Hell, that had been dangerous.  He had better avoid people for a while.  No need to rouse suspicion early.

                He went down to Darktown, contradictory to his decision to be a ghost of sorts.  The fence was there this time, and Shaislyn handed him the scroll.  “It’s here,” he told him.  Never mind that there was one ingredient missing, and another badly misspelled.  It didn’t hurt to be cautious.

                The man blinked, and unrolled it briefly, and scowled.  “Everything is in that damned Qunari language,” he complained.

                “Qunlat.”  Shaislyn shrugged.  “You didn’t ask for a translation, did you,” he pointed out.  “But that’s it.”

                “What am I supposed to tell the client?” he demanded.

                The half-elf raised an eyebrow.  “Tell them they never asked for it translated, and that it’ll cost more to have it done in secret.”  Shaislyn grinned, pointing to himself.  “And you know someone who can do it.”

                And then the old fence smiled, nodded.  “That’ll do.”

                “I’ll be back in a few more days then, with the translation.”

                “I’ll see you then,” he said, and paid him for the work done.  Shaislyn pocketed the coins and walked away, debated on going to the Blooming Rose, and decided he would rather go talk to his mother.  They came closer by the hour, and it would be no time at all before they were actually in the city; he was feeling apprehensive about it.

 

                Varania waited in the hold with the few other passengers, listening to the sway of the ship and the sailors running about on deck.  It was stuffy, and boring, just like she remembered every time she had been on a ship.  Shaislyn had come to visit the evening before, but he never stayed long.  She tried not to think too much about what she was doing.

                Besides, everything would work out in the end, wouldn’t it?  She had made certain of that.  Still, when the ship docked, and the sailors continued running about, she felt worried, her stomach tying in knots.  It was almost another hour before the sailors opened the doors and ushered them out.  Varania walked amongst the other passengers, looking around at the unfamiliar surroundings, the carvings on the walls that made her skin crawl.  It was a lot like the Imperium, she relented.  Just no incense.

                _And no slaves_ , she reminded herself.  Well… soon there would be a few; the magister had a few slaves with him, and if she counted Fenris…

                She tried to think about something else, and it wasn’t so hard to do with a new city.  She wondered which way to go, and finally settled on the same direction as everyone else.  She started making her way away from the docks, up the steps.  Someone fell into step beside her, wearing a dark hood to mask their features.

                “Hello, Mother,” Shaislyn said.  She started to turn her head.  “Don’t look at me.”  A pause, and the creeping feeling came back.  “We need to be very careful.  I’ll walk ahead of you, and I’ll walk slow.  Just follow me to the Hanged Man, and don’t try to talk to me.”

                They had discussed this, she remembered.  When he visited her, it was always in relative secrecy, and he was always hooded.  He was afraid of inciting suspicion, of course, so it was the best course of action.  But the entire thing left a sour taste in her mouth.  It was so deceitful, and wrong.  She hated it, but what could she do?

                Besides…  it was all true; Leto had won her freedom and what had happened?  Nothing good.  She had been miserable, and this was her one chance to escape her own misery.  Leto had had his chance.  He had _chosen_ to become Fenris and be a slave all his life.  It was _decided_.  She wished, if Fenris remembered nothing else, he should at least remember _that_ and just… just go back to serving wine and sleeping on silk pillows.  That was what he was supposed to be doing.  He had _agreed_ to be a slave the rest of his life; Danarius had even showed her the contract, which he had read to Leto upon winning the competition.  Running away like this was really just violating the terms of the contract.

                In a way, his violating it, even unknowingly, meant that, if Danarius had wanted to, at any time over the past several years, he could have killed Varania or Shaislyn, or both of them.  Or, if it pleased him, enslaved them, and it would be completely within his rights.

                “Remember that,” the magister had said, pulling the old slip of parchment back to him when she had finished with it.  “I let you and your son live—in relative peace and freedom.  And I didn’t have to.”  He kind of smirked.  “Fact of the matter, Varania, I’m completely within my rights to reclaim you, and then I could force you to bait my pet.”  A pause.  “But I won’t.”  He cocked his head to the side a little.  “Even if you refuse, Varania, I still won’t.”

                _Because this works out so much better for everyone_ , she thought miserably—and moreover she wasn’t so sure why she was miserable.  If he had simply caught her, said she was a slave again because Leto had violated the contract, would she scream to him to run when she saw him?  Or would she obey her master?

                She knew Shaislyn would not be so easily enslaved, which would make him a fugitive and on equal grounds with Fenris.  No, she thought, as she followed him.  He would enslave himself to keep her from harm, which was almost worse.  Just like Leto.

                But Danarius had not enforced that part of the contract.  He hadn’t even threatened to; simply mentioned that he _could_ , and _hadn’t_.  And never had, she remembered.  Maybe he wasn’t as terrible as she wanted to believe.  And at the same time, he had raped her.  But he had saved her mother’s life later, and her own.  Even if Leto had done something in exchange for that, the fact still stood that he had done it; and he must have offered the trade, because Leto never would have begged something like that from their master.  But he had raped Leto too, she remembered with a sick feeling in her stomach.  And probably Fenris as well.

                But she wondered… had the rape been in exchange for her life?  All those years ago, her brother disappearing the night her twins were born, coming back so solemn, and looking like he had been crying, sick for a while afterwards…  He would never have left that night if he had a choice in the matter.

                _It had been a sick, twisted kind of kindness_ , she thought placidly.  _To tell you they could save your dying sibling, but you had to submit to your own rape for them to do it._   But he was their master; he didn’t have to have helped.  The twins were his children too, but he didn’t have to help.  He had let so many other slaves die, after all.  And they died all the time to sickness and childbirth.  Had he ever offered the same thing to anyone else?  Maybe he had, but…

                _He can’t be all bad_ , she insisted to herself.  _It was evil of him to do, but he was our master.  If he wanted to rape Leto, he could have at any time.  He didn’t have to do anything more_.  And that was the sad truth of it.

                Still, Varania pulled herself from her muddled reminiscing of her past, and looked to the future as she followed her son several paces in front of her.  When she lost him, he would wait, and smoke tobacco, and act nonchalant until she was near enough, and then he would continue on, as if simply resuming his course.

                She could be a magister one day.  That would mean everything—it would make all the difference in her life.  Everything she ever wanted, she would have.  And _anything_ she ever wanted, she could have.  It was a real chance at a better life, the best offer she had ever had.  And in a few days, the deal would be sealed.

                Shaislyn paused, snuffing out the stub of his cigar.  He glanced at a building pointedly, and stretched, and she noticed he pointed at the sign, and turned and walked considerably faster away.  She looked at the sign, and blinked a little in surprise.  Well, that was the place.  And they even had a room available.  Shaislyn was waiting inside it, but neither spoke until the door was locked.  She sat down, fidgeting anxiously.

                “Everything will be fine,” Shaislyn promised her.  “Just stay here.  He cocked his head a little.  “I’ll let you know how things are going.”

                She frowned.  “How is…”  Then she lowered her voice.  “How is the magister getting into the city?  If you’re so concerned about people seeing us, they’ll notice the ship.”

                He shrugged.  “They’re switching ships in Ostwick tonight, and coming in disguised as a trading vessel.”  He smiled encouragingly.  “So don’t worry about it.”  He grinned.  “And you’re going back to Minrathous in a cabin.”

                She smiled a little, and laughed nervously.  “Should I try to contact… my brother, do you think?”

                He bit his lip a little.  “I would wait until tomorrow—they’ll be here tomorrow evening.”

                She looked down and confessed, “If I have to meet him… without… without them here—before the… trap… is ready, I don’t know if I can pretend…”

                Shaislyn sat down beside her.  “If he does come here early, just cry a lot and hang off of him while reminiscing about your childhood or something.”  He quirked a smile.  “He won’t suspect a thing.”

                The redhead stared down at her hands.  “I don’t think I can talk to him one day, and then go through with this the next,” she whispered.

                “Ah,” Shaislyn said, and frowned a little.  “I’ll… see what I can do.”

                But he apparently didn’t need to worry about it.  When he went to go check on the runaway slave in question, he wasn’t in the manor.  Hawke wasn’t in town either, and he almost gave up looking, but he saw Fenris as they were walking out of the city gates.  He looked at the other two with them—one a Dalish elf, which was interesting to him, and the other that woman from the tavern.  Good—she was gone.  That left the dwarf to consider though, and he remembered that at the last moment.  He winged back, and looked around for the dwarf, but didn’t see him either.  Absent?  Why?

                It took nearly two hours, but he eventually found the dwarf in the merchant quarters, in heated debate over something.  He would be there for a while.

                He flew back and caught up to Hawke’s little party.  He followed after them, trying to figure out where they were going so he could have some idea as to when they would be back.

                He followed them for a while, until he was satisfied that they were definitely heading somewhere with a purpose.  _The Dalish girl is kinda cute_ , he mused.

                Bored, Shaislyn flew back toward Kirkwall, reasoning that he could go back later.  He headed to Darktown, and talked to the fence for a bit, handed over the translated recipe, this one sealed in an envelope.

                “It’s dangerous,” he said with some regret.

                “I could copy it,” the fence said, looking at it.

                Shaislyn’s eyes narrowed.  “We would have the bloodiest wars known to Thedas if you did.”  _And I will kill you if you try._

                The man laughed, and waved him off, but Shaislyn hid nearby in an animal form, a mangy cat, and watched until a man came to collect the envelope, griping about the cost, and then hurried off.  No copies made, and the original recipe he had given the man he had fool-proofed.  Still, he did wonder about the man.  He stalked after him, curious, but always staying just out of sight.

                The man was blonde, and tall—human.  He walked through a door, and didn’t entirely close it when he went inside.  Shaislyn followed him.  The room was empty, but well-lit for Darktown.  There were tables set up and… was this the clinic he had heard about?

                The man looked around the room again, nervously.  His demeanor changed when he saw the cat.  He knelt, holding his hand out.  “Here, kitty,” he called.

                Shaislyn stayed a distance away, hesitant.  He took a look at him, a long, good look at him.  He looked familiar…  Had he… seen him somewhere?

                “Come here—it’s okay,” the man continued to try to coax him.

                Shaislyn was only suspicious.  Where…?  Had it been…?  He felt his fur bristle.  This man was at Hawke’s estate before.  Just like that, he turned and bolted through the door—just a skittish cat.  He bolted around the corner, and caught his breath.  Cats were not meant for long runs.  He sauntered to a dark corner, waited a bit, and changed back, then made his escape of Darktown.

                Hawke had contacts everywhere, didn’t he?  He wondered what that man had wanted with the recipe, then decided it was really none of his business what he did with it, so long as he didn’t give it to the world.

                Well, he had better go see what Hawke was up to.

 

                Fenris glanced back at Isabela.  “You’ll get left behind,” he warned her.  She stared up at the sky, a hand up to shade her eyes.

                “I swear I’ve seen that bird up there all day,” she said.

                “I doubt it’s the same bird,” he commented, conscious of Hawke and Merrill walking ahead of them.

                She frowned, taking a step forward, a bit reluctantly.  She was suspicious by nature.  “What if it is?” she said.  “I think it might be.  Look—it’s the only one.”

                “It’s just a bird,” Fenris said, annoyed.

                “What are you doing?” Merrill called back.  Hawke had stopped and was scowling back at them.

                Fenris rolled his eyes.  “Isabela thinks we’re being stalked by a _bird_ ,” he informed them.

                The two mages looked up, and Merrill pointed at the bird.  “That one?  Can birds follow people?  Do humans train birds to do that?  Why?”

                “Let’s go,” Hawke called.

                Isabela looked flustered, but caught up to the others.  “When I was in Fereldon, I met a witch from the Wilds,” she began.

                “Like Flemeth?” Hawke said thoughtfully.

                A pause.  “No.”  Then, “She could transform into animals…”

                “I didn’t know magic could do that,” Merrill commented.

                Hawke frowned at her.  “You _saw_ Flemeth do it.”

                Merrill blinked.  “But she’s _Flemeth_.”

                “Good point,” he conceded.

                Fenris sighed, irritated.  He was already annoyed that Hawke had dragged him out here—to help _Merrill_ of all people.  Worse, to help Merrill get something to assist her in her blood magery.  Hawke owed him a couple of drinks for this bullshit.  He was suspicious that Isabela had helped herself to a couple of drinks that morning.  “It’s just a _stupid bird_ ,” he insisted, with feeling.

                “But don’t crows usually fly in groups?” Merrill inquired, developing a sudden interest in the crow.

                “I think they do,” Hawke agreed, frowning up at the sky.

                The bird circled again, and started to sail away.  Fenris felt pleased by this.  “Look—it doesn’t matter; it’s leaving.”

                Isabela frowned suspiciously.  “Strange that it’s leaving once we all start staring at it,” she muttered, even as the others began to walk away.  It was a long walk to the Dalish camp, and Merrill and Isabela chatted casually the whole way.  Fenris would like it better if Isabela and Merrill were not such easy friends, but everyone else seemed to think the blood mage was relatively harmless.  Ha!  Just wait and see—something disastrous would happen, and they would all lament being friends with her…  And then he could sit back and say “I told you so”.

                Merrill and Hawke went and spoke with the Keeper, and Fenris glowered at all the Dalish going about their lives.  One of them was complaining about what an awful hunter he was.  As if that were the worst thing in the world.  He hated watching them… and a part of him envied them.  They had everything so many of the elves didn’t have.  They would take in city elves, sure, but theirs was not a lifestyle everyone would want.

                Isabela had wandered off to the craftsman, watching him make a bow with interest and asked him about their steel working.  He paced, occasionally glancing at Hawke.  Merrill kept making faces, and nervously glancing downwards.  He watched a sparrow peck at the grass nearby, and looked back at them, feeling impatient.  The sooner this whole mess was over, the better.

                He didn’t miss some of the looks that the Dalish gave Merrill—disgust and distrust.  He felt like that was necessary, but he did wonder why.  They hadn’t looked at her like that a few years ago.

                He watched two children run by—barefoot.  A boy carrying a doll raised over his head, laughing while a redheaded girl chased after him, screaming at him to give it back.  He looked back at her, sticking his tongue out, and tripped over a stone.  She tackled him, fists flying and the boy dropped the doll in the attempt to defend himself.  She snatched it off the ground, and continued beating him relentlessly, calling him all kinds of childish names.

                He frowned at the sight, and felt like…  Had he seen something like that somewhere before?  He couldn’t really remember…

                “Hey, stop that,” one of the Dalish called to the two children, trotting up to them.  The girl reluctantly got off of him, hugging her doll close to her.  “What have you to say for yourself?”

                “He started it!”

                “She’s lying!”

                “Am not!”

                The Dalish pulled them away to admonish them in relative privacy.  He guessed he could have seen children fighting anywhere, really—realistically speaking anyway.  At any rate, Hawke waved to him that they were finished, and moved on.  As Fenris looked back, he saw the Keeper walking away from the camp, and the sparrow fluttering off.

 

                Shaislyn was choosy about his hiding place to change on the mountain, but did find a place.  He stretched, and felt hungry.  Did he want to hunt or forage?  Hunting was more fun, he decided.

                The wolf padded through the forest, looking, sniffing, listening.  He was a in a good mood; the sun was warm, the trees were fragrant, and he was young and strong.  His ear twitched, and he changed directions, then bolted quickly around a hedge, teeth snapping.  The rabbit went limp in his jaws—it was a young spring rabbit, and its meat was tender.  He lapped at the blood casually, and looked up, a low growl emanating from his throat.

                The wild dogs were smaller, scrawnier, but there were two of them.  The wolf snarled.  The dogs growled, and the wolf lunged forward, all teeth and claws.  In a few seconds, the dogs were running, and he trotted back to his kill.  He licked it clean, and bounded off to find a sunny patch to sleep.  He hadn’t slept much lately.

                He slept lightly, half obscured by a berry bush in the shade, and woke some time later.  He climbed to two feet, and surveyed the area, deciding he should get going.  A raven took to the air, and went to check on Hawke and company.  They were still wandering around on the mountain, but climbing back down, deed done apparently.  Merrill looked upset about something, and he wondered what it could be.  Fenris had a nasty, half-smug expression adorning his face, and Merrill seemed to be shocked and appalled at what he was saying.  Isabela kicked him in the back of the knee for one comment, and smacked him in the back of the head for another before she hugged the Dalish mage, who was near-tears by the time Fenris was done saying whatever it was he had to say.

                Yet another reason Shaislyn had for disliking the man; there was never a good reason to make a girl cry like that.  He wondered if he could manage to shit on his head…

 

                “Oh, hell,” Fenris swore.  Isabela giggled.  Merrill smiled weakly, and would have laughed if she wasn’t so close to tears.

                “You deserved that,” the pirate said.

                Hawke looked back.  “What—Oh.”  He laughed aloud.  “Well, at least it’s not your head.”

                “I hate being out in the forest like this…” Fenris muttered.

                “Here,” Hawke said, offering him a handkerchief.

                The elf snatched it, making faces as he wiped off the bird scat from his shoulder.  The bird in the tree made a noise that sounded a lot like a chuckle to him.  It fluffed its feathers contentedly, and scolded them for the intrusion.  “You’re just as likely to get shat on in the city,” Isabela said amiably.  “More likely, in fact.”

                “I hope you’re happy,” he muttered, glaring at Merrill as if it had been her fault.

                “I think you deserved it too,” she said, giving him a look that promised to shove him off the nearest cliff if he were so mean to her again.

                “Agreed,” Hawke added, nodding pleasantly.  Fenris scowled at all three of them.  “Y’know, I’ve been quiet listening to you talk to Merrill—but you’re an asshole.”  Isabela laughed, but then Hawke looked concerned.  “Is something bothering you?”

                Fenris sighed, scrubbing furiously at the feces.  “Aside from the bird shit?” he said sardonically.

                Hawke blinked.  “Well… yeah.”

                Fenris hesitated, then stopped.  He handed Hawke back the handkerchief.  “We can talk about it later, all right?”

                Hawke looked like he might want to argue, then stopped, and shrugged.  “Okay—fine.”  A pause.  “I’ll… come visit you sometime—sound good?”

                “Yeah,” he muttered under his breath before they moved on.  The black bird chuckled again, and he scowled back at the stupid animal.  He thought about what Isabela had said, about mages being able to shapeshift into animals.  That just sounded terrifying.  He already didn’t like being outside in nature, and the idea that a deer or a bird or whatever could actually be a mage was one he did not relish.  “I hate crows.”

                Merrill blinked.  “Why?  Crows never did anything to you, did they?”

                He pointed at the crow in the tree.  “That one did.”  The bird chortled again.

                The Dalish raised an eyebrow inquiringly.  “It’s a raven, Fenris,” she said flatly.  She pointed as the bird stretched its wings.  “Look at it.”

                He glanced at the bird, but one bird looked much the same as another to him.  But it did look pretty big for a crow, he had to admit.  “Whatever,” he muttered.  Hawke turned and led the way down the path.  The bird continued to scold them for a moment longer before it flew off.

                “What’s the difference between a crow and a raven anyway?” he muttered, half to himself.

                Merrill accepted the distraction from her own troubling thoughts.  “Ravens are bigger, and smarter too I think.”  She paused.  “Did you know that ravens are called wolf-birds?  Wolves and ravens actually get along very well—they’ll even play together.  Oh, but I was talking about the differences between ravens and crows—Well, there are their cries…”

 

                Hawke wasn’t sure if he should be offended or not.  Fenris “knew they weren’t friends”.  What the hell did that mean?  A few years ago, he had said, “Maybe this is what it was like to have friends.”  Now they weren’t friends?

                He almost left it at that—frustrated and annoyed—but he turned back as his fingers touched the front door.  It was like trying to begin an argument again after it was already lost, but he marched back up the stairs anyway.

                “Excuse me,” the mage said, glowering at the elf, who frowned at him.  He shook his head a little.  “No.  In fact, fuck no.”  He crossed his arms in a manner that he hoped was intimidating.  “What the hell?”

                Fenris stared at him for a moment.  “What?”

                Hawke made a face.  “Since when were we not friends?” he demanded.  “Because I sure would have liked to know we weren’t.”

                The elf looked pained, then looked away, uncertain as to what to say or how to address this scenario.  “I…”

                Hawke ground his teeth, frustrated.  “Or did you decide that we can’t be friends, just like you decided that we can’t be lovers either, because it’s too _damn hard for you.”_   Hawke stared at him, and Fenris stared downwards, and said nothing.  “But you can sure as fuck bang Isabela, and you don’t have any fucking problems.”  The mage was silent as that sunk in for both of them, and he realized how much it hurt.  It wasn’t fair that Fenris could be with Isabela, but not him.  “Say.  Something.”

                His eyes flicked upwards once, then back down, reforming into old habits when he was distressed.  He looked very much like he wanted to just slink away from this conversation.  “I… don’t know,” he said, more because he could feel Hawke’s eyes glaring into him than because he knew what to say.  “I’m sorry…  I just don’t feel as though--”

                “Sorry?” he demanded, infuriated.  “ _Sorry_?”  “Sorry” just didn’t cut it for Hawke.  How could Fenris say something like that?  He had been ready to confess how he felt about him; that he loved him, years ago.  And Fenris just left him like that, with the sheets still smelling like their encounter.  And never mind how much the rejection stung.  Never mind how he had felt when he learned that Fenris had been with Isabela.  Sure, he was happy that he was happy.  And Hawke wasn’t jealous, per se; he had Anders.  And he loved Anders to pieces.

                But Fenris had been first.  And he would have still been with him, if he hadn’t walked away from him.  Apparently, the elf could sleep with Isabela, but not with him.  Hawke wondered if that had ever really been the problem, or if it were just something else entirely?  How could he ever know?  How did he know he was even telling the truth when he already felt betrayed?  He felt like their entire relationship was a lie, if Fenris didn’t even consider them to be so much as friends.

                “Hawke, I didn’t mean—“

                “Fuck you,” he hissed acidly.  “And go to hell.”  It was hard to look at him.  Fenris was staring at him, eyes as wide as gold coins, partway unbelieving in what Hawke was saying, and partway just shocked to hear it.  And still looked cute as hell, didn’t he?  He felt like a part of him would always love Fenris.  He had even confessed as much to Anders, who had, grudgingly, accepted it, so long as it was never acted upon.  Accepted it, because a part of Anders would always love Carl; and so the two had come to an agreement of sorts upon the matter.  But it was so much harder when the other person was alive, and nearby, and staring at him like that.  “You don’t think about the way you treat others, do you?  You don’t think at all.”

                Fenris’ eyes flicked to the floor, fingers curling slightly.  “Danarius used to say that,” he whispered.  “Something like it any way.”

                “I don’t care about Danarius,” Hawke said.  “I don’t care about how _awful_ your life used to be.  I am tired of hearing about it.  How long has it been, Fenris?”  The elf looked up again.  “How long has it been since you’ve been a slave?”

                Fenris stared downwards, at his hands this time.  “About ten years,” he admitted with some reluctance.

                “Get over it,” Hawke snapped.  “Bethany died, my father died, and my mother.  And you remember how she died—that was terrible.  Carver is only alive today because of Anders.”  He stared at him, pained.  “And I haven’t seen him in years.  And I don’t bitch about it.”

                The elf looked up at him, angry, shooting to his feet.  “That’s not the same,” he argued.  “You don’t know what I’ve been through.”

                Hawke snorted.  “I know that he enslaved you, and probably beat you, and sexually abused you.  I’m telling you that it’s been ten years since then, and you need to get the fuck over it,” he snapped.  “Move on with your life.”

                The elf was silent for a moment, and Hawke saw that his words had stung.  Fenris knew he needed to take Hawke’s harsh advice, but didn’t know how to start.  “How do I do that?” he demanded, sounding hurt.  “How do you just get over that someone put you on a leash like an animal?  You tell me.”  
                Hawke stared at him, his fingers clenching, then unclenching as he fought down his rising temper.  “I feel sorry for you; I do,” he confessed.  “And for the longest time, all I ever wanted in the world was to hold you and try to keep you from feeling any more pain.”  He paused, because his own confession hurt.  “But all you have done is hurt me.  Every time I reach out to you, you hurt me for trying.”

                Fenris stared at him, looking for all the world as if he were lost.  Unable to defend his actions, he didn’t know what to say, except, “When I was with you, I remembered who I was.”  The person he loved more than anything was angry with him, was yelling at him, and the things that he said hurt.  Worse, they were true.  “And then I forgot again.”  He swallowed, but his throat still felt dry.  “You don’t know what that’s like.  I was _happy_ when I knew who I was,” he cried.  His eyes were wet, and he refused to blink for fear the liquid would spill.  “And then I forgot who I was, and I don’t even know _why_ I was happy.  And content.  And I felt… peaceful.  And I _don’t_ _know why.”_   He stared at Hawke, unable to properly convey the true gravity of what it had been like.  “What if it happened again?”  He was quiet a moment.  “I couldn’t bear it.”  The liquid in his eyes threatened to spill.  “Hawke…”

                “But Isabela is something else.”

                “I don’t feel that way with her,” he insisted.  “I’ve never remembered with her.”  He stared downwards, and held his tongue from what he had been about to say.  Telling Hawke how he felt about him now would only make this worse.  So much worse, because Hawke was with someone else, and the situation was already awkward.  He knew he needed to say something more, but for the life of him, did not know what.  _I love you, Hawke._

                “That’s great,” Hawke snapped.  “If we can’t even be friends according to you, then go meet your sister on your own.”

                “Hawke…”

                The mage turned.  “I don’t care.”

                A short pause as the mage started to walk out of the room.  “I’m afraid it’s a trap,” Fenris insisted.

                Hawke did not look back.  “I don’t care,” he repeated himself.  “Go get caught.”  A short pause.  “Your master can deal with you.  I don’t care.”

                Fenris was shocked to silence, but before Hawke had quite left, he said, “Hawke, he wants to kill me.”

                “I don’t care.”

                And he was gone, and Fenris sat staring at the empty air that Hawke had occupied moments before.  His mouth felt dry, his lips cracked.  He dampened his lips with his tongue, swallowed.  He looked down at his hands.  _What have I done?_

                He wanted to meet his sister; he did.  More than anything.  He just felt like…  Qarinus was pretty far from Minrathous, though, he reminded himself.  But what disturbed him was that she _had_ been in Minrathous the past couple of years—a tailor, she had said.  But Danarius was in Minrathous, and it just made him nervous.

 

                Fenris stared at the door to the pub, stared so intently that other people avoided him as if he were an unattractive statue.  The door opened occasionally, and he caught glimpses of the interior, but he didn’t know what Varania looked like, so he couldn’t be sure he saw her in those glimpses.

                He finally worked up the nerve to go to the door.  Now was the moment.  This was the time.  His sister was behind this door.  Maybe the key to his shadowed past, maybe a memory if he saw her face.  Maybe he would know her.  And maybe he wouldn’t, but maybe she would know him—or who he used to be.  What was his name?

His fingertips rested on the handle.  His heart pounded against his ribs, blood gushing through his body.  The lyrium surged with the terror of what lay beyond the door—both the possibility of it being a trap, and the possibility that it really was just his sister.  He didn’t know, right now, which would be worse.

                He walked away.

                _I could handle a trap,_ he thought, downhearted.  _I could fight my way out, and it would be no different than yesterday—not really.  If she really is there, though, it would be different.  And I’m not sure which is more terrifying._

                He had dreamed last night.  He always had vivid, confusing dreams, but usually they were the normal sort—endless stairs and things like that, and he usually didn’t remember them well.  But last night, he had dreamed that he had laid in the grass in the sun, and instinctively, he knew it was Minrathous.  A girl had sat a short distance away, in the shade of a low wall he knew to be the wall around the slave compound.  She had an old knife in her hand, and was whittling at something.

                She had grinned to herself, and held her hand out to him, showing him what she had made.  It was a little wolf carving.

                He had, of course, immediately looked at the carving he had when he woke.  Had it been the same one?  Furthermore, did it mean anything?  Was it just a dream, borne of fantasy and what he wished were true?  Or… had he left those carvings there for himself to find?  Had they been his?

                He had to know, and who to ask?  Varania might know, but he was a spineless coward and couldn’t face her on his own.  What if it were a trap—and worse, what if she were really there and it wasn’t entirely a ruse?  Did he have the heart to fight, if his own sister betrayed him?  Hawke had told him to go get caught, and if the man he loved didn’t care, and his sister did betray him, he didn’t know what he would do.

                So he walked away, his thoughts on the wolf carving.  He looked at the house Hawke used to live in with his family, when they had all been together, and realized he was walking to the alienage.  Merrill lived in the alienage.

                He recalled that she knew about the carving.  She had to; the way she had paled when he said where he had found it.  She _knew_ something about the carving.  Until today, it hadn’t seemed important.  Whatever she knew, she hadn’t wanted to talk about it.  And, yes, the carving was his, but if it made her uncomfortable, he was not going to press the matter, but now things were different.  He still worried, though, and even felt a growing sense of apprehension about asking her.  What if she _did_ tell him something that revealed even a shadow of his past?  What if it _did_ make him remember something?  He felt sick at the idea.  Every time he had remembered something, it had come at a cost.

                Maybe he should not have been so cruel to her.  He flinched a little at that.  He wasn’t sorry about it, exactly, save that now she might not want to help him.  But Danarius, the bastard, had trained him well; he could fake all the proper affects of sincerity and apology if he must to get what he desired.  And Merrill was dense when it came down to it; she likely would not know the difference.  He might as well try.

                He passed by the gates to the alienage, and couldn’t help but look around.  Dilapidation, despair.  He looked up at the vhenadahl, and wondered what his life meant, what the little carving meant.

                Merrill had a piece of that puzzle, if he could but obtain it from her.  Out of options, he trudged through the alienage, trying not to think about the stench of the sewer, the way the tall buildings blocked much of the light.  He tried not to think about so many people crammed into such a small space.  Slavery was worse.  He had never seen the alienage in Minrathous of course, but he had walked through the one in Seheron City with Shaislyn, back when he had met the Fog Warriors.  It hadn’t even had the tree.  In fact, the only thing growing there had been the overflow from the sewers, and the occasional weed.  Kirkwall wasn’t as bad as many others.

                Merrill’s house wasn’t as bad as many others, for that matter.  There were families crammed into one-bedroom apartments, and he had heard that in Orlais, there were ten thousand elves crammed into one small section of the city, the buildings blocking out so much light that they did not see the sunlight until noon.  One of Merrill’s favourite things to ask him was if he cared about the plight of their people.  Of course he cared.  It would be so much easier if he didn’t.  If he could look at what humans and dwarves took for granted and not be jealous, life would be easier to bear.  But he did look at the humans in Lowtown—miserable and filthy and depressed—and knew even they were better off than most elves he knew.  Nothing would ever change, would it?

                He knocked on Merrill’s door, wondering if he shouldn’t just walk right in.  Merrill had done that, but then again, if she had knocked, he would not have likely heard her.

                “Coming!” she cried.  “Ow!”  He heard something being knocked over, and a loud noise as the girl fell on the floor.  He sighed and opened the door, looking down at Merrill.  She had tripped over a chair, and was sitting on the floor, grimacing.  Her hands were wrapped around one of her bare feet.  She flinched, and looked up at Fenris.  “Why does a stubbed toe hurt worse than a broken bone?”

                He shut the door, and righted the chair.  He extended a hand out to her.  Helping her now would help him later.  She flopped into the chair, grimaced again.  “You never come to visit,” she said.  “Why are you here, Fenris?”

                He made a face.  “Can’t I have just been nearby and dropped in?”

                She raised an eyebrow.  “I seem to recall, quite vividly, that you have never been down here before—save when Hawke first met you.  And you _hate_ me.  So you must want something.”

                He flinched.  This was not going well.  Maybe he should sit down; he’d look less imposing.  He took a deep breath, and sat across from her.  “I really was just wandering through Lowtown.”  He made a face.  “Honestly?  I’m too afraid to go into the Hanged Man and meet my sister.”  He tried to smile.  “Which means I can’t visit Isabela or Varric, so it leaves you.”

                She nodded agreeably.  “Sounds plausible,” she admitted.  “And you only hate me _slightly less_ than you hate Anders, so why not come to berate me for my life choices.”  She glanced at her mirror.  Fenris’ eyes tracked hers.  A chill ran up his spine when he looked at it.  There was something very unnatural about a mirror that held no reflection.  His eyes shifted away from it, but he still felt like something otherworldly was watching him through the glass.

                He had to do something to put her off edge.  He should have brought her something—snacks, cake, tea—something!  How could he get her to tell him what she knew?  “I…”  He grimaced, and took another deep, calming breath.  “I wanted to apologize.”

                She scoffed.  “For years of telling me I’m a horrible person?  And, despite that I’m cheerful and nice to you, and almost never have I said a single unkind word to you, you still…”  She ground her teeth, her hands balling into fists.  He had never seen her so angry.  He shouldn’t have come here.  His gaze flitted to the door, wondering if he shouldn’t just leave.  “You were happy that the Keeper died, because another mage died—only sorry that she died for _me_.”  Her eyes filled with unshed tears, but tears of rage, not sadness.

                How could he diffuse this situation?  “Merrill, I don’t know what to say—I need your help.”

                She calmed, biting back the tears, bottling her rage, but it was just under the surface.  _Tread lightly_.  “With _what_?” she said, with enough heat to burn.

                His gaze flicked to the floor, and without looking at her, he removed the little wolf carving from his bag.  He placed it on the table.  She glanced at it, and flinched when she saw it, paling a little.  “I think I knew the person who made this,” he said quietly.  He looked at her.  “I think they made it for me.”

                She lifted the little figure from the desk, tenderly as if it were very valuable.  “What are you saying?”

                He sighed, flustered.  There wasn’t any other way except to tell her his entire theory.  “I think that, before I lost my memories, I put this somewhere—somewhere I would find it.”  Which would have to mean…  _I knew I wouldn’t remember anything_.  The theory made him cringe inwardly.  Or maybe he had only been hiding them, somewhere he could retrieve them later.  Or what if he had known he would lose his memories?  What did that imply?  Danarius would know.  Danarius would know everything.  Varania might even know.  He looked pleadingly at Merrill.  “If you know anything about it…  Anything at all…”

                She looked at the carving, and smiled.  Just as her tears had been of rage, her smile was of sadness.  She ran her thumb almost lovingly along the wolf’s face, down its neck.  _She knows_ , he thought, his heart pounding in his chest.  _She knows_.

                She looked up from the figure, and set it back down on the table.  Her lips pressed into a thin line.  “I’m not telling you anything, you bastard,” she said, rising to her feet.  She even managed to look imposing.  “Get out.  I never want to see you again.  Never ask me for anything again— _get out_!”

                He stared at her, wanting to be shocked and angry, but somehow too crestfallen to manage it.  She was angry, the tears filling her eyes again, and why wouldn’t they?  He picked up the carving, and left, no closer to having discovered its meaning than he had been before.  But, no farther either.

                Maybe…  If he could go to the Dalish, they might be able to tell him.  Just because Merrill refused didn’t mean they would.  That would have to wait, though.  He was reluctant to go so far alone, for the same reason that Merrill had been reluctant to first go to Kirkwall alone.  Maybe Isabela would go with him.  But that would just lead him back to the Hanged Man, so it had to wait.

 

                Merrill glared at the door after Fenris had gone, shaking with her rage before her despair consumed her.

                She dropped back into the chair, covering her face with her hands as she wept.

                The carving was Dalish, that she knew for certain.  Even if the wolf didn’t _look_ elvhen-made, which it did, each craftsman had a special mark on it, each clan their own symbols.  And that one—that one she had only seen drawings of.  The Arlathan Dalish had been all but destroyed years ago, and that little figure might be all that was left of the clan.

                It was badly made, as if by one inexperienced, but maybe it had been a childhood friend of Fenris’.  He was the right age, she lamented, and wept anew.  She wanted to tell him; truly she did.  But she didn’t.  It wouldn’t matter to Fenris.  It wouldn’t make him care more, and it wouldn’t make him less coldhearted and cruel.  It wouldn’t make him see the good in what she was doing.

                What did he care where he had come from?

                She tried to stop her crying, but couldn’t.  The Arlathan Dalish had been attacked by slavers and destroyed.  A few had been taken, she had heard.  Fenris could very well _be_ one of the enslaved Dalish, and he just didn’t know.  He would have been a child, but…  If he were one of those Dalish, he had been through so much, and that little carving was proof of those bloodlines.  Could it be true?  It was possible, she conceded.  How else could he have come to possess that carving?  He had said that “he had left it for himself to find”.  Which meant he had had it for a long time.  Someone had made it for him, someone definitely of that clan.

                She also knew it was entirely possible that he _wasn’t_ Dalish; just a slave that had befriended one.  The first possibility definitely seemed more likely to her, but the second was not impossible either.  It all seemed so sad.

                Maybe he did deserve to know the carving’s origin, but not from her.  He had done nothing to deserve her telling him, and she felt completely justified in withholding the information.  He was unspeakably cruel to her when she had been nothing but kind to him, so why should she tell him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually don't think Merrill is 100% in the wrong here. I wouldn't want to help someone who was openly cruel to me either. Nor do I blame Hawke for lashing out at Fenris. I'd be pretty offended if someone I considered to be a good friend said something like that. Though, Hawke doesn't really mean any of what he said; he's only human, and we humans have a tendency to say things we don't mean when we're angry.


	94. Betrayal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris meets Varania and confronts Danarius.

            Isabela sat on the lip of the desk, long legs dangling over the edge, a bored expression colouring her features.  Varric sat like a merchant prince of Antiva on a stuffed leather chair, ever-patient and sure.  Hawke paced restlessly in front of the fireplace like a caged lion.

            “And you’re sure there actually is an elven woman staying there?” Hawke asked again, for the third time in so many words.

            Isabela rolled her eyes.  “Red hair, green eyes.  Looks a bit like Fenris, even,” she said with a shrug.

            Varric kind of laughed.  “How can you tell?  All those elves look alike to me.”

            The pirate smirked.  “I’ve spent a lot of… personal time with Fenris.”

            “More than I needed to know,” the dwarf commented.

            Hawke would have ordinarily been at least amused at the banter, but his mind was elsewhere.  “And no one else suspicious?”

            Isabela snorted.  “Just the normal suspicious,” she said with a shrug.  “Thieves and thugs, you know.”

            Varric was silent a moment, considering.  “There was a group of men that came in the other night,” he began, then considered.  “Rivaini mercenaries.  A couple Tevinters in there too, but I don’t think slavers.”

            “You’re _sure_?” Hawke pressed.

            Isabela shrugged.  “Mercenaries, a couple bounty hunters, and sailors.  Same old,” she insisted.

            “Bounty hunters?” the mage reiterated.

            The other two glanced at one another, then back at Hawke.  “Doesn’t mean they’re after Fenris,” Isabela said with all due seriousness.  “Doesn’t even mean they’re looking for someone.  Their ship just docked is all.  I talked with one of them—looks like they’re on their way home.”

            The apostate felt some of the tension ease from his shoulders.  “Then why’d they stop?”

            She shrugged again.  “Ship repairs.  Supplies.  Women.  Nothing suspicious—that’s normal.”

            Varric raised an eyebrow.  “I’ve tried to talk to the girl, but she barely leaves her room, and she won’t talk to anyone.”

            Isabela nodded in agreement.  “About the same—she’s shy,” she admitted.  She frowned.  “I’ve heard voices in her room before though.”

            Varric glanced at her.  “Doesn’t mean much.”

            “But I’ve never seen anyone but her come and go.”

            “Also doesn’t mean much,” Varric pointed out.  “Neither of us watch the door all the time, and why should we?”

            Isabela shrugged again, and glanced back toward the mage.  “Well, Hawke, what do you think?”

            Hawke swiped his hands through his unruly hair.  “I think Fenris is an asshole and doesn’t deserve our help.”  He sighed.  “ _But_ I refuse to prevent him from meeting his family, and I know he won’t go alone.”

            “Too scared,” the pirate scoffed with a roll of her eyes.

            “Like you?” Varric countered.

            She frowned.  “That was different.”

            “It’s exactly the same,” the dwarf pointed out.

            The Rivaini pirate made a face, hopping down from the desk.  “Are we going?”

            “Yeah,” Hawke said, gazing up at the ceiling.  “Let’s go see if Fenris isn’t too drunk to come with us.  But don’t you dare tell him where we’re going.”  He frowned.  “He’ll probably decide to run off.”

            “You think he’ll be too nervous?” Isabela inquired, following Hawke out of the library.

            “Wouldn’t you be?” Varric said.  “You know nothing about your family except that they’ve been living in the same city as a very rich, powerful man that wants you dead:  What would you think?”

            She laughed.  “Point taken.”

 

            Shaislyn watched the manor, safe in his camouflage even from the Templars that passed by.  He pecked at the ground, preened his feathers, flew out of the way of noisier passersby like the rest of the flock of crows, and no one paid him any mind.

            But when the door opened, he looked up and cocked his head to the side.  He fluttered off the street, landing on a rail to get a better vantage point.  He picked at his flight feathers as he watched the door.  Hawke left, and the dwarf and the Rivaini woman followed him.  The two rogues were engaged in some kind of banter, and Hawke was quiet.  It was hard to read facial expressions as a bird; their eyes were not made to discern facial expression.  He could tell when someone was upset by their posture and body language, but reading faces was not something he could do, even if he had better learned facial expressions as a child.  Even so, Hawke looked distracted.

            The man walked down the street, and Shaislyn followed at a distance, sometimes circling, sometimes pecking at the ground, sometimes just waiting, but he knew where they were going once they went down a particular street, and he waited there.  He watched them enter the decrepit mansion, and waited.

            Danarius paid taxes on it, he reminded himself, and would laugh if a bird could laugh.  His throat, instead, made a chortling sound.  He paid taxes on it to not make Fenris living there an issue, to keep it from being repossessed by the city.  It needed some work done, and Danarius had even said that he would do it, except for the issue that Fenris would be more than a little suspicious of that.

            After all this was done, and Fenris was sitting in the hold, reflecting on all the wrong choices he had made, Shaislyn planned to go down to… visit.  He wanted to look him in the eyes and demand to know why he had murdered so many people.  Demand to know why he felt justified when he tortured people.  And when the elf could not answer, he wanted to hit him.  That desire kind of scared Shaislyn.  He was always detached about such things before.

            He hated slavery.  He hated oppression.  He hated seeing the weak hurt by the strong.  He had killed people, and stole, tricked, and lied.  But torture?  And betrayal?  That, he had never done.  He was always dispassionate about the killings before.  It was just something that needed to be done.  It had nothing at all to do with his temper, or to prove something.  If he was too angry, he left.  If a boy had mocked and ridiculed him for being half-elven, he had always been able to walk away.  He knew he could kill them if he so desired, and that was enough.  He never needed to prove it, not to anyone.  And if he acted upon such desires because he was angry, he had no business holding the swords.  He had no business being a mage.  If he could not master his own temper, how could he master himself?

            But Fenris…  That boiled his temper, and made him want to hurt someone, a particular someone especially.  And he hated Fenris for making him angry enough to let his temper take hold of him.  _One hit_ , he told himself, promised himself.  _One punch to the face, and I’m done._   _The rest of what I am doing to him is worse—much worse, even if it is what he deserves._

            And he would content himself with that.

            He waited, and followed them at a distance until he was sure that they were headed for Low Town.  He flew off ahead of them, knowing there was little time to prepare.  He went to Varania first, and told her to get downstairs.

            His mother was worried.  She was worried that Fenris wasn’t coming, worried about the whole thing.  Worried that if he did come, he would realize what was going on.  And, most of all, she was scared that he would kill her.

            “I’ll be right there,” Shaislyn promised her.  “If he comes near you, I’ll kill him.”

            She looked at him, doubtful.  “I don’t want you to hurt him,” she had said.

            He looked at her, blinking slowly.  “If he tries to hurt you, I will kill him,” her son reiterated.  She pursed her lips, but nodded in assent.  The pair left the small room, his mother headed down the stairs, and he went to the back room, where Danarius waited.  The room was not what the magister would be accustomed to, but it had been large enough to accommodate him with most of his niceties.

            “Today, my uncle might kill you.  How do you feel?” Shaislyn asked him, his tone cheerful.

            “You don’t have to sound so excited about it,” he admonished him.

            He cocked his head to the side a little.  Danarius assumed it was some animalistic trait, but it was actually a remnant habit from before he had learned the sight spell; he cocked his head to listen, turning his ear more toward who he was talking to.  “You don’t need some kind of signal, do you?”

            “No,” he said, though did not offer as to the reason.

            Shaislyn was silent a moment.  “I’m headed downstairs,” the teenager announced.  Danarius watched him go, and leaned back in his chair.  He had dreamed about Roschelle last night.  He almost never dreamed, but this one had felt so real.  He had been disappointed to wake and find it was only a dream.

            Danarius watched his hand shake, flinching when he flexed his fingers.  The pain lanced upwards, through his arm all the way up to his shoulder.  No matter the outcome of today, it had to be better than retiring and dying decrepit in bed.  He leaned back in the chair, flinching again as his heart burned in his chest.  It smoldered, then flared to life again.  It felt like he was being stabbed in the chest.  He heaved a shuddering breath, then another, determined to keep breathing despite that every pull of his lungs felt like another dagger through his chest.  Or perhaps, because of that.  Pain was good; it meant he was still alive.  Every time he had had a heart attack, and came fatally close to death, any pain at all was welcome.  The second time, he had woken, his eyes still closed, he had wondered if he had died.  The sights and sounds, the aching in his hands, that had all served to tell him that it wasn’t so.  Not yet, anyway.

            It was really only a matter of time.

            This wasn’t a dangerous heart attack though--just an ordinary pain.  He didn’t know what he would do if he had a real heart attack right now.  Stall, he supposed.  Varania would have to play the loving sister for a day, and convince him to come back tomorrow, at least.  He didn’t think even the best actress could keep up such an act for the two week minimum it would take for him to recover.

            His heart smoldered in his chest, as if threatening to erupt.  His hands shook as his fingers gripped the arms of the chair.  The action caused fresh rivulets of pain to lance up his arms.  It was an effort to relax in the chair, to let the pain ride itself out.  It was hard to sink back into the chair and let the pain take him, to let it lance and burn as it would.  It was instinctive to fight pain, to rally against it and what it meant.  Once he let go of the desire to fight, and let the pain consume him, it traveled through him easier.  It was really just like the Ritual.  All pain, truly, was like the Ritual was.  You were afraid of it, and wanted it to end, but it will not end until it is finished, and would travel so much more freely once there was nothing in its way.

            _I don’t think I’ll see Minrathous again,_ he mused, his eyes sliding closed as the pain continued up both arms and his heart blazed in his chest.   _And that isn’t so bad, is it?_

            Roschelle had spent her childhood summers in Kirkwall.  She had wanted their child to spend time here too.  It was important that a child see differences in other countries and cultures, and appreciate their own.  

The stabbing pain in his chest finally made him flinch, made breathing too difficult.  He stopped, unable to breathe.  When he dared pull breath again, it came at a great cost.  A fresh wave of pain washed over him, engulfing him.  His eyes squeezed shut against it, and he felt himself withdraw inwardly.  Fenris was close.  Very close.

            Through the exquisite pain, he could almost see Roschelle again.  He could almost hear her voice, feel her touch.  He willed more of it, welcomed more of it.  He remembered the way the sunlight had caught in her nutmeg hair, the laughter echoed in her chocolate eyes.

            All he had to do was stay here.  All he had to do was let the pain consume him and his will to live, and let it claim him and he could see Roschelle again.  His eyes closed, willing it to be the last time.

            The light in the void glistened, near, and the presence waited.

            His thoughts drifted from Roschelle to Varania, relying on him.  He thought about Shaislyn, who was finally starting to reach out to him.  From the dead, to the living.  _Not yet, Roschelle_.

            He pulled on his link with Fenris, drawing the lyrium to a soft glow.  Outside, Fenris attributed it to his tumultuous mood.  The blue healing light spilled out of his hands, and twisted around his body, following the pain to its source.  His breathing eased, and the pain ebbed with the light.  His eyes opened, and faintly he could smell daffodils.

 

            The teenager careened down the stairs two at a time, and wondered if they had come in yet.  He asked his mother, and she shook her head.  Maybe they had stopped somewhere along the way—shopping or some other errand?  Not everyone rushed everywhere, he supposed.

            He calmed, and stepped away from his mother, wandering to the other side of the room.  The door opened, and his stomach tightened, heart pounding furiously in his chest.  This was it.  This was the moment—He scowled, then cringed.

            Templars.  Out of uniform, but definitely Templars, by their weaponry, out for a drink.  He swore loudly.  Now what?  Templars could easily ruin the entire trap, and gladly.

            He ran his hands through his hair, trying to think of some way to lure them away.  He almost laughed at that.  _He_ was the perfect bait to lure Templars.

            They sat down, and called for a round.  The barmaid was filling mugs, and Shaislyn walked over to them, trying to think of what to do or say.  Maybe he didn’t need to _say_ anything.

            He stopped at their table, and touched it, palm flat, wrist bent.  With a thought, the wood smoked, then the fire spread—quickly.

            The three Templars leapt to their feet, but Shaislyn was already running.  His vision abruptly shut off and not by his own will, but his hands were already on the door.  He heard people shouting, and the three were chasing after him.  _Good_.

            He ran from the door, the Templars close behind him.  In the tavern, Varania had risen to her feet, trembling in terror for her son, her stupid apostate son.  She had known they must be foreign Templars—Tevinter Templars had no special abilities like that--the moment she had felt her magic nullified, and knew why Shaislyn had done that; he had to lure them away.  But surely he could have done something else?  Anything else?  This was incredibly dangerous!

            Outside, Shaislyn ran blindly, listening, knowing that if he ran far enough, he would be able to use his sight again.  People stepped out of the way sometimes, but he ran into one—two—people, and he could not lose the Templars in the crowd, despite his efforts.  He crashed into a third person, this one large enough that he stumbled back.

            “Hey!” the big man complained.

            Shaislyn shot past him.  He careened through the market, knocking something over, and nearly ran into a wall.  He flew around a corner, and ran into someone else.

            “What--?”

            “Stop!” a Templar cried.

            The teenager did not hear the rest of whatever the man had said.  He flinched.  His skin had bruised from the man’s armor.  Though it was dangerous to keep running blind like this, he could not slow.  He pushed past the man and kept running.

            Hawke watched the Templars chase after the boy.  “Another apostate on the run from Templars?” he wondered to himself, feeling annoyed, though not with the apostate.

            Isabela glanced after him.  There was something funny about the way he ran, as if he could not see where he was going exactly, and was relying almost entirely on memory.  “He looks familiar…”

            Varric nodded.  “Wasn’t that kid at the bar a while ago?”

            “He should have skipped town,” she commented with a shake of her head.  “Stupid kid.”

            “They’ll catch him eventually,” the dwarf sighed.

            “Good thing Anders isn’t here,” Hawke mused, halfway to himself.  “Or he would insist we get involved.”

            _I hope they make him Tranquil_ , Fenris thought with disdain, checking to make sure he hadn’t stolen anything when he had ran into him.

Shaislyn tried to remember the layout of the town, but it was hard to do when he did not so much as have a walking stick.  It felt like the Templars were only just behind him, but he couldn’t tell until one of them shouted.  If they just kept quiet, he would have no idea they were there; that was why the blindness was so dangerous to him.  In a sense, he could tell someone was chasing him by the sound of their swords slapping against their back or their thigh respectively, the number of feet chasing after him.  But, in a crowd, it was difficult.

He skidded around another corner, one hand out to touch the wall.  He ran, one hand out.  He touched a wall, and turned.  He was trapped.  He stood panting.  This was a dead end, and his magic still wasn’t working.  He took a gamble and sprinted from his hiding spot, dashing down the other direction.  The Templars gave themselves away again with another shout, but he could tell they were farther back this time.

            He felt his magic back at his command, and smiled; enough time had passed.  Vision renewed, he turned just in time to avoid running into another wall, and he raced down an alley.  The Templars were still just behind him, and could do that trick again at any point, especially if they guessed he was blind.

            One twist and turn after another, running wildly down the streets, at this point just trying to get away.  He figured they had been “lured” far enough away by now, and they would have to go report him no matter what.  He would have to avoid Kirkwall for a while, but he did not intend to come back anyway.

            He looked ahead, at the docks.  And he didn’t have a sea-faring form.  _Still_.

            What could he do?  They were too close behind him; he couldn’t seem to lose them, and they had naked steel in their hands.  They would kill him, not catch him.  Damned Kirkwall Templars…

            His heart raced as he ran, trying desperately to think of what he could do.  If he turned into a bird, here, they would see, and were too close.  They would activate that odd ability again, and he would just fall to the ground.  Where did that leave him?

            He looked around, wondering what he could use.  He dashed to the side, around a corner, up a flight of stairs, and, no where else to run, ran to the end of the pier.  He stopped at the edge, and looked back at the Templars, who had slowed now that their quarry was cornered.

            “No where left to run, mage.  Come back quietly, and we’ll give you a trial,” one of them promised him.  The other two laughed, as if it were a joke.

            His vision shifted back to the water.  He still had no fish form.  Why had he never amended that?  _Why_?

            But if he dove in, how well could an eagle or a gull fly completely wet?  He guessed that a gull would be the safer bet, as a lighter bird that could also swim.

            The Templars were coming closer.  He held up his hands.  “I give up,” he said, over exaggerating his Imperial accent as an idea occurred to him.  It was something his mother had once told him.  “It was stupid; I thought I could taunt you.”  He started coming toward them, dragging his feet sheepishly.  It was so he could get a running start and jump, but he wanted to set them at ease as much as possible.  “I’m an Imperial, and I guess I’m a little arrogant; the Templars in the Imperium can’t do what you can.  I just wanted to see it.”

            At that, they paused, and looked at each other uneasily.  “Circle mage?” one inquired, his tone becoming conversational.  Their weapons lowered.  This would create a problem for them, he realized.  The Tevinter Circle would not take too kindly to one of their own being imprisoned in a place like Kirkwall, and they had to be careful.

            Shaislyn smiled broadly.  “Magister’s only son,” he replied, suddenly pleased with himself.  “Minrathous Circle.  I’m a long way from home.”

            Now they looked downright uncomfortable.  They whispered one to another, and Shaislyn felt frustrated that he couldn’t quite hear them from here, and he didn’t know how to read lips either.  He had no doubt, though, that they were trying to guess the validity of his story.  One turned and looked at him, arms crossed.  “What’s your father’s name?”

            He smiled pleasantly.  This was exactly the sort of thing he should have done before.  He was just a disruptive, ornery teenager testing the law.  “Cillian Danarius, magister of the Minrathous Circle.”

            Now they looked even more uncomfortable, and the half-elf felt nothing but pleased.  They whispered again, trying to decide what to do with him.  Some agreement was reached, and they collectively sighed, sheathing their weapons.  “We’ll make a report to Meredith, and, kid, you’re still coming with us.  We’ll set you up in a guest room until we get word from your family.  Once they pay for damages, we’ll arrange to put you on a ship back home.  And don’t cause problems again.”

            Shaislyn did his best to look sheepish.  “Sorry,” he muttered, kicking at the ground.  “It was dumb.”  Then he brightened.  “Oh, but my mother’s actually at the pub—the Hanged Man.  She’s meeting my uncle.  I don’t want to disrupt them, but we could just go directly there.”  He walked between the Templars, but kept an eye on their sheathed weapons.  He decided to play the role of the disrespectful teenager.  “Um, or, could I just pay you?”  He flushed.  “I really don’t want to bother my parents with this.  I swear I’ll pay the bar too—really.”

            The Templars laughed.  One of them clapped him on the back.  “Kid, you fucked up.”

            Shaislyn swore, and acted sullen.  “C’mon, I’ll be in so much trouble.  You don’t even know.”

            They laughed again.  “Not as much trouble as you would be in otherwise, trust me,” one of them said, and not kindly.

            “I think you’re buying us a round, though,” the third one commented.

            Shaislyn was inwardly relieved, but a part of him suspicious.  What if they were only doing this to arrest more mages, and make them all Tranquil before the Imperium even heard about it?  No, he still needed to get away from them.  He tripped himself going down the stairs, and the Templars watched him fall coldly.  They walked by him, and watched him pick himself up.  He muttered, and pretended to act like an arrogant rich boy, scoffing at them, and generally acting shocked.

            Then he broke and ran, back up the stairs, down the pier, and did not hesitate.  He dove into the water, conscious of the surprised Templars behind him.  He swam.  He held his breath as long as he could—longer.  He swam desperately, surfacing once, and back down again, trying to swim farther out.  He surfaced again, head just breaking the waves, and swung his vision back toward shore, looking for the Templars.  One of them was running back, likely to report the incident to their superior, and another was yelling at the people on the docks, the third climbing into a boat to come after him.  Shaislyn kept swimming.  With a boat and strong oars, they would be upon him in moments.  He swam desperately, and hoped he was far enough.  He could not keep doing this; not only was it bad for his swords, swimming in boots was not something that was meant to be.

            He reached for the surface, and froze, his vision going dark.  All that was left was a black void all around him.  It was a place that had never seen light, never seen day, nor night.  It was just a void of nothing, and yet, at either end, there was light.  They blazed, and coalesced around each other, their rays gracing the other.  Then one engulfed all that Shaislyn could see and knew, blinding him to everything but its light.

            His lungs burned, and he couldn’t move.

            When it dimmed, it had eclipsed the other one, snuffed out its light.  No, it had consumed it utterly, destroying all of it, taking it into itself.  The subservient light had engulfed the master light and taken it for itself.  It wasn’t subservient any longer; it was its own master.

            Or… was it?  He could sense a distant light was somewhere in the nameless black, but could not tell where, no matter how he looked.  With his back to the single light, he could sense it, just out of reach but there and… waiting?  No, he thought.  Bound.  It can’t move on.  The lights were made together, forged together, and they must be snuffed together.  And so one would wait.  Either the light would go out in this place, or this place would collapse upon itself.  Either the second light must fade, or this place must fade, for the first light to completely pass.  With this place gone, it would free both lights to go on as they must.  But the place stayed, and the lights stayed.  Shaislyn’s lungs felt like they were on fire.

            He broke the surface gasping, still continuing to swim farther out.  He took a deep gulp of air, and chose a form.

            He struggled, and stayed on the surface, his feathers wet, but he hoped not too wet to fly.  Had anyone seen that?

            He looked about, trying to judge if anyone were looking at him.  People were.  Sailors were pointing toward him, and shouting.  The light from his transformation had caught their eye.  But they had been looking, hadn’t they?

            He had to fly.  The Templars were in the boat, and coming for him.  Once they were within range, he would be swimming again, and blind this time.

            He spread his wet wings and beat furiously at the air.  It resisted him with every beat of his wings, but he was airborne, struggling to fly, out of the water.  His wings beat furiously, and every foot gained was a bitter battle with nature, but he was escaping.  He struggled and strained with the effort, but once he was high enough to glide, and the winds were warm, he knew he was safe.  He took a wide, wide circle, watching them struggling to find him amidst the other gulls.

            He flew back toward Kirkwall.  They should have caught Fenris by now, he assumed.  He had better go see how things had gone; his mother was bound to be in tears.

 

            Varania stormed angrily from the pub, the heels of her shoes striking against the earth.  She had never, in her life, been so angry.  Her brother—no, not her brother but Fenris who was no brother of hers—he had wanted to kill her.  And maybe that was in his rights.  Had she not betrayed him?

            No, she thought in fury.  _He had betrayed_ her _._

The contract burned in her mind, both of them.  Her brother, for an apprenticeship that would change her life for the better.  Now she was even worse off than she had been before.  She had no job, no home; she had _nothing_.  She had passage back to Minrathous, but that was all.  What would she do once she was there?  Starve, she imagined with despair.

            One contract’s fulfillment would have landed her amidst the magisters.  But Leto’s contract, that one meant that, by law, she was a slave again; he had broken it.  And, since Danarius was dead, that would mean that she belonged to his next of kin, and that meant…  He had mentioned his family once before.  What was his nephew’s name?  Agasius Danarius, who would be her new master from now on.  She wondered what kind of person he was.  But if she did not go to him, she would be deemed a runaway.  She would go to him, present him with the contract.  What else could she do?  Surely slavery was better than starving on the streets.

            Shaislyn, too, by rights, was Agasius’ slave as well.  Fenris, too, would also belong to Agasius.  Though Agasius, after all this time, might just let him go except that he had killed the magister, so he would probably just amend the bounty to “kill on sight”.  It really put her son and her brother on equal grounds, if Shai chose to run rather than submit.

            Shaislyn, though, was worse off for it.  She knew he had no friends, no family other than herself.  And now, no homeland.  He could not return to the Imperium if he would not submit to slavery.  What would her wayward son do from now on?

            That she was worried about him was a bit shocking at first, for she had never truly worried about him before.  She had been _concerned_ , but it wasn’t the same thing.  Was this affection she was feeling for him at last, after all these years?  She had told herself, before, that she had not worried so much about him because he was out of her hands anyway, or that he was strong enough to look after himself.  But had that been true?  She had worried about Leto every day, even when she knew both those things were true for him as well.

            Fenris, she imagined, would be no different than before.  He would be happy as could be now that Danarius was dead.  The bastard.  She hated him.

            “Mother?” her son cried, wriggling his way through the market crowd.  He was dripping wet.

            She frowned, wondering what he had done to evade the Templars to get so soaked.  “Shai, you’re drenched.”

            He pawed at his mop of curls self-consciously.  “Yeah.  How’d it go?” he asked, though his tone was cautious.  He may have guessed her mood.

            She wanted to cry.  “He killed him.”

            The boy paused, brow wrinkling in confusion.  “Danarius… killed Fenris?”

            Varania shook her head.  “The other way ‘round.”

            His jaw dropped, then closed.  He started to speak, then stopped.  “Oh, Maker…”

            “Ripped out his fucking heart,” she cried, her voice breaking for everything it meant she had lost.  She swiped at her eyes and covered her face for a moment.  Not for loss of the man, no, but for loss of the magister.

            Shaislyn was soaked to the bone, or he may have tried to comfort his mother.  “Hell,” he whispered.  He moved closer to her nonetheless.  “What do we do?”

            She stared at him, and another tear rolled down her cheek.  “If Leto ever went back on his contract—if he ever ran away—then Danarius… his family now… you and I…  The terms of his contract…”

            Shaislyn was quiet for a moment.  “I see.”  He bowed his head briefly.  “Danarius never collected on it, but Agasius might.  Better to see if he does, and since we know about the contract, not giving ourselves up would mark us as runaways—and apostates for that matter.”

            Varania hugged her son even though he was dripping water.  He was shocked for a moment before he returned the embrace.  “What do we _do_?” she sobbed.

            He hugged her fiercely.  “We have two choices, Mother.  Three, really.”  He sighed, letting go.  “Go back to Tevinter and face Agasius Danarius, or turn ourselves into the Kirkwall Circle—which might mean death or Tranquility by the way—or, go live somewhere secluded and just be apostates.”

            She shook her head a little.  Kirkwall was not even an option to her.  “I can’t live your life, Shai.  I can’t run from Templars and live as a vagabond.”

            He hugged her again.  “I know, Mother.”

            “Will you come with me at least as far as Minrathous?”

            He nodded against her cheek.  “I will.”  He let go of her, conscious that she was getting wet.  He stepped back.  “I’ll go see about collecting Danarius’ body—it should go back to Minrathous.”  He sighed again.  “Maybe we can leave on his ship if we are just escorting the body.”

            Varania left the arrangements to him, and went to the docks to talk to the hired sailors.  They agreed to the terms, and Varania was set to go back on the ship prior to this mess anyway.  They left at nightfall.  Danarius’ body was wrapped in linens and stored in salt for the voyage, but the hired men had to be burned, their ashes brought back in little urns or satchels for their families.

            Shaislyn commented that Danarius had heart problems—said that he had a heart attack on the voyage, so it was a bit ironic that Fenris had ripped out his heart.  “He probably would not have lived much longer anyway.”

            Varania glanced at him.  “Maybe long enough to make me a magister.”  Her eyes watered.  Now they would never know.

            Varania was right back where she had started.  No, not quite; now it was worse.  Her mother was dead, her brother might as well be for all that was left of him, and she was right back in slavery where she had begun her life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought about just writing the entire scene (the confrontation, etc) from Varania's perspective, but then realized it was redundant; you know what goes on in that scene. Shaislyn, therefore, seemed like the obvious choice.


	95. Grief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris is struggling over Varania's betrayal, and Hawke is worried about him. Varania and Shaislyn are desperately trying to find a way to escape slavery.

            The manacles chafed at his wrists, his arms hanging slack.  The post against his back was worn, and at one point, even carved into tortured shapes of slaves, to remind whoever was thus shackled of their fate, he did not doubt.

            The air in the hold was stuffy, and it was dark.  It was just cold enough to be uncomfortable but not exactly cold.  He could smell the salted meats, listened to the creak of the ship, the squeaking of the rats.  Sometimes, they would run over his feet, and he would jump and long desperately to get away from the vermin, but couldn’t.  Even if he could break the shackles, he wouldn’t.  He was too downhearted to try anyway.

            The ship skipped over the waves, the rowers hardly given a moment’s reprieve.  And why would they?  They were slaves too.  He could hear the whip above him, sometimes, echoing down in the hold.  They spent their lives shackled to their bench, let up to walk to their pen once a day at sundown, when they were replaced by the night rowers.  He listened to their footfalls, the way their heavy chains would clink, the way one of them occasionally cried out in pain when the whip fell across their back.

            Once, it would have made Fenris angry.  Now, it just made him cringe.  Varania had come down to see him once, crying, and apologized, but kept her distance all the same.  It had been two days, by the slaves’ shifts, and Danarius seemed inclined to let him sit here.  He could stand, and relieve some of the aching in his arms and wrists, but the shackles only chafed in another direction, and the shackles were not positioned high enough to be comfortable standing, and too high for sitting.

            Sleeping was almost impossible, and when he did nod off, it was only moments before a rat would nibble at his toes, or the boat would tip in one direction, and he would wake startled with either.  He imagined that, if he could cry—once, long and hard—he would feel better about the entire situation.  But he couldn’t, no matter how much he might want to.  The tears just wouldn’t come, and he only felt numb.  Hawke had brought him all right, but to abandon him when he needed him.  Like Fenris had abandoned him when he needed him.  The elf wanted to say that it wasn’t the same, but… 

If Hawke wanted him gone, there were better ways.  If he had told him he wanted him to leave Kirkwall, he would have.  It didn’t have to be like this.  Or maybe Hawke had wanted it to be like this.  Anders would be pleased, he imagined, yet he couldn’t even be angry about that.

            He looked up when the door opened, and was expecting one of the slaves with water, but he cringed, and looked down when he saw the figure above him.  He counted every footfall as the man descended into the dark.  The blue orb of light floated above him, the door closed behind him.  Danarius stood in front of him, glaring down at him.

            Fenris stared at the floorboards, flinching.  Danarius had had him whipped—one lash for every year he had been gone.  It was fair.  It was more than fair; it was even lenient.  Even the seawater dumped on his back—and it had stung!—that was lenient too.  The way Danarius’ ring cut across his face when he slapped him was also lenient.  But it wasn’t all of his punishment.  No, not by half.  His master had told him what he would do to him when they arrived back in Minrathous.

            “Fenris.”

            The elf shifted, but said nothing, unsure if he was supposed to say anything.  The chains clinked.  His bare back brushed against the wooden pole, and he flinched when the open wounds  scraped against the wood.

            “Can you imagine, even for a moment, how displeased I am with you?”

            He cringed again.  “No, Master.”

            A pause.  He took a step toward him.  “Look up at me.”  Fenris tentatively lifted his head, staring up at him timidly.  He wanted to run, to hide, but it was too late—far, far too late.  He had known how angry his master would be when he sullenly followed him from the bar.  He had expected the whipping, expected a great deal of punishment.  “Do you have _any_ idea how much money I’ve lost hunting you down, you stupid elf?”

            He flinched again, but more at his tone of voice than the insult.  He expected his master to slap him, or have him whipped again, or any number of other unpleasant things.  It was worse that he did not; it left Fenris guessing what he would do.  “No.”

            “I will extract every copper penny from your hide, pet, and you have a _very_ steep debt.”

            He bowed his head again.  “It is your right, Master,” he answered quietly, letting him know that he consented to his will fully.  Fenris listened to the chains clinking above.  _It’s night again,_ he thought.  His master’s hand ran through his hair, almost tenderly.  He brushed over his scalp, held a lock of hair between his fingers.  His master pushed his head up.  “Please,” he begged him when he saw his master’s nakedness.  “Please, not this, Master…”

            “Is it very difficult, Fenris, for you to be my slave again?” he asked him, his hand running through his short hair.

            His eyes squeezed shut.  “Please, no.”  His member brushed against his lips, and something in him broke.  He had never been free, had he?  He had always been his slave, disobedient only because his master wasn’t near.  His lips parted, and pulled him into his mouth, accepting his master as dominant over him.  It was how it had always been, hadn’t it?  Danarius just hadn’t been around, that was the only difference.

            His master’s hand ran down the side of his face, his thumb caressing his cheekbone.  It was different than before.  Before, he hadn’t known what it was like to do this and want to do it.  He hadn’t really known what sex was, because he had never done it.  But now he knew, and it hurt that he knew the difference.  It hadn’t been as bad before.  He had never associated sex with a pleasant memory, never associated it with something he had enjoyed.  He had done this before and enjoyed it, and that seemed to make doing it now hurt more.  Knowing that there was a difference, that it mattered, was so much worse than his previous ignorance.  It tainted his good memories, made them bitter.

            He heard a clicking noise above him as the lock pinning the shackles to the post opened.  His wrists were still bound by the chain, but at least no longer pinned above him.  He lowered his arms a bit, his wrists still over his head as he dutifully worked to bring his master to orgasm.  Once he did, it would be done. 

            He pulled back for a moment, swallowing his own revulsion, lowering his hands into his lap.  He went back to him, without a word, using his hands this time too.  Danarius pushed into his mouth, down his throat.  He gagged once impulsively, and relaxed, breathing deeply through his nose.  He let it fill his throat, fill him.  His life was not his own, and it never had been.  It wasn’t even supposed to be.  It was against the natural order of things, wasn’t it?  He was a slave by nature, and a slave by design—everything Danarius wanted.

            His master stepped away from him and he gasped involuntarily when he felt him brush against his tonsils, back out of his lips, dripping and still hard.  He looked down, hands in his lap, watching him cautiously, even when he knew what was going on.  Danarius touched the back of his neck, running his fingers back up his hair.  “I have something for you, pet.”  The magister dropped something in front of him, and he opened his eyes to look.  He wanted to cringe away from it, to run, to at least shrink back from the small piece of leather.  He stared at it.  It was a perfect twin to the one he had tossed into the sea in Seheron.

            He cringed, and lifted it from the floor, the chain between his wrists clinking with the movement.  His eyes closed in defeat before he hung his head in submission.  Slowly, he lifted his hands to his throat.  Fenris’ eyes slid open when he felt the leather touch his neck.  It was like his arms were moving and he had no control over it.  He fought down a desire to wheel away when it circled around his neck, the soft, supple leather brushing against the lyrium.  The chain touched his skin, getting in the way when he went to buckle it.  The leather threaded through the metal buckle, and he fastened it.  Absently, the moved the collar slightly, checking to see if it wasn’t too tight.  The small metal ring in the front of it hung against his chest where a leash could be attached, one of his fingers touching it, his heart pounding in terror of what that collar meant.

            A collar, to Fenris, meant slavery:  It was a tool of subjugation and servitude.  You put a collar on something to control it, to establish dominance over it.  You leashed an animal, or a criminal.  Or a slave.

            He would be lucky if Danarius ever let him take it off again.

            “Kneel.”  Fenris shifted, kneeling properly on one knee, perfectly obedient.  “You know what you are.”  He said nothing, eyes fixed on the floorboards, the collar heavy around his throat.  “Fenris.”

            He flinched at his tone of voice, half-expecting him to slap him.  The blow never came.  “Your slave, Master,” he said, every word choked out of his throat, every word painful to say.

“It’s been such a long time, pet.”  His hands trailed down his back, dragging across the open flesh, making the elf squirm.  “You do remember, Fenris, who your master is.”

            “You, Master,” he whispered, his stomach twisting into a knot just to say it aloud.  “It’s only ever been you.”  But it was also like a weight had been lifted, a mantle of responsibility taken off of him.  His life was not his own, would never be again, and it meant he didn’t have to worry any more, or think, or anything.  It was somewhere close to relieving.

            “Not that Hawke fellow?”

            He shook his head numbly.  The metal ring on the collar around his neck brushed against his skin.  It felt so much heavier than it was.

            “Did he ever bring you to his bed, pet?”

            Fenris was reluctant, but didn’t know how to keep from answering.  “I went… willingly, Master.  I wasn’t his slave…  I had thought…  I had hoped—that we were friends.”  _And I destroyed that relationship too._

            “Oh, Fenris,” he whispered, touching his shoulders.  “No one else wants you, Fenris—my beautiful, perfect wolf.”  He stared down at his hands, and shook, because he believed him.  It may have been Fenris’ fault, but Hawke had gone to Anders.  And no one else had raised a finger when Fenris had gone with Danarius, had they?  They had just consented to Hawke’s decision, despite that Isabela and Varric had been…  Well, maybe he still didn’t know what a “friend” was supposed to be.  “You’re broken, my little wolf.  You’re half-mad, and you don’t even act like a man most of the time, pet.”  A pause and his hand traced the lyrium on his shoulder, pushing him to lean forward a bit more.  “But you are so beautiful.”

            Fenris was quiet while his master healed his back, the cut across his cheek.  He pushed him still further, and the elf fell to all fours, the mage working at healing where the whip had lain across his legs, over his ass.  When he spoke, his voice rattled in his throat.  “Am I beautiful, Master?”  He bit back a sob.  “Am I broken?”

            “Yes and yes, pet.”  When Danarius cupped his face, his slave leaned into his touch.  The magister would abuse him, would use him and manipulate him, maybe even lie to him, but at least he wanted him.  It was more than Fenris could say about anyone else.  “You are mine.”

            “Yes,” he whispered, and gasped when his master took him.  He flinched, shaking, and stayed still, his forearms flat against the floor.  His forehead touched his hands.  He felt like he should cry, but he didn’t.  There weren’t any tears left.  He had cried an ocean of tears in his life, and there just weren’t any more.  And why should he feel a need to cry?

            He bit his lower lip, willing to stay quiet, to make no sound at all.  It wasn’t that bad, he tried to tell himself.  _He’ll stop eventually.  Eventually…_

            He was pushed over, onto his back.  The chains clinked, and Danarius plucked the chain between his wrists, lifting it over his head, pinning Fenris’ wrists to the floor.  “Open your eyes, pet.  I’ve let you look away from this often enough.”

            His eyes opened, and Danarius hit him when he tried to look away, so he watched.  There weren’t any other options.  He had to do whatever he told him to do.  He had thought that he had hated it when he took him from behind, but now he realized that that had been a blessing.  Not having to see his master sweat and push, and enjoy the act had been a blessing.

            He had liked watching Hawke.  He had loved it.  He had loved the way his eyes would darken with lust, the way his jaw would set as if making love was the most serious of tasks.  He had liked watching his muscles tense and flex, watching him gasp and moan.

            Fenris flinched, cringing, then opened his eyes again—quickly—before Danarius noticed.  He whined, but the blood from the tear made it wetter, easier to push deeper into him.  “Master, you’re…”  _You’re hurting me._

            “Don’t complain—I don’t care if you’re hurt.”

            He had never done this before.  Danarius had never hurt him like this before, never treated him like this.  His thighs tensed, and he thought the tear must have widened, but his mouth clamped shut.  _I can endure.  I’m stronger than this, and I can endure._

It was so hard.  He had used to think that he would have preferred it if Danarius had beat him bloody and abused him like that other magister had when he had raped him, because his master had always made him feel as breakable as a porcelain doll before.  His master had slaked his lust on him before many times, but never _hurt_ him when he did it.  He used oils, and prepared him, and was gentle.  Was it because he had ran?

            Fenris had ran, and he would never grant him that kindness again?  He was terrified of what that meant for him, for his future.  He bit his lip until he felt it bleeding.  He gasped, his whole body trying to tense, wanting to push him away, to make it _stop_.

            “Pet, if you stop tensing…”  He pushed into him, as far into him as he could go.  “It won’t hurt as much—and if you try to close your legs again, I’ll beat you bloody.  Do you understand, you stupid elf?”

            “Yes, Master,” he whispered, pulling his legs farther apart, and he just accepted it the way the shore accepts the way the waves beat against it.  Without the waves, it wasn’t a shore, but only sand and rock.

            Danarius wasn’t just his master.  He was everything.  Everything…

            Fenris’ eyes opened wide, and he shivered, and shook, and even though he was awake now, he could hear his master’s voice, feel his hands on him.  He flew from the empty bed, shivering, but not from cold.  Sweat clung to his naked body, his lower lip trembled.  He stared at the bed, and could not shake the feel of his master’s touch.  He felt the subtle weight of the collar on his neck as clearly as he felt the floor under his feet.  His hand went over his neck, half-expecting to feel the tooled leather of the collar.  His throat was bare.

            “Thank the Maker,” he breathed.

            _You’re mine_ ,the voice whispered in flawless Tevene.

            The lyrium brightened with his temper, washing over his body.  The rage consumed him.  “I’m not yours!” he screamed into the empty mansion, looking around wildly for…  A ghost, an image—something.  There was nothing there.  Nothing but dark, lonely shadows and faded wealth.  “Not any more, Danarius—damn you, and go to hell!”

            But that was how it would have been, had Hawke not chosen to fight.  He would be Danarius’ pet forever.  Or…  No, Danarius had hinted that he _hadn’t_ wanted to kill him; he had been amused at the idea, even more amused that Fenris had believed it.  What was that thing that Danarius had told him once?  If he believed it were true, it would be, or something like that?

            He heard, dimly, the magister laughing.  He screamed in an effort to drown it out.  He had something in his hands, and he threw it—with all of his might—against the wall.  The vase shattered, but the laughter had stopped.

            The lyrium guttered and receded, leaving him shaking, but not with his anger; with fear.  He shivered and tried to sleep again, but couldn’t.  It was just a dream, but it had felt… so real…

            Danarius was dead, he reminded himself.  Dead, and that was the end of it.

            The lyrium was bound into his soul, seared deeper than any mortal wound.  He would carry the lyrium with him into the Fade when his soul passed on, evidenced when Hawke had brought him into the Fade, and he had betrayed him there.  Danarius had been the one to weave it into him.  What if…  Could his master’s soul linger on?  Unable to move on, because he had bound a piece of himself to Fenris?  And when the elf dreamed…

            He shivered again.  He didn’t think he would be sleeping much anymore.

 

Shaislyn whispered, "I'm going to kill him."

Varania swallowed hard.  Despite everything, she still did not want her brother to die.  He was her brother, her only brother--by blood if by nothing else.  Leto had done so much for her, or tried to, but the reality of it was that the person she knew as her brother had “died” a long time ago, and if she had ever needed evidence of that, it was that Fenris was so radically different from Leto in every way.  She looked down for a moment, and then back up at her son.  "Shai..."  Her eyes watered.  Was this the last time she would see him too?  Fenris had killed everyone who had gone after him--everyone.

He took a deep breath, eyes closed for a moment, then opened again.  "I can go when he’s alone--I won’t attack him with that Hawke person around.”  He made a face.  “I’ll wait, until he’s… drunk or asleep.  I’ll kill him.”  The way his jaw set told her that Shaislyn would do more than merely kill him, given half the chance.

Varania flinched at the conviction in his voice.  Leto had used to sound like that sometimes too, and she knew how stubborn he had been.  “Shai, it’s too dangerous, and it won’t change anything.  Just let it go.”

He made a face, pacing back and forth in the room--which was difficult, considering the room was only about six paces wide.  "I want him to suffer," he whispered.

Varania stared at him.  Revenge was a dangerous path to stray down, and she did not want to see him venture upon it.  With Leto gone, she realized, Shaislyn was all she had left.  Too late, she knew that she did not want to lose him.  “I don’t want to lose you, Shai,” she said aloud, and knew it was true.  He stopped, still as a deer in the forest.  “Shai, we have lost everyone.  I don’t want to lose you too.”

She saw anger twist across his face, then grief, leaving only heartache in his eyes.  “You wait seventeen years to tell me you care about me.  And mean it.”

“I’m sorry, Shaislyn,” she whispered.

He stared straight ahead, unmoving.  “I know.”  He blinked, his arm reaching up, fingers touched the griffin over his left shoulder, and she knew what he was thinking about.

She was quiet as she watched her son.  “Please, Shai, I don’t want you getting hurt.”

His teeth clenched, and he resumed his pacing, his arm falling away.  “I can take him.”

Varania wanted to slap him, wanted to shake him and scream.  He hadn't been there, though.  He hadn't _seen_ what Fenris did, what he could do.  "Please, don't try.  If you love me, Shaislyn, don't try.  You won't kill him; you'll just get killed."

By the set of his jaw, she knew he wanted to argue, except raising their voices was dangerous.  The sailors might be listening, and suddenly all the world was dangerous to both of them.  "It's his fault that we’re both going to be slaves."

"Don't...  Shai, please..."  She swallowed hard.  “Shai, listen; it’s not worth it.  What will you get out of revenge?”

He stared at her, and a silence fell over them.  She understood his desire, but she could not endorse it.  He finally sighed.  "I’ll… let it go.  For now.”

She breathed a sigh of relief.  "Thank you, Shaislyn."

            The half-elf paced back and forth in the room, and came to a sudden halt.  “Danarius gave me papers that made me part of the Soporati class--they’re in Minrathous,” he said slowly.  He considered that, wondered if there was any tangible evidence left that could challenge that.  Danarius had obviously done something shady to authenticate the documents.

            “You’re Liberati,” Varania reminded him.  He looked up at her.  She crossed her arms.  “It wouldn’t be hard to prove; you were a slave to the Imperial army.”

            He had almost forgotten that.  He swiped his hand through his hair in thought.  “Hell,” he muttered, and resumed his pacing.  “Didn’t those burn?”

            “Sometimes there are multiple records,” she said.  “In Minrathous, probably, but Qarinus is a good bet too.”

            He snorted.  “Imperials and their paperwork.”  He chewed on his lower lip in thought.  “I’m sure Danarius took that into account.  I’m sure he would not have done anything to jeopardize that status.”

            She shrugged, sighing.  “He might have; you wouldn’t remain Soporati for long; you’d be Laetan when we got back.”

            He stared upwards.  If Varania went back into slavery, they might look up the breeding book to determine if Shaislyn would have to be enslaved to Agasius Danarius too.  Even if by some miracle he didn’t, they might discover what had happened in Seheron.  He pinched the bridge of his nose in thought.  “Mother, when was the tourney--the one Leto won?”

            She snorted a laugh.  “Which one?  He won many tourneys.”  She made a sour expression.  “There’s a reason Danarius favoured him so much; he won him a lot of money.”

            He made a face, knowing his mother still suspected his desires to kill Fenris.  She was, again, subtly warning him that it was a bad idea.  “The last one.”

            She made a face.  “I’m…  Not sure.  Before you were born--a couple months before.”

            His eyebrows rose.  Not being born a slave, in this instance, might be all the difference here.  “I just need to find documentation of the Tourney, the documentation of when Danarius freed you.”

            Her heart skipped a beat.  “You wouldn’t have to come with me,” she said, doing her best to keep her jealousy out of her voice.  Slavery, at this point, was very uncertain to her.  True, it couldn’t be much worse than an alienage, as she was a mage regardless, but she didn’t know what Agasius Danarius would do with her.  He could even have her made Tranquil, out of spite, and there was not much she could do about it.

            He frowned.  “I’ll try to find the documents.”  He sighed.  “Maybe…  maybe I can find something to get you out of this.”  He flinched.  “Even try to buy you out of slavery--I’ll do anything I can, I promise.”

            She looked away.  “We don’t have any other options.”

            He started toward the door, and stopped.  “I need to get to Minrathous.”

            She frowned.  “Why?”

            His mind was racing.  “I’ll join the Circle.  I’ll see if I can get them to appeal it.”  He took a step forward, then a step back, thinking hard.  He took a deep breath.  “Maybe I can come to some kind of agreement--any kind of agreement.”  He pinched the bridge of his nose as he thought.  “ _Maybe_ Agasius will be reasonable.”

            “I doubt it,” Varania muttered darkly.

            He ignored her comment; it was counter-productive.  “And if he’s _not_ , maybe I can find someone who is.”  He bit his lip for a moment.  “You’re a Laetan Circle mage, in line to be an apprentice to a magister.  Most of the paperwork was even drawn up.”  He sighed, and paced back and forth as he thought.  “And I’m…”

            “An apostate.”

            “Not for long.”

            She sighed, struggling for a moment to explain the politics of the Circle to him.  “Shai, you’ll be a Laetan Circle mage with no money, no power, and a reputation for theft and subterfuge.  Believe me, the Magisterium and the Circle might find you useful, but not trustworthy; you’ll have a hard time.”  It was so much more complicated than that, but how could she explain it properly to him?  He knew nothing of politics.

            He made a face, started to say something, and stopped.  He blinked.  “No.”  He stopped his pacing, his head jerking up.  “Danarius was going to name me his heir after you.  It wasn’t finalized, but I can find the paperwork.  And he made me a citizen, so I have that too.  I have enough--I might even be able to claim Altus bloodlines.”

            Varania blinked slowly.  The possibility had never even occurred to her.  “His family will oppose it,” she reminded him, before he got too hopeful.  “And they have the money and the power to see that it never happens.”

            “Why?” he demanded.  “Danarius was going to go through with it.  Signatures are even in place--a notary, witnesses.  It just hadn’t been filed.”  He breathed a noisy sigh.  “Maker.  That’s my fault.”

            “Shai?”

            He raked his hands through his hair.  “If I wasn’t so stubborn…  I should have joined the Circle.  If I had only joined before we left, this wouldn’t be such an issue.”  He swore.  Varania scowled.  “ _I_ would be named his heir.   _I_ could just get back to Minrathous and free you immediately, hassle free.”  He slammed his fist into the wall.  Varania flinched at the sound it made.  “Damn it.”  He sighed, leaning heavily against the wall.  “It’s all my fault.”  He stared downwards.  “I would be his heir, end of story.  Why didn’t I…?  Hell.”

            “You couldn’t have known, Shaislyn.”

            He shook his head.  “He could have died on the crossing alone--he had a heart attack.  He could have died then, and it would be the same.  I even thought about it.  I just…  Why didn’t I just…?”

            She touched his shoulder.  “Shai, it’s not your fault.”

            He looked at her, and said nothing as he continued to blame himself.  Hadn’t he always blamed himself?  Hadn’t Varania inadvertently taught him to blame himself?  He stepped away from her, withdrawing inward, not meeting her eyes.  “I’m sorry,” he said, apologizing again for something he could not have known, could not have anticipated.  But he was always apologizing for things that were not his fault.  “I…  I have to fix this,” he sighed.  Before she could say anything, he opened the door and all but ran from the room.

 

Isabela meandered up the stairs, and found Fenris sitting alone on the sofa, staring blankly at the cold fireplace.  She hadn’t seen him since the incident with his sister, thinking that maybe he would come around on his own, but it had been three days, and she figured it would be best if _someone_ went to talk to him.

It wasn’t just about sex, though she did adamantly believe that a romp in bed might do him some real good.  “Hello, Fenris,” she said brightly, smiling with scarcely concealed lust.

He glanced at her once, then looked back at the fireplace.  “Hello, Isabela.”  His voice was hollow, flat.  A voice devoid of life.

She decided to ignore it, for the moment.  “How are you feeling?” she inquired, sitting down cross-legged on the sofa’s arm.

He did not look at her to respond, “Alive.”

She peered at his face.  His eyes were sunken, cheeks a little ashen.  He looked like he hadn’t slept since the Hanged Man.  “You don’t look very alive.  You look more dead.”

He sighed.  “What do you want, Isabela?”

The pirate frowned.  He was more broody than usual.  Maybe she should just go…  “Fenris, I’m your friend; I really just wanted to see how you were doing.”  She cocked her head to the side.  “And maybe have sex, but I can see you aren’t up for that.”

He made a face.  “I haven’t slept in days; I’m exhausted.  I…”  He shook his head.  “I just want to forget all about Varania.”

Isabela hesitated.  “You don’t mean that.”  He didn’t respond.  She uncrossed her legs, fidgeting.  “How about some rum?”  He shook his head, but otherwise said nothing.  She sighed, staring down at the floor.  She slid over to him, sidling up beside him.  He barely noticed her.  “Fenris, I _know_ what it’s like to have family stab you in the back—it sucks.  But you have _got_ to believe me that it gets better.”

He thought about her life, everything that she had told him.  Her mother had married her to a man that used and abused her—selling her off, in her words “like so much furniture”.  Had that been a betrayal?  Yes, he supposed it was.  Isabela had not wanted the marriage, and her mother had forced her into it anyway.  Her only option had been to run from it, and she had, his death being her only real option and chance at a real life.  They weren’t that different.  And he didn’t even know Varania, so maybe it wasn’t as cold-hearted as what Isabela’s mother had done.

“I don’t,” he said honestly.  “I feel like I can’t trust anyone.”

Her golden eyes softened for a moment, then she smiled.  “Then you’re finally learning how the world works,” she said brightly.  “You _can’t_ trust anyone—not completely.”

“Not even you?” he teased, but his heart wasn’t really in it.

She laughed.  “ _Especially_ not me.”  She raised an eyebrow.  “Now, how would you feel if we got you out of those pants, hmm?”

Minutes later, he was naked from the waist down, the Rivaini woman kneeling on the floor in front of him, her touch like a gift from something divine.

Fenris leaned his head back against the sofa, taking a long, deep breath.  Isabela ran her hands up his bare thighs.  It was more uncomfortable than usual—maybe that was because he was so tired; he didn’t know.  It was always uncomfortable when something touched the lyrium, but usually in situations like this, lust won out over pain.  Or he had just learned to associate one with the other when he was aroused.

She bent her head between his legs, her fingers caressing him.  He opened his eyes, watching her.  The lyrium surged brightly, and he moaned, his fingers digging into her hair.  She looked up at him, then back down.

His back stiffened.  _A whore house—a Rivaini whore, and he had kept asking her to stop, and she wouldn’t…  And after… after…_

Fenris pushed her away, trembling.  “Not right now,” he told her, his eyes wide.  “I can’t right now.”

She paused, sitting back on her heels.  She licked her damp lips, frowning.  The lyrium flickered, then dimmed, wilting with his arousal.  “Fenris…?”  
            He shook his head.  He had never told her.  It had never been an issue either.  The two didn’t even look alike.  But it had been the last time Danarius had raped him.  He flinched.  He hadn’t even thought of it as rape.  He had thought he was past all this.  He had thought…  _No,_ he realized.  _This isn’t something you get over; you just learn to live with it._

He had had to trust Danarius when he was a slave; there hadn’t been any other choice.  He had trusted him with his life, with his every action, his every whim.  He had to.  Danarius had never earned that trust, so had never exactly betrayed it. 

Hawke had told Fenris that he didn’t care if Danarius killed him.  Maybe the mage had just been angry when he spoke, but the words had stung, and that left his trust broken too. 

Varania--he had wished with everything he had that he could find family and peace in her.  And, maybe, even love.  He had wanted so badly to love his little sister, to meet her and for her to hug him and tell him how much she had missed him.  For her, too, to betray what little faith he had put in her was heartbreaking.

Was there _no one_ in the world he could trust and believe in?  Maybe that was why he wanted to believe in the Maker and Andraste.  Maybe that was why he listened to Sebastian, and wished he could find the peace that the priest had.  He was jealous of Sebastian, for being able to believe in something so un-provable and unbelievable that gave him so much peace and satisfaction.

“I need to be alone,” he whispered.

Isabela hesitated, and left.

 

Aveline grumbled to herself as she paced down the street.

            “Your boyfriend won’t let you visit your friends?” she had asked Hawke skeptically.

            Hawke shrugged.  “I don’t want to talk about it, but suffice it to say that if Anders were a god, he’d be the Maker, and cannot tolerate the existence of other deities.”

            Aveline snorted a laugh.  “I like the analogy.”

            _Which is why I’m here_ , she thought darkly.  Not that she was very much against trying to help Fenris.  Rather, she wanted to see him back to “normal” as much as anyone else, but she would have preferred to take him out to clear out slavers or something.  This was a little beyond the call of duty, as it were.

            And, moreover, she was certain that killing people he hated would at least be therapeutic for him.  She smiled to herself.  She’d go visit for a bit, ask him to go for a bit of a walk—someone had mentioned a possible slaver camp outside the city; it was worth a look, and she didn’t think Fenris would mind.

            At least, it would be easier if he would come.  It would be much more difficult if he refused, but it was worth a shot.

            She rapped on the door and showed herself in.  “Fenris, if you’re doing anything embarrassing, please stop it,” she announced loudly.

            He walked out onto the inner balcony, his hands resting lightly on the banister.  “I’ll stop dancing then,” he said.

            She laughed.  “Can you dance?”

            “Better than you,” he said pleasantly.  She started walking up the stairs.  She had expected moping of epic levels, legendary brooding.  This was… odd.  He leaned against the rail.  “Especially in all that armor.”

            Well, he didn’t seem as broody and depressed as she had anticipated—but maybe that was an act.  Or maybe…  She frowned as she got close to him.  “Fenris.”  He looked up.  “No—look at me.”  Her eyes narrowed as she advanced on him.  His pupils were dilated, the black almost completely having swallowed the green.  She sighed.  “You’re on drugs.”

            His lips curved into a smile.  “Want some?”

            She raked her hands through her hair.  “Why?”

            He crossed his arms, and laughed, as if it were funny.  She felt like hitting him.  “It doesn’t hurt,” he laughed.  “Oh, I should have tried this years ago—it’s amazing; it _doesn’t hurt_.”

            “Fenris, why would you do this?” she asked him again.  She knew he wasn’t _exactly_ law-abiding, but this was illegal—very illegal.  And what if he took too much?  “You could die.”

            He swung his head to look back at her.  “Because I can’t feel the lyrium.  Maybe because I can sleep when I’m high.”  He laughed, and covered his mouth with his hand.  “Oh, I wish you could’ve seen the look on Danarius’ face when I killed him.”  He laughed again.

            Her fingers curled into a fist, then she took a deep breath, and let it out slowly, lowering her arm.  “Fenris…”

            He turned towards her.  “Aveline.  Your name is very pretty—I never told you.  Did I?  I don’t remember.”  He laughed again.  “But I don’t remember anything!”

            Maybe if she hit him, it would sober him a bit.  She reached toward him.  “Fenris—“

            He took her hand, and pulled her toward him, his other hand falling to her hip.  She glared at him.  “No, I lead.”

            “Fenris…” she complained as he stepped back, then forward.  “You said you’d stop dancing.”

            “I’ll stop dancing if you stop yelling at me—is that fair?” he inquired.

            She stared at his face, wondering how long it would be before the high wore off.  She sighed.  “Fine.  I’ll stop yelling at you.”

            He let go of her, and bowed low—graceful and practiced.  He skirted by her, into the next room.  He danced on his way there, and he was _humming_.  It was the weirdest thing she had ever seen.

            “What’s that tune?” she asked, her voice gentle.

            “I don’t know—Someone used to sing it to me,” he said.

            She rolled her eyes, following after him.  “Who?”

            “My mother, I assume.”  She froze, wondering if he even knew what he was saying.  He looked back at her, stopping in his tracks.  “She’s dead.”  He started humming again, then said, “I wish I knew the words.”

            “Maybe Varania knew the words.”

            “No, she can’t sing,” he said, dismissing the idea immediately.  “She can’t dance, can’t draw, or make up stories, or use her imagination, but she can memorize facts, oh, and also she can be a massive cunt.”  He skirted over the window, throwing it open to let in the breeze.  “She’s still more talented than I am.”  He whirled back to her.  “I am good at killing things though.”

            Aveline pursed her lips, irritated.  “Fenris, drugs aren’t the way to cope with what Varania did.”

            He stopped, the wisp of a smile on his face fading.  “What would you know about it?” he asked.  He strode back toward her.  “You don’t know what this is like.”

            “I’ve lost people who were important to me—we _all_ have,” she said, her voice taking on an edge she had not intended.  “It’s not over.  Give it some time.  Try to understand _her_.”

            His temper rose.  “ _Her_?” he demanded.  “She sold me out for… for a _job offer_!”

            Her jaw set.  Isabela had related to her the event in its entirety, but she still had not been there to witness it.  “Isabela said that Varania told you that you freed her from slavery—“

            “She also said that I _wanted_ the lyrium in my skin—and she deceived me and betrayed me to Danarius, so why should I believe anything she told me?”

            Aveline bristled.  “Because she told you that because she wanted you to know—she could have just left without saying anything.”

            His eyes narrowed.  “Isabela needs to shut her damn mouth.”

            “Did you ever think that life might have been very difficult for her after you freed her?  You ever thought that maybe it was her only way out—out of… poverty.  For all we know, she was living in the street.”

            Fenris stared at her.  “That’s not an excuse!”

            Aveline straightened.  “Maybe she knew what she was doing was awful, but she also thought it was the only way she’d ever see you again—did you think of that?  Maybe she thought she could take care of you.”

            “Get out,” he snapped.

            Aveline started to say something, then stopped.  “Fine.  If you want to be embittered and miserable your entire life, then go ahead, Fenris.  Push away everyone who reaches out to you and keep alienating yourself, because that’s obviously the right thing to do.”  She turned and left, stomping down the stairs.  The door slammed on the way out.

 

Hawke leaned back in the chair, his eyes straying to the drying ink on the parchment.  First, he would write this letter to Carver, then he would go see about Fenris.  Both Isabela and Aveline had commented that Fenris seemed to be in a downward spiral.  He reached for the pen, and stopped, pulling his arm back.

No--no he _couldn’t_ go to Fenris.  He remembered Anders, how hurt he had been when he had admitted that he had kissed Fenris at the beach.  He flinched.

“How could you?” the apostate had asked him.  Hawke hadn’t been able to answer, not without getting defensive, so he didn’t dare say a word.  He had spent over an hour apologizing in a variety of different ways, and Anders hadn’t talked to him in two days, just disappearing down to Darktown and hadn’t come back.  When he did, he told him it would be best if he just stayed away from Fenris.  Hawke had told him it would be impossible, and they had eventually come to the agreement that Hawke would ask Anders first if he spent any time with Fenris, and absolutely not to spend time with him alone.

It had seemed extreme, but Hawke understood.  Anders did not want to put the temptation in front of Hawke again.  Anders didn’t want to jeopardize their relationship, and neither did Hawke.  Besides, Anders had relented and didn’t _ban_ Hawke from Fenris, per se.  He just didn’t want them to spend time alone.  Given their past, it wasn’t an obscene request.

Though it galled him, he needed a chaperone.

The apostate stared up at the ceiling.  “Maker.  What am I, five?” he muttered.  Isabela would refuse; she would hate to get involved in this melodrama.  He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair.  Obviously, not Anders, unless he wanted to see them both try to kill each other.  Varric.  Varric was always a good choice for diplomacy.

He frowned.  _But not always for personal matters_ , he thought, tapping his head against the back of the chair.  _He’ll say “no” on principle._

            Varric was a great friend—an all around great _guy_.  But personal matters?  Fenris hurt over what had happened to his sister?

            _Varric was betrayed by his brother too.  Maybe he would be more understanding than I am giving him credit for.  I can ask._

            Satisfied, he picked up the pen again, and began on his letter.

 

            Varric stared at the contents of his mug, watching the ripples in the ale.  Hawke stared at him expectantly, almost hopefully.  The dwarf looked up at him.  “I’ll go up with you to Hightown, and see if we can talk to him,” he said slowly.  “But I _think_ Fenris would rather talk to you alone.”

            “Aren’t you two friends?”

            Varric shrugged, propping an elbow on the chair’s arm.  He was friends with everyone.  “We drink and gamble, and sometimes we even talk.  Of course we’re _friends_.  And I enjoy the elf’s company.” 

            He frowned.  “I’m glad you stopped him from killing Varania.  That wouldn’t have made this better for him.”

            Varric took a sip of his ale, and set the mug back down.  “I wanted to kill Bartrand—he even deserved it.  But when I saw what happened to him—what that _idol_ did to him…”  He shook his head.  “That wasn’t the man I wanted to kill.  Same face, that’s all.”  He sighed.  “What’s become of him now—that’s worse than death.”

            Hawke frowned, wondering what Varania had done.  Back to being a servant, he supposed, if that had ever been true.  “I don’t think Fenris feels that way about Varania.”

            “Give him a few weeks, Hawke.  Let him grieve—that’s my advice to you,” he said with a decisive nod.  “I’ll go with you to talk to him, but let’s leave him alone for a few more days.  He’s a man, not a little girl.  I’ll invite him down to the Hanged Man again, let him know he still has friends, whatever he chooses to believe.  Eventually, he’ll come around on his own.”

            Hawke frowned.  “What if he doesn’t?”

            Varric made a face.  “Then we sit him down and hash this out over a few pints of ale, or maybe something stronger.  Give him a few more days at least though.”

            The apostate considered, then nodded.  “You’re right.”

            “I just think pestering him right now is going to do more harm than good.”

            Hawke almost laughed; Varric was right, and it was so simple Hawke hadn’t thought of it.  Fenris was testy when it came down to it, and just as likely to get mad that they were prying and trying to help, which would only make the moping more extreme.  And, if the elf settled down and got better on his own, so much the better.

 

            Shaislyn had alternately locked himself in Danarius’ study and the library.  Books on lineage laws lay open, tabbed and bookmarked.  He needed his mother here.  She had been studying this crap--he was in over his head and he knew it.  He sat in a chair, his elbows on the table, head in his hands.  He stared down at the words on the page, wishing with everything he had that he had sat in on more of the lectures, that it would just make sense.  None of it made sense.  It was just a bunch of legal jargon, and he might as well be reading another language.

            _I speak four languages fluently and none of this makes sense_ , he thought with some sarcasm.

            He glanced at his notes at his left side, and sighed.  Most of it was just a list of references, hasty scribbles when he needed to reword something.  He had half a mind to burn it down--at least the library.  How did politicians _do it_?  And to think, his mother _liked_ this crap.  He stared at the books and sighed, giving up for the time being.  He needed to go pester the Circle again anyway.

            He opened the big floor-to-ceiling window and leaped outside.  There was an instant of falling before his magic surrounded him, and he was flying.  It was so much faster to fly around Minrathous than walk, the way the city twisted and turned.  Up in the air, he could see the pattern the city made, but he wondered how many of the residents knew that the oldest buildings and streets were in a very particular, very old, spell form.

            He landed in an open window in the Circle Tower.  “Tower” was somewhat of a misnomer, though.  It was closer to a palace, and the Templars he was not at all afraid of; they were closer to a personal guard to the mages, a private police as it were and they treated even the lowliest apprentice respectfully.  He had come in through the library, and an apprentice was staring at him with distaste.  He fluffed his feathers, and the apprentice rose, maybe to try to scare him back out the window, except that Shaislyn changed back in the same instant.  The kid immediately sat back down.  “Shit,” the Laetan kid muttered.  “You have to stop doing that.”

            “I will,” he promised with a superior smirk.  “As soon as everyone else stops using magic all the time.  Not my fault that’s what I’m good at.”

            “It’s not the same,” he argued.

            The half-elf made a face.  “It’s exactly the same.”

            “What’s exactly the same?” an elven girl inquired, peering around the corner.

            Shaislyn smiled sweetly at her.  “If you guys can set curtains on fire all the time, I should be allowed fly around the building.”

            “Shitting on books,” the Laetan kid laughed.

            The elven mage smiled shyly.  “You’ll just end up carrying letters back and forth, I guarantee it.”

            The moment Shaislyn had gone to the Circle, he hadn’t bothered to hide his abilities.  What was the point any more?  It had quickly become the gossip of the Tower and all the younger mages wanted to learn the talent.  He wondered if not hiding it had been a good idea.  Then again, they had questioned him on his abilities while they decided which mage he should apprentice under, and he had to tell them.  “Yeah, I do that already,” he muttered.  “See ya.”  He excused himself quickly and left the library without further incident.

            He had to wait to be able to talk with the First Enchanter, who was often easier to access than any other higher-ranking mage.  One of the Senior Enchanters walked by him, and she stopped when she recognized him.  “Oh!  Are you here about who you’ll apprentice under?”

            “Yes and no,” he said.

            She stopped, clasping her hands behind her back.  “Well, I think we finally worked that out.  We’re glad you came to Minrathous, Shaislyn.”  She smiled, and not at all in a way that he liked.  He knew that look, but he had been expecting it.  In fact, he had been relying on it since he had seen the look on their faces when he had confessed his abilities.  They saw profit in him.  Well, good.  If he could prove he was useful, it would be easier to save his mother.  She might have said more, but the door opened, and he looked up.

            “Shaislyn?  You can come in now,” the First Enchanter’s assistant said.  Shaislyn followed him inside, and he led him to a second door.  Shaislyn stepped through, closing it behind him.  They exchanged brief pleasantries, talked about Shaislyn’s future apprenticeship, how quickly he should be able to reach his Harrowing.

            “I’m looking forward to it,” he said without enthusiasm.  “But I am more curious about the review of my request?”

            The other frowned for a moment, then brightened.  “Oh.  That.”  He shrugged.  “Everything is in place, but it will take some time to clear, and understand that the family _will_ fight it, given…”  Shaislyn knew what he was about to say by the way the man’s eyes roamed over his face.

            The half-elf sighed.  “Right.  But there’s nothing else I can do except to wait for it?”

            He nodded.  “You have to wait for the review.  The Magisterium is still in debate.”

            He was unimpressed.  “It’s been a week.”

            “And it is a very sensitive issue.”

            His lips pressed into a thin line.  “My lineage can be proven.  My father even agreed upon it.  I have the documents, and witnesses, and a notary’s seal.  What more do I need?”

            The First Enchanter raised an eyebrow.  “Realistically, Shaislyn?  You did all the right things.  Realistically in Tevinter politics, there was nothing you could do.  Between you and I, the notary will likely be dead by week’s end.  The witnesses will deny it, and questionable doubt will be cast on the papers.”

            Shaislyn shot to his feet, exploding in anger, “I _look_ like that family.”

            “Too elven,” the mage said with a disregarding shrug.  “And they can’t approve it just based on that, and they can’t approve it even if you can prove your bloodlines; that would mean every bastard child born could claim the title.”

            He made a face.  “I don’t want the titles, or the money, or assets, or anything.  Just the bloodline.”

            He leaned back in his chair.  “That’s the one thing the family will fight you the most for.”

            Shaislyn stared at him.  “I am an Altus mage, like it or not, and _I want the damned name_.”

            He shrugged.  “Marry an Altus girl.”

            He made a face.  “Very funny.”

            The First Enchanter sighed.  “Shaislyn, I want to help you; I do.  But getting angry won’t do anything.  It is what it is.  Sell your ability.  Make a name for yourself.  Rise to the ranks; I’ll even help you.  The most you can aspire to is to marry into it--marry a second daughter, one without magic.  You’re a mage, and you may even be able to prove your lineage, even if you can’t claim the title, so it’s not impossible for you, but it will be difficult.  If that is what you want, this is how you have to play the game.”

            He glanced away, frustrated.  “The rules need to change.”

            The other regarded him loftily.  “I just gave you a perfectly plausible way for you to claim Altus bloodlines, _Laetan._ ”

            He stared at him, realizing what had already happened.  “You were bought off too.”  He turned around and left.

 

            Shaislyn staggered back to his mother’s tiny cabin, knocking haphazardly on the door.  She opened it immediately, and he half-fell into it.  She caught her son, pulling him gently inside.  She helped him to the cot, and he sat down heavily.  He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

            He handed her a small package of papers, falling back against the bed, breathing hard.  “I appealed to the Circle, and the Magisterium,” he whispered, his voice hoarse.  “Just like you wanted:  I’m a Circle mage now.”  He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.  He swallowed.  “It took a lot of arguing and convincing, but it was decided I wasn’t born a slave, so I am exempt.  I tried, for you too, but…  Nothing I could do.”

            She took his hand in hers.  “It was all you could do, Shai.  I’m proud of you.”

            His eyes slid closed, and a wisp of a smile touched his lips.  “Really?”

            She combed his curls back off of his face.  “Yes, Shai.  You did everything you could.”

            He took another deep breath.  He had to tell her the rest.  “Danarius had paperwork drawn up to name me part of his bloodline.  Unfortunately, they were signed but never filed; he had to wait until I was part of the Circle.”  He swore, loudly.  “Why didn’t I do that before?”  He sighed; no use crying over it now, he guessed.  “I’m still trying to get it through, and I’m getting mostly opposition to it, especially since he is dead, but we did have a few witnesses and a notary.”  He groaned inwardly.  “But Agasius is opposed to it.  If it goes through, I might be able to claim you.”

            “And my brother?” she whispered.

            He made a face.  “Yeah, him too.”

            And Shaislyn would just free her immediately.  She almost asked why he was being so heavily opposed, but then fell silent.  Shaislyn was half-elven and his mother Liberati; of course the family opposed it.  He may gain some ground because Varania technically also qualified as a Laetan mage, but it couldn’t help much.  She realized he had fallen asleep.  He had flown all the way to Minrathous, frantically dug up as much evidence as he could, and made an appeal.  She imagined that both joining the Circle and appealing to the Magisterium took a great deal of time, and then he had flown back and found her.  Her son was exhausted.  She had more questions, but she supposed it had to wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fenris is a little fucked up at the moment. He just needs Hawke to cuddle him... naked... after lots of sex. :p
> 
> The politics in this story I think are really important, but they were the hardest parts to write! I've studied the Dragon Age Wiki pages, scouring it for info on their politics, culture, etc. I hope I did a decent job, and I haven't mucked up anything too badly! I guess the goal is that it at least makes sense in the story line. When I find anything in there that I feel could be significant to the plot, or that I accidentally contradicted, I do do my best to go back and amend it, hence all of my constant editing.
> 
> And sorry about the weird formatting--I write some of this while I am not at home on Google Docs, and other parts I write on Word, and the formatting ends up... weird...


	96. The Rains of Anger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian and Hawke stage an intervention. Fenris apologizes to Hawke for his actions.

            She stared at the blank piece of parchment in front of her.  There was so much she wanted to say.  A number of expletives came to mind, toothless threats.  She could write volumes on her hatred, yet no words came forward.  There was nothing Varania thought she could truly say.

            _I hate you._

            “Hate” wasn’t large enough a word to get the point across though.  She thought of other words in its place:  Loathe, despise, would be pleased if you died slowly and in pain.

            Would she though?

            She sighed.  No.  It wouldn’t make amends.  No one could make amends for something by dying, and repaying a wrong with a wrong wasn’t justice either; it was just vengeance.

            _It wasn’t what I wanted, Fenris._

            _Please forgive me, Leto._

            If she could have had _everything_ that she wanted, it would be to be a magister--rich, powerful, she could have everything she had never had, had never had the opportunity to have.  Shaislyn could be a Circle mage, like she wanted of him, and he could leave his illegal activities far behind.  She’d like to see that.  Fenris, she would like to simply see safe.  If he hated her, at least she would know he was _safe_.  But, more than that, she could have had her brother back--or, rather, what was left of him.  Maybe she could have studied the memory loss spell.  Maybe there was even a way to reverse it and she could have him back--really have him back.

            Danarius had commented that if he _really_ hated her, he could always erase his memories of everything, wiping out every memory of his freedom.  He had liked that idea, because it played very nicely into his scheme to make Fenris again a subservient slave.   _She_ had liked that idea only because she knew she couldn’t bear it if he despised her.

            _I’d have taken care of you,_ she dreamed of telling him.   _I never would have let Danarius touch you.  If it meant I never left your side, I’d never let him near you.  I would have protected you.  I don’t care if you’d hate me, and never forgive me; I’d still protect you._

            _Like you protected me._

            She covered her face with her hands and sobbed.  Everything she had ever wanted had turned to ash in her hands, slipping through her fingers.

            In the end, she could only think of one thing to say to him:   _I’m sorry._

 

            Hawke pushed open the stained wooden door, and jumped back.  He caught himself smiling, watching the two children--seven and five years of age--rush past him.  They were giggling as they chased one another.  A tired mother called out to them to “please settle down” and they windmilled to a halt, still giggling.

He turned from it, stepping into the clinic.  The first thing he noticed about Anders was that he looked tired; his shoulders were hunched, and he looked like he hadn’t been eating well.  He made a mental note to have Bodahn bring him down some food.  “Working hard?” he asked, concern edging into his voice.

Anders looked up at him, sitting down heavily in a battered chair.  It squeaked under his weight.  “Yeah,” he answered, rubbing his temples.

Hawke walked up to him, leaning against the nearby table.  “Haven’t seen you in a while,” the apostate commented.

Anders grunted.  “I’ve just… had a lot to do.”

“With the preparations for that ritual?” he inquired.

His brow furrowed.  “What?”

 _He must be exhausted_ , Hawke mused.  “Don’t tell me you drug me through a sewer for no reason, Anders.”

He blinked, understanding flooding his features.  “Oh--that.”  His eyes darted away, flicking downwards.  “It’s… just been more difficult than I thought.”

Hawke touched his shoulder sympathetically.  Anders leaned his head against his arm, sighing.  “Do you need any help?” he asked him.  “I’m bad at that kind of thing, but--”

“No!” Anders said, rising to his feet suddenly.  Hawke frowned.  The other looked at him, flinching slightly.  “I mean--Sorry, no.  I can do this myself--really.”  He hesitated.  “I _need_ to do this on my own, Hawke.”

The Champion of Kirkwall crossed his arms.  “If you say so, but I’m here for you, all right?”

Anders gave a tired smile.  “And you have no idea how comforting that is.”

Hawke embraced him, kissing his lips.  “I miss you.”

“It’s only been three days.”

He kissed his neck, his fingers running along the front of his coat.  “Three days is a long time.”

His tongue lapped along his neck, and he inhaled deeply of the other’s scent.  Anders shivered, his fingers twining into Hawke’s tunic.  His eyes opened—he didn’t remember having shut them—and spied the door.  “The door is open…”

“We can shut it.”

“Hard to argue with that logic,” the other apostate commented.  “I’ll get the door—you get all of that armor off.”  Anders wormed out of his grasp, and Hawke watched him adoringly.

“I love you,” he told him as the other turned back toward him.

Anders kissed him, deep, passionate, a feeling of wholeness and belonging welling in his chest:  Love.  “I love you,” he breathed.

 

“I need to ask your permission for something,” Hawke commented, swiping sweat from his brow.  Anders was sprawled partway on top of him, on one of the sturdy oak tables.  Under Hawke, was a collection of their clothing.

Anders closed his eyes, nuzzling against his shoulder.  “For what?”

He hesitated.  “I…  Don’t be mad at me--I need to talk to Fenris.”

The Grey Warden, irritated, sat up, the fuzzy afterglow of sex fading quickly.  “About what?”

Hawke flinched.  Maybe he should have waited a bit.  “Isabela says he hasn’t been sleeping, and he seems really upset.”

Anders rolled his eyes, climbing off of the table.  “He’ll get over it.”

The other apostate sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the table.  “And Aveline says his method of ‘getting over it’ is getting high.”

Anders paused briefly, lifting his pants off of the table.  “Tell him to go stick his head in a manure pile,” he said decidedly.  He made a face, flustered; he couldn’t find his underclothes.  He dropped his pants back on the table, and picked up his coat, and tossed that on top of his pants.

Hawke slid off of the table to the floor.  “If I tell him that, can I also ask him about how he’s been doing since that episode with his sister?”

Anders muttered something under his breath that Hawke didn’t hear.  “No.”  Anders’ jaw set, tossing his other clothes on top of the growing pile, but still couldn’t find his underwear.  “That bastard has been trying to sabotage our relationship since we got together.  So no.”

Hawke groaned inwardly.  _Now what?_ “Are you looking for these?” he inquired.

Anders turned toward him, and sighed when he saw Hawke raise the small garment on two fingers.  He reached for them, and Hawke, grinning, pulled them back, away from him.  The mage came toward him, and Hawke danced away from him.  “What if I have a chaperone?”

Anders considered, staring at his underwear partially concealed behind his lover’s back.  “Okay.  Bring Sebastian.”  He held his hand out, expecting Hawke to give it back to him.

Hawke scowled.  “I was thinking Varric.”  He dropped the underwear into his waiting hand, stealing a kiss as he did so. 

Anders kissed him back briefly, and turned from him as he wriggled back into his clothes.  He nodded in thought.  “Varric is very diplomatic, and he and Fenris get along--but if this is a counseling and talking about his problems talk, Sebastian is a better choice.”

 _And will use the opportunity to try to convert Fenris to the Chantry,_ he thought.  Yet, he could think of no flaws to Anders’ argument.  “All right--I’ll ask him.  Deal?”

“I still don’t like it, but all right.”

The pair dressed hurriedly; Anders had to get back to work.  “Hey,” Hawke said as he turned to leave.  Anders lifted his head.  “I love you.”

He smiled softly.  “I love you, Hawke.  More than anything.”

 

Sebastian walked beside Hawke, listening to the apostate explain everything that had happened in the past couple of weeks.

“Wait--wait,” Sebastian said, pausing.  They resumed walking.  “He’s… taking drugs now?”

“Don’t ask me where he got them.  Isabela denies all blame.”

Sebastian rolled his eyes.  “Naturally.”

Hawke raised an eyebrow.  “Don’t blame her--I don’t think it matters _where_ he got them anyway.”

“True,” he agreed.  “I hope he’s sober when we get there.”

“I know I’m cheating a little when I ask this, but…  Can you let me go in first?  Give me five minutes—please?”

Sebastian hesitated.  “Five minutes.  I’ll be counting.”

Hawke clasped his shoulder in camaraderie.  “Thank you.”

_I should be happy_ , Fenris thought.   _But I’m not._

            Danarius had been so much a part of his life, a constant threat and fear--but at least a constant.  Aveline’s husband, Donnic, came by--inquiring about their weekly card game.  Fenris declined; he lied and said he wasn’t feeling well.  Donnic had laughed and said, “It’s probably from your leaky roof.  I can teach you how to fix it sometime.”

            Isabela had been by again too.  She had wrapped her arms around his neck and leaned in to kiss his lips.  He had pushed her away without saying anything.  She had shrugged, ran her fingers up his arm suggestively.  He made a face at the way her hand felt against the lyrium.  It was irritating when anything touched it--even clothing, water, a strong wind even.  It only really _reacted_ to Danarius’ touch.  It had been particularly sensitive since he had died.  Maybe that was just his mood.  He sincerely hoped so--if the man’s life had been shielding him from pain…  Maybe from madness?  That was terrifying to consider.

            She had ultimately left, no hard feelings.  Said she would buy him a drink later if he came down to the Hanged Man.  He didn’t want to go, but he nodded and accepted that anyway.

            Fenris was drinking—just a bottle of cheap wine, some Orlesian vintage.  It tasted like grape juice and vinegar, but he drank it anyway.  He kept the bottle away from him, only sipping out of a small wine glass, and the bottle was placed strategically on the other side of the room; it made drinking it even more of a chore, and he had to decide how much he really wanted more of the grape-flavoured vinegar.  So far, he had drank little over half of the bottle, and was beginning not to notice the taste.

            He stared at Hawke, across from him, who had so far said very little outside of a greeting.  Fenris raised his glass.  “Orlesian wine tastes like grape juice and vinegar, but do you want any?”

 “I’m fine, thanks.”  Hawke hesitated.  “Do you want to talk about it?” he asked him, his voice gentle.

            Fenris finished the contents of his glass, setting it down on the table, without a coaster.  There were rings on it from his continued neglect of the furniture.  “You could have warned me we were going to the Hanged Man before you drug me through Lowtown,” he muttered.

            “I could have,” he agreed.  “Would you have come?”

            “Fair enough,” he said.  He started to say something more, but fell silent instead, staring down at the lyrium in his hands. 

            Hawke frowned, looking at him.  “Does it hurt--more than usual, I mean?”  
            He looked up.  “Why do you ask?”

            “You seem distracted,” he said, shrugging.  His lips pressed together.  “And I worry about you--that’s all.”

            His eyes flicked back downwards.  “Worry--about me?”  Did that mean that, despite their argument from a few days ago, Hawke cared about him enough to worry?   _Idiot--that’s why he’s here.  That’s why he drug you to the Hanged Man._

            “Yes, about you,” he confirmed, his tone bordering on irritated that Fenris was questioning his concern.  “You’ve locked yourself up in here, you don’t talk to anyone--of course I’m worried.”  He stopped, and looked genuinely concerned.  “Are you all right, Fenris?”  The elf didn’t answer, staring at the lyrium as it rushed through his skin, burned against his flesh, coursed through him.  “After everything that happened…  I just…”

            “I’m fine,” he lied.  “Danarius is dead--I’m… peachy.”

            Hawke looked at him.  “You don’t seem that happy about it.”

            He sighed.  “If it had just been Danarius--if all the letters from Varania were a ruse, and she hadn’t been there--if she never existed at all--I’d be fine.  I’d be just _fucking fine_.”

            The apostate stared at him.   _No, you wouldn’t be_ , he thought, his heart sinking.   _You destroyed one of the biggest parts of your life--bad part, or no; he made up a large part of who you are.  Fenris, you would not be fine._ But, perhaps, he would be better than his current state.  “That night I met you--were you ever scared that Danarius really was here?”

            He looked up again.  “I was terrified that he might be,” he admitted, his voice soft.  “Do you want to know what should have been in that house in the alienage the night we met?”

            Hawke wondered how much it would hurt Fenris to tell him, or if Fenris would be better for having told him.  He supposed that Fenris was the one who had offered the information.  “Only if you want to talk about it.”

            The elf leaned back in the chair, staring up at the ceiling.  “I wanted so badly to know who I used to be.  Years ago, Danarius had me bring him a book…  Slave owners keep tallies of their slaves--they’re listed by name and date--their skill set.  I once… dared to ask him if my name was in the book.”

            Hawke flinched.  “I take it that didn’t go so well for you.”

            He raised an eyebrow.  “He punished me--severely.  But he did answer my question.  I guess it was worth it.”  He closed his eyes.  “I got an answer, anyway:  My name was in that book.  Fenris and…”

            “Leto?” Hawke guessed, remembering the name Varania had called him.

            Fenris flinched just hearing it.  “I don’t remember the name,” he whispered.  “It doesn’t sound familiar.”

            He blinked, trying to imagine how hard it must be for him.  “You still want to go by ‘Fenris’?” he asked him, the words just tumbling out of his mouth before he could stop them.

            He looked at him.  “I don’t know who ‘Leto’ is,” he admitted.  He stopped.   _I don’t know who ‘Fenris’ is!_  He shook away the memory.  Had he known?  Had he…?  “It doesn’t matter.  Whoever he was, he’s gone.”  It hurt to say it aloud, but he needed to do it.   _It wasn’t me--whatever he did, whatever he thought or believed in, whatever family he had--it isn’t mine; it’s his._  The thought was almost comforting.  Varania wasn’t truly his sister; she was Leto’s sister.  Varania had not betrayed Leto, he realized.   _She can’t; he’s gone._  It wasn’t his loss; it was Leto who had died.  He hadn’t lost anything; he had been borne of Leto’s passing.  He had been born into slavery, bred for it, shaped by it.  He had been born into emptiness.  But it still hurt.

Hawke was at a loss for words.  He wanted to hold him, tell him everything was going to be all right.  But he couldn’t do that, and he couldn’t say that without knowing.

Fenris stared at the wine glass.  “Magic has taken _everything_ from me.”

The apostate looked pained to hear him say that.  “There was a point in my life where I would have agreed with you.  When I discovered Gascon had lied to me and we found out what happened to my mother.  I wondered if I were evil.”  Fenris looked up at him.  “I wondered if it were not all my fault somehow.  As if I were guilty of what that man did by association.”

The elf didn’t know what to say.  “Hawke, that’s not true.”

The man nodded.  “I know.  But I questioned myself for a long time afterwards.  I wondered if the Templars weren’t right.  I wondered if mages shouldn’t just be locked up, or just killed.  I questioned everything about myself.”  He paused.  “I think I’d still be questioning myself if not for Anders.”

Fenris stilled.  And he hadn’t been there for  him.  Fact of the matter, Anders had been.  And maybe that was best.  Anders had been the one to make Hawke regain his self-confidence and trust.  Fenris knew that he would not be that person for Hawke.  He couldn’t be.  If Hawke had ever come to Fenris doubting himself, doubting his restraint on his own power, doubting his ability and the core of who he was, could Fenris ever hope to make him whole again?  If Hawke had come to Fenris full of doubt asking him if the Templars were right, what could Fenris ever say that would not make things worse?

“I’m glad you have him,” the elf whispered, and Hawke barely heard him.

Fenris heard the door open, listening to the footsteps.  The armor meant it was either Donnic off a shift, Aveline, or Sebastian.  He guessed Donnic—that was most likely, but the footfalls were different.  He straightened in the chair when he saw Sebastian, his eyes narrowing.  “I think I’ll get another glass,” he decided, getting an idea of what was going on.  He slid from the chair, lifting his glass.  He listened to Sebastian sit down beside Hawke as he poured, carefully.  Concentrating entirely too much on the wine, it didn’t slosh nor bubble.  He sat the bottle back down, sipping at it as he stalked back toward his chair, then remained standing, irritated.

Sebastian said, “Fenris, please sit down.”

The elf looked from one to the other.  “Is this an intervention?  Maker, I’m _fine_.”

The two humans glanced at one another.  “Fenris, you’re not fine,” Sebastian stated.  He sat straight-backed, even regal-looking in the faded splendor of the manor.  Somehow, the dilapidated state of the place only made the man look _more_ poised.  “When’s the last time you’ve slept?”

“Last night,” the elf said, self-satisfied, taking another sip.

“And the last time you were high?”

He set the glass down on table.  “Funny how those things coincide.”

Sebastian nodded.  “I see.”  He pursed his lips together as he considered his next move.  “Why the drugs?”

“I like sleeping,” he said honestly.  He fell into the chair across from them.  “And it _completely_ gets rid of all the pain I feel.”

“That’s hard to argue with,” Hawke commented.

Sebastian shot him a withering glare, then he looked back at the elf.  “Fenris, we can’t trust you if you’re going to behave like this.”

He made a face.  “But you trust me when I’m in pain?”

“You’re sober when you’re in pain.”

“And that makes me more trustworthy?” he demanded.

Hawke said quietly, “I don’t want to see you be self-destructive.”

Fenris looked like he wanted to argue, but fell silent, busying himself with the wine.    Sebastian knitted his fingers together.  “It isn’t healthy, and all you’re doing is alienating the people that care about you.”

The elf scoffed at that, grinding his teeth.  Hawke quickly added, “And aren’t the drugs expensive anyway?”  He paused.  “Fenris, you are stronger than that, and you don’t need to rely on it to help you.  That’s why you have friends.”

He was quiet, then his teeth clenched.  “And how long will it be before I can’t trust any of you either?” he demanded, rising to his feet.  He glared accusingly at Hawke.  “You told me to go get captured and killed by Danarius, so why are you pretending you care?”

“I always cared!” he insisted.  “Sometimes, people say things they don’t mean when they’re angry--and I’m sorry I said that, really.”

Fenris’ eyes narrowed, disbelieving.  Why should he believe what he said?  Why should he believe what anyone said?  If his own sister had lied to him, betrayed him, who in the world could he trust and believe?  He tried to remind himself that Varania was not _his_ sister, per se, but it was so theoretical and philosophical that he had trouble believing in it.  “Why should I believe you?”

Hawke stared at him.  He wanted to shake him, to demand to know what he thought about all these years of friendship and companionship.  “We’ve known one another for years,” Sebastian said, beating Hawke to it.  “You should know if you can trust us.”

“So, what you’re saying is, because I didn’t know Varania, I never should have trusted her, and all of this is _my_ fault?”

Sebastian bristled.  “No!  That’s not at all what I’m saying.”  He took a deep breath, backpedaling.  “Fenris, all we are saying is that we care about you, and we don’t want to see you hurt yourself.”  He looked genuinely concerned, and that was what irked Fenris the most.  “Please believe us.”

“Why should I?” he demanded.

Hawke looked up.  “Because if something were to happen to you, I’d lose one of my best friends,” he confessed.  “ _Please_ stop.”

Fenris slowly set the glass down again, looking back at his hands.  The three were quiet.  “You’re really worried about me?”

The apostate’s lips pressed into a thin line.  “Fenris, you could take too much of those drugs, and _die_.  Or what if you just turn into one of those people that is never sober?  You don’t do anything any more, you just get high or drunk?  Fenris, you wouldn’t be you,” he told him.

The elf was quiet a long moment.  He wanted to say that wouldn’t happen, but he didn’t know the future.  And it was comforting to know that Hawke cared about him, at least enough to worry about him.  “Well, I’m out anyway,” he said quietly.  “I’ll… avoid it.”

Sebastian was openly relieved.  “Good.  Fenris, I’m happy to hear that.”

Fenris sighed, but chose not to say anything.  Hawke hesitated before he said, “Do you want to try to write to your sister?  At least ask her why?”

The lyrium blazed.  His teeth gritted.  “She’s a bitch—that’s why!” he hissed.  “I never want you to mention her again!”

“Fenris—“

“Get out!”

Sebastian took a deep breath.  “We’re here for you if you ever need to talk,” he said, and ushered Hawke out the door.  Safely on the street, Hawke glanced at Sebastian.

“What are you going to do with that letter?” he asked him quietly.

Sebastian looked at the simple envelope.  “I’ll hang on to it until he’s ready for it.”

Hawke smiled crookedly.  “I’m glad Varric gave that to you—I’d be too tempted to open it.”

Sebastian shrugged a shoulder.  “Whatever Varania wanted to say to Fenris, it’s only for Fenris.”

The clouds overhead were moving fast on a southern wind, heavy and grey with water.  It would be raining by nightfall.

 

            Isabela had been busy—some minor mishap with “one of my girls”, she had said.  Varric and Aveline both ended up tangled up in the mess somehow too.  Fenris didn’t _have_ to go today, but he was tired of waiting, and wondering.  He couldn’t ask Hawke, and Donnic was working today, so it left Sebastian.  Which, of course, wasn’t a bad thing, but if he wanted his conscience pricked, he did a good enough job of that himself, thank you.

“Thank you for coming with me,” Fenris said to Sebastian.

            “Certainly,” he replied peaceably.

            “Sebastian?  Thank you—for caring enough about me to try to stop me from hurting myself, I mean,” he said.

            The priest gave a satisfied smile.  “I’m glad you came around.”  He paused.  “Have you thought about what we talked about?”

            Fenris glanced at him.  “About finding the Maker in my life?” he said, his voice dripping sarcasm.

            Sebastian ignored his tone of voice.  “Yes.”

            The elf snorted in disdain.  “You know, when I was left behind in Seheron, watching Danarius sail away, I noticed a lot of _people_ there.  Some were good, some were bad, some were children or elderly.  Some had good intentions.”  He thought of Annalkylie.  “Others not.”  He looked up at the sky, watching a wheeling hawk as it hunted.  “But they were still only _people_ and _circumstances._   The Maker wasn’t there, but there were a lot of people.”

            “A piece of the Maker can reside in every individual’s heart, and He can work through them.”

            Fenris’ mouth twisted into a frown.  This was why he often got tired of Sebastian.  “Fine.  Through the grace of the Maker, I have thus far managed not to strangle you.”

            Sebastian chuckled good-naturedly.  “And?”

            He sighed, and thought about it.  “And nothing,” he said decidedly.  “If there is a divine creator, it is clear that he doesn’t care about us, and I have no cause to thank him for anything.”

            “Oh, Fenris…”

            His eyes narrowed.  “Or if there is a Maker, it is abundantly clear to me that he is a _human_ god.”

            “There are many texts—mostly out of print and very old texts—about elves, you know.  Most of them were destroyed with the Dales, but—“

            Fenris did not want to fight, not right now.  “Humankind’s actions have ordained that elves are not welcome in the Maker’s eyes.”

            Sebastian’s mouth opened, then snapped shut in shock.  “That’s not true,” he said, his voice gentle but Fenris detected the edge in it.

            The elf looked back at him, pained.  “It’s not?  Then why are there alienages?  Why can humans enslave us and think nothing of it, and then worship their Maker when it’s done?  Why are so many elves beaten and abused just for being elves?”  He paused.  “It’s because your religion has ordained that we are not welcome, and we are allowed to live as lesser beings only because of your ‘kindness’.  Sebastian, when there aren’t any more alienages, and I can go an entire week without some human treating me disdainfully because I’m an elf, I’ll consider the Chantry.”

            Sebastian looked away, pained.  “But all of that is because…”

            “Because an Exalted March destroyed the Dales because they didn’t want to worship a human god—humans hated the thought of us being free so much they invented an excuse to destroy us.”  He glanced at him.  “I don’t just read words when I’m reading history texts, you know, Sebastian.  And the more I learn about it, the less I will ever believe in your Maker.”  He was quiet a moment before he continued, “But I do appreciate that you care enough about me to worry about my soul, and I know that you just want to bring me the same kind of peace that you have.  For that, I am not angry with you for your… continued advances at shoving Chantry doctrine down my throat.”  He took a deep breath, then his eyes narrowed, and his jaw set.  “And it is because I have learned so much about history, and the world, that I realize _why_ slaves are kept illiterate.  I realize why so many elves in general are kept illiterate; humans don’t want us to learn anything, because it’s harder to control us when we know better.”

            “You’ve been keeping that pent up for a while,” Sebastian commented.

            He took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.  “Yes.  I guess so—I’m sorry I took it out on you, Sebastian.  You aren’t the one doing this.”

            “We’re here,” he said, unnecessarily.  The Dalish guards let Fenris in, and almost made Sebastian wait but they negotiated, and they let them both into the camp.  Things were oddly quiet, and the Dalish watched the outsiders with suspicion, and he had no doubt many recognized him from the last time he had been here.  He cringed inwardly at the thought.  With Merathari gone, he supposed the next best person to ask about the carving would probably be their crafter.  The man was sitting at a work bench, his elbow propped against the table, watching his apprentice carve etchings into a bow.

            “Can I ask you something?” Fenris asked.

            The man glanced up at him.  “Seems like you just did.”

            He took that for assent, and removed the little carving from his bag.  He set it down on the bench beside him.  The apprentice looked up out of curiosity, then back at his work.  The crafter picked it up off the table to get a better look.  He tilted it, and found the mark Merrill had looked at.

            The Dalish said, “Well, it looks familiar, but it’s difficult to say; normally, I’d direct you to our Keeper for clarification on things like that, _but I can’t_.”

            Fenris bristled.  “It’s not my fault she died.”

            The man nodded amiably, but his eyes were sharp as knives.  “No, you didn’t possess her, and she didn’t die for _you_ , but you were there and you certainly did nothing to help the matter, did you?”

            His teeth gritted in anger.  “I never condoned what Merrill did.”  Sebastian put his hand on his shoulder, a gentle reminder to calm down.  With effort, Fenris stepped back.

            The Dalish crafter was annoyed more than concerned about Fenris.  “But you didn’t stop her either.”  He set the carving back down.  “I think you’re done here.”

            The lyrium brightened, and Fenris opened his mouth to give him a piece of his mind.  Sebastian stepped quickly between them, swiping the figure off the table.  “Thank you for your time—we should be going.”  He hauled Fenris bodily away from the table, half-dragging him out of the camp.

            “What are you doing?” Fenris hissed once they were well away from the guards.

            Sebastian stared at him.  “Did you not notice how every Dalish there was staring at you?”

            Fenris calmed, but with effort.  “Oh.”  Sebastian handed him back the figure.  He looked at it again, and sighed, putting it away.  His eyes flicked downwards.  “Sorry.”

            The priest only sighed, and they started the walk back to Kirkwall.  “That was a bit disappointing.”

            “I don’t know what I was expecting.”

            “Merrill really won’t tell you?”

            Fenris shook his head.  “She knows _something_ , but she’s angry with me, so there’s nothing I can really do about it.”  He sighed.  Before this misadventure, Sebastian had asked about the why of it, and Fenris thought that he owed it to him to tell him the story.

            “Can I see that carving again?” Sebastian asked, feeling a bit uneasy.  Fenris handed it back to him, and the other looked it over.  He sighed, reaching into his bag.  He shoved something into Fenris’ hand.  “Varric gave me these—it’s from Varania.”

            He almost threw it before he even looked at it, but he stared down at his hand.  A letter—a small slip of paper scarcely as large as his hand, and a tiny walnut figure of a halla with broken horns.  The piece of paper, he put in his belt for the moment, and he looked at the halla—a halla he knew very well.  “I thought Danarius would have destroyed this.”

            “Does it mean something to you?”

            He wanted to say no, but he realized that it did mean something.  But what did it mean?  Obviously, that it had been found, and somehow Varania had ended up with it.  What did it mean that she had given it back to him, though?  “Yes.  I’m just not sure what.”

            He wished that Merrill would just tell him. 

            When he got home, he didn’t open the letter.  He slipped it inside the Chant of Light, and left it alone for the moment.  He couldn’t tolerate whatever she had wanted to say to him right now. 

 

Fenris was dripping wet and shivering by the time he made it to Hawke’s manor.  The rain was coming down in buckets and had been for several days, and he thought he had to be mad to be out in it.  He swiped his feet on the matt, and Bodahn offered to get him a towel.  He accepted this, standing in the foyer, dripping, until Bodahn came back with a couple towels.

“There’s a fire in the library,” he offered.

Fenris pulled a towel from him, drying his face.  “Thank you, Bodahn,” he told him, running it over his dripping hair too.  He stopped, looking at the dwarf.  “Is Anders here?”

Bodahn shook his head, depositing the other towel on the desk.  “No, he shouldn’t be back for a couple more days—Hawke asked me to keep bringing him meals.”  He made a face.  No one liked venturing to Darktown every day.

 _Good_ , the elf thought.  “Is Hawke here?”

Bodahn shook his head.  “He went to the Hanged Man, but I imagine he will be back soon—he’s not really one to stay out too late these days.”

Fenris thanked him, and when he was sufficiently dry as to not drip all over the place, he headed to the library.  He took some time to find a volume he wanted to read, eventually settling on what turned out to be a rather interesting volume about the history of the Grey Wardens.  A note inside told him that it was a gift from Carver.  At least the man seemed to be enjoying being a Grey Warden.

Fenris heard the library door open, and the heavy footsteps meant the person was wearing shoes.  He assumed Bodahn, or even Sandal.  Orana was much quieter when she walked.

“Fenris?” Hawke asked.  The elf looked up.  “You haven’t come over in a long time.”

His eyes flicked back to the book.  Hawke started down the steps.  “Anders forbid me to come over.”

Hawke blinked in surprise.  This was the first he had heard of that.  “Oh…”  He hesitated.  “Well, we can see how that worked out.”

Fenris snorted.  “Indeed.”

Hawke sat down in the chair opposite him.  “What brings you here?”

He looked back at him.  “The manor was cold,” he said.  “It has a leaky roof, so it’s damp.  I am also out of reading material, and I can’t sleep.”

The apostate cocked his head to the side a little.  “Can’t sleep?”

He turned the page of the book.  “I have nightmares,” he admitted.

Concern furrowed Hawke’s brow.  “What about?”

 _Danarius raping me._   “I don’t really remember them,” he said instead.

“Anything I can do to help?”

Fenris glanced at the fire, watching the flames flicker and dance.  “A drink maybe.”

Hawke nodded, standing up.  “Sure—You like brandy, don’t you?  I’ll be right back.”

“Thank you.”

The mage glanced back at him.  “Sure thing.”

Fenris looked back at the book, shifting in his seat.  When Hawke got back, the mage set the two glasses down.  He put a taste of the brandy into each glass, and offered Fenris one.  It was decent brandy—not the sort of thing he could find in Danarius’ liquor cabinets, but not Lowtown quality either.  The elf drank it immediately, and requested a bit more that time.  Hawke sighed, and poured in more brandy.  It bubbled and sloshed in the bottle.  Fenris made a face.  “One day, I’ll show you how to pour alcohol,” he said with some distaste.

Hawke scowled.  “Why does it matter?”

“Aeration.  Decanting.  It’s complicated; suffice it to say, it’s about flavour as much as presentation.  Thanks, though.”  Satisfied, Fenris sat with the glass in one hand, the book in his lap.

Hawke was almost stupid enough to ask him why he knew so much about pouring alcohol, and then fell silent:  Fenris had already told him why.  “What are you reading?”

“ _History of the Grey._   That book Carver gave you.”

“Oh.”  Hawke flinched.  “I never even opened it.”

Fenris smirked.  “I’m sure he’d be pleased to know that.”  He paused, looking up.  He sighed, and set the book down on the table.  “May I apologize for my behaviour the other day?”

Hawke raised an eyebrow, nodding, as he knew quite well what this was about.  “You may.”

The Tevinter fugitive paused.  “Then I’m sorry,” he said softly.  “You were trying to help me, and I rejected your help.  I know you just wanted to help me, and I am sorry I got angry.”

Hawke nodded.  “Apology accepted.”  He smiled.  “You have a terrible temper, Fenris.  You and Anders are more alike than either of you will ever admit.”

Fenris made a face, disgusted at the idea, but Hawke only laughed.  “So.  Sebastian and Aveline both know how to ride—horses, I mean.  How would you feel if we all went out together…?”

“Since you and I aren’t allowed to be alone anymore?” Fenris laughed, taking another long drink of liquor.

            Hawke emptied his glass, and splashed in a bit more liquor.  “Anders has a good point.  You’re very attractive, and if I weren’t happily committed, I’d do unspeakable things to you.”

            Fenris watched him, feeling blood rush to his face, and to lower places.  He shifted, and laughed.  He reminded himself that the apostate had been out drinking earlier, and then was drinking even more now.  Fenris stood up, finishing off the brandy.  He set the glass down and intended to go.  Hawke raised his glass to his lips, and Fenris caught his wrist, pulling the glass back down.  “You’ve had enough,” he told him, his voice soft.

            Hawke stared at him, measuring their closeness.  If he leaned forward, he was close enough to kiss him.  “Of you?” he laughed.

            “That too.”  He pulled back, just a little, pulling the glass from his friend’s hand.  He set it down, turning from him.  “I don’t want to apologize again because you forgot about it.”

            Hawke rose from his seat, stepping behind him.  “Wait,” he said, catching him by his arm.  Fenris looked back at him, stilling.  They looked at each other.  The fire cracked and popped.  Outside, the rain poured.  “It’s miserable outside.  You could… stay.”

            There were a thousand things Fenris knew he should do instead.  He should push him away.  He should step away.  He should go home.  He should remind Hawke about Anders.  He should tell him “no”.  He should…

            He turned stepping into his arms, catching his lips fiercely in his own.

            They kissed savagely, hungrily.  There was nothing romantic or sweet about it; it was bruising and filled with years of pent-up lust and desire, a communication that could only manifest in physical form.  Fenris helped Hawke out of his armor, dropping the heavy things to the floor.  It was loud, but they barely noticed the clamor.  He shoved Hawke back into the chair, kneeling on the floor in front of him.  He bent, his lips against the tip of his swollen member.  Hawke gasped, biting his lower lip.

            He had forgotten what Fenris could do.  He had forgotten how Fenris knew to use the flat of his tongue, the tip of his tongue, to swirl the head in his mouth.  He had forgotten how he licked and nibbled, the way his eyes would open slowly and look up at him, his lips against the base of his member.  It was the most submissive look he had ever seen on Fenris, and at the same time, the most in control.  Oral sex was a submissive gesture in many cultures, and yet, he could bite down until his teeth met one another, and Hawke would be entirely at his mercy.  He liked that.

            Fenris pulled his head back, and Hawke knelt to kiss him, liking the taste of him on his lips, the reminder of the things the elf was more than willing to do.  “You’re wearing too much clothing,” the apostate whispered.

            The corners of his lips turned into a seductive smile.  He at first started to remove a gauntlet, then stopped.  He kissed him again.  “Watch this,” he whispered.  The lyrium engulfed him.  Hawke watched him, their lips almost touching, as Fenris transformed into, for all sakes and purposes, a ghost.  He looked like a spirit come to life.  An apparition of an earthly desire.  He had seen him do it many times before, but he had never been close enough to touch him when he did it.  _Desire demons had best change their form,_ he thought.  _They have it all wrong:  This is what the embodiment of pure lust looks like_.

            He reached out, as if to touch him, and Fenris blinked, all colour gone from him, nothing but a shade of glowing blue.  The only part of him that looked _real_ was the lyrium.  He tried touch a vein of lyrium on his neck.  His hand passed through him, into him, as if he did not really exist.  Hawke drew back, alarmed and worried that it might hurt Fenris.  Fenris gave no indication that it had hurt him.  In fact, Hawke wasn’t certain Fenris could even feel him.

            A loud noise made him jerk back, and the glowing dimmed.  Fenris knelt in front of him naked, a pool of his clothing and armor around him.  He smiled up at him.  “It takes effort for that not to happen,” he confessed.

            Hawke laughed aloud, and kissed him, hard.  Fenris pulled him down onto the floor.  As the pair kissed, Fenris rolling on top of him, Hawke kicked his armor out of the way.  His belt was shoved under the chair, and something fell from a pouch.

            “Move your ass up here—I want to deep throat you.”

            Fenris’ eyebrows arched in surprise.  “When did you learn how to do that?”

            “Shut up,” Hawke suggested.  “Ass up here, now, elf.”

            “Yes, _ser_ ,” he said sarcastically.

            “Don’t make me spank you.”

            Fenris bit his lower lip, fingernails digging into his sides.  He leaned over him, on all fours, straddling him.  He kissed him again, unmoving.  He grunted when Hawke actually hit him, moaning when Hawke’s hands slid over his ass, gripping him tightly, then hit him again.  “Harder,” he whispered in his ear.

            Hawke hit him hard enough to hurt his hand.  He flinched, but Fenris moaned, his tongue pushing into his mouth.  His tongue brushed against his, sucking on his tongue the same way he had sucked on his penis.  The apostate wanted something else in his mouth.

            “Now, Fenris,” he hissed against his lips.  The elf pulled away and climbed over him.  Hawke lifted his head, drawing him into his mouth.  It wasn’t the best position for it, but he could do it from here, if he moved slowly.  Hawke had learned how to do this with Anders.  He had wanted to learn how, and Anders had been very, very patient.  It took either not having a gag reflex, like Fenris, or else having a very patient and understanding lover to learn.  Hawke had learned with Anders, and a bucket, for when he had to vomit or just dry heave.

            He liked the shape of Fenris’ cock.  He liked the way he was cut.  He was well-formed, visually pleasing; he liked the way his balls felt in his hand.  He liked the way he felt against his lips, slipping past his teeth.  He liked the way he rubbed against the roof of his mouth, sliding back farther.  He liked the way his skin felt against his tongue, the dim taste of lyrium.  He liked the way he felt as he slid to the back of the throat, taking deep breaths around him.  Fenris shivered, looking down at him, eager and anxious.

            Hawke swallowed, pulling him in deeper, accepting more of him into him, desperately wanting him inside him.

            “Maker,” Fenris whispered.  Hawke liked doing it, but more than that, he liked pleasing Fenris.  He liked listening to the way he breathed, the way his back twisted.  He liked the way his muscles flexed under his hands.  Fenris pulled back, out of his mouth.

            Hawke gasped, but glared at him.  “I wasn’t done with you yet.”

            “It’s not fair when I want you in me too,” Fenris whispered, rolling over.  Hawke took him back into his mouth, pushing him back into his throat as if he had never left it.  Fenris knelt between his legs, licking along him, kissing him, nibbling along the foreskin.  His hands covered him, playing with the foreskin—something he didn’t have, so a constant source of curiosity to him in other men.  He had yet to receive any complaints about his curiosity.

            He tugged gently, kissing and sucking.  He moaned, feeling Hawke’s hands run up his thighs, massaging his ass.  One of his fingers circled around his anus, and he gasped when it penetrated, the tip of his finger, and slowly in deeper.  The more of his finger Hawke pushed into him, the more of Hawke Fenris took in his mouth, trying to match the movements as best he could tell.  His hand snaked between his legs, gently massaging his testicles, making slow infinity signs over them with his thumb.  Fenris’ hand then shifted back further, mimicking what Hawke did to him.

            Hawke finally couldn’t take it any longer.  He pulled his head back, coughing.  Fenris stopped, smiling softly.  He didn’t think less of him, nor would he dream to mock him for it.  Instead, he was flattered and pleased that Hawke had gone past what was obviously his limit in an effort to please him.  He rolled off him, turning back around.  He knelt over him, and kissed him, his leg slipping between his.  Hawke pulled him down over him, wrapping one of his legs around him.

            _He’s done this often, and learned to really enjoy it,_ Fenris thought, but it was fleeting.  Gone was the hesitation of the last time they had lain like this.  Now, the apostate was eager, wanting him, unflinching even when he pushed into him, craving more of him even when he had filled him.  Fenris gripped his thigh, his other hand tight against his hip.  He couldn’t remember ever wanting something, or someone, more.

            “Fuck, I love the way you feel,” Hawke whispered.

            The elf licked one of his nipples, sucking on him, pulling gently with his teeth.  “You feel amazing,” Fenris gasped, grunting with the effort of pounding into him.  “Hawke, can you…?”  He flushed.  “Roll over, on your knees?”

            The apostate did not even hesitate.  He did not question him, even though he knew.  He did not draw attention to it; he shifted, and Fenris moved to mount him.  He liked it, and he liked that Hawke liked it.  Hawke pushed back against him, grinding into hips.  Fenris kissed his shoulders, his hands running along his back.  One of the apostate’s hands helped to balance him when he rose enough to kiss him.

            _It doesn’t have to be a submissive position_ , he realized.  Smiling, he kissed him back.  _I love you._

            His arms wrapped around him, holding him tight as he kissed him.  Hawke’s free hand touched the back of Fenris’ head, gentle and tender.

            _And the position doesn’t have to be about dominance either.  It can be just as tender and loving as I want it to be.  Damn, I love you, Hawke._

            His heart pounded in his chest, sweat beading on his skin.  He pulled away from his kiss, sucking on the apostate’s neck instead, biting his shoulder, pounding into him hard, harder.  Hawke gasped, falling away, on all fours.

            He couldn’t seem to touch enough of him, to kiss enough of him.  They twisted, Hawke moving, pulling Fenris with him, down on top of him.  Fenris pushed back into him, kissing him with everything he had.  He had missed being with a man, someone who understood from experience his body.  Isabela was skilled, but she was still a woman.  A woman didn’t _really know_ what it was like, but he liked being with a man because a man _did_.  More than that, though, he had missed Hawke.

            Hawke sat up, and crushed his lips in his, hard enough to bruise.  “ _You_ are amazing,” he told him, and kissed him again.  “You’re beautiful—fucking gorgeous.”  Another kiss.  “And you’re strong.”  He nuzzled against his neck.  Fenris’ arms wrapped around him tightly, moaning when Hawke rocked against him.  “And you’re smart.”  He kissed him again, hard.  “And I love you.”

            Fenris’ eyes fluttered open, and he didn’t even know what to say.  He moaned as Hawke pushed against him, and started to say something, but the apostate, drove him onto his back.  Hawke writhed on top of him, rising and falling over him.

            “In me,” Fenris breathed.  It had been so long.  Too long, since he had been with a man.  Hawke leaned down, and kissed him.  He pulled himself off of him, and with some shifting, he was between his legs.  Fenris, ever impatient, commanded him, “Now!”

            “You’re not ready,” Hawke told him, sucking on two fingers.  Fenris stared at him, debating on pinning him down and riding his cock anyway.  Hawke pushed his finger against him, and had intended to ease into him, but the elf pushed against him so eagerly, he almost couldn’t.

            “Hawke…” he complained.

            The apostate watched him sweat, watched him moan, and push against his fingers.  Fenris’ hand ran down his chest, down the lyrium to his dripping cock.  His hand ran along the length of it, his thumb twisting over the tip.  Hawke stared at his hand, watching him touch himself.  Watching him made Hawke’s hand drift over his thigh, gripping himself in one hand.  Fenris watched him, his eyes dark with unbridled lust.  One of his legs brushed against his arm, his hand continuing to stroke himself.  “Harder,” he instructed him, his voice coming out ragged.

Hawke obliged him, pushing into him deeper, harder.  Fenris moaned, writhing, moving against him.  “More?” the mage asked him.

Fenris looked at him.  “You know what I want,” he gasped.  He stared pointedly at Hawke’s lap, and back at his face.  “I want you inside me.”

Hawke pushed his fingers deep into him, as far as they would go.  He twisted his arm, moving his fingers in ways he couldn’t move his dick.  Fenris gave a shuddering, twisting moan, so loud it was almost a scream.  “I am.”

            “Hawke!”

            The human felt he had no choice but to kiss him to silence.  “Be patient, you,” he chided him, driving hard into him.  A desperate moan escaped Fenris’ lips that made things low in Hawke’s stomach turn.  He pushed in a third finger.  The elf’s hands gripped his shoulders, his fingernails biting in.

            “I want you,” Fenris told him.  “I want your Blighted dick in my ass _right now_.”

            “Impatient, aren’t we,” the apostate whispered against his ear, his other hand steadying himself.  He pulled his fingers out of him, pressing himself against him.  Fenris’ eyes were wide.  He panted with need.

            It was everything he wanted, everything he had ever wanted, or dreamed of.  It was the feeling of hope, and love, and being wanted and needed.  His arms wrapped around him, needing him desperately.  He pushed his face against Hawke’s neck, inhaling deeply.

            He felt so good.  He never wanted another man—or woman for that matter.  He only wanted Hawke.

            A tear rolled down his cheek, and it could have been mistaken for sweat.  It rolled over the lyrium on his chin, dripping down his neck:  It wasn’t meant to be.

            He loved Hawke.  He adored him.  He could petition the Chantry to have the man deified; he loved him.  He would follow the man to the ends of the earth, into the pits of hell.  He would do anything for him.

            But he couldn’t do this again with him.

            He had thought…

            The lyrium glistened, and he moaned, and the pair kissed.  Sighs and screams alike passed their lips.

            It was what Fenris had thought he wanted.  He wanted Hawke, but he knew, now, he couldn’t have him.

            He knew who Leto was.  He knew Varania.  He knew his mother.  He knew every detail of his life, every painful detail.  So many memories that it had been easier _not_ to remember.  And memories that made the things he knew more painful.  He knew everything, and the worst part was knowing that he would forget again, and soon.  He remembered them, and remembered himself.  It wasn’t the peace and joy he had known before.  It was anger, sorrow, regret, and a world of tragedy and suffering.  It would all fade to nothing again soon.  It was almost comforting to know that as a certainty.  Yet, he was glad to know it wasn’t truly gone too.  Why was it sex that brought this out for him?  Why was it that it was sex with _Hawke_?

            _Because I love Hawke,_ he thought.  _It’s what makes sex safe with Isabela or a whore, but terrifying with Hawke._


	97. I'm Sorry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris tries to make amends for his actions and realizes that freedom means responsibility and hardship, and that he must behave accordingly.

            Hawke made a face, shifting.  Had he fallen asleep on the floor?  Why?  Someone was lying partway on top of him.  He assumed Anders—that was usually how it went.

            “Anders?” he murmured.  He was conscious of being naked, and the fire had long-since gone out.  His eyes slid open.  He blinked several times, trying to adjust to the near-darkness.  There were candles that had burned low, the coals of the fire cold.  Why was he in the library…?

            His eyes opened wide.  The library.  He looked down at Fenris, still and relaxed, and by his breathing, he must be asleep.  He stared up at the ceiling.  “Maker, Anders…  Oh, Andraste, holy bride of the Maker—what have I done?” he whispered.

            Fenris shifted; he must have woken him.  The elf raised his head, and looked at him.  Fenris sat up, rubbing at his eyes.  He was as naked as he was, and he didn’t have to guess what had happened; he remembered most of it, though he had drank more than intended.

            Hawke stood up, biting his lip.  “Shit,” he whispered.  “Shit.”  He found his underwear on the floor, and pulled them on.  He started hunting for the rest of his clothing.  “Shit.”  Hawke paced back and forth, mostly just swearing. 

Fenris sighed desolately, watching him.  “Are you going to tell Anders?” he asked, his voice soft.

            Hawke looked back at him, in nothing but his underwear, his trousers in one hand.  “I… I have to.”

            The elf looked at him.  His memory left him aching, just like the last time, but at least it wasn’t the horrible shock it had been last time; he had expected it.  It left him disappointed and feeling empty, but not exactly miserable.  _Hawke, please don’t go…_   “He’ll be angry.”

            “He’ll be even more angry if I don’t tell him.”

He stared down at his hands.  “Say you were drunk, and I took advantage of you.”

“I’d be lying.  I mean, I was drunk, but… Fuck.”  He struggled with his trousers.  “It takes two.  This wasn’t just you—I…  Damn it.”

Fenris’ eyes narrowed.  “Then tell him you love me.”

Hawke flinched as if he had been struck, and Fenris didn’t miss it.  “I didn’t mean…”  He didn’t know what to say.  “I do love you—I just...  I love Anders.”

 _I know you love Anders._   And Fenris knew that Hawke cared more for Anders than he did for him.  And Fenris…  _All I do is hurt the people around me, and that is not what I want for you._ He didn’t know enough about love, about caring about someone else.  All he had ever known was tragedy, death, hardship—how can any of that form love?  He didn’t even know enough about love to say, for sure, if he really loved Hawke.  But his desire for him he knew.  He wanted to be with him more than anything, and it hurt to see him with Anders.  He wanted Hawke to be happy, more than anything, and he was afraid he could not make him happy.  Was that love?

            Fenris’ jaw set.  He remembered Anders, all his love and devotion to Hawke.  The way he looked at Hawke, the way they had never seemed to fight or argue, and were blissfully in love, and had been for years.  He rose, and began dressing.  He did not look at him.  He flinched, and said, “Hawke, it’s fine.  I don’t love you.  I just want to have sex with you.”

Hawke froze, staring back at him.  He seemed confused.  “But…”

            Fenris stopped.  He stared at him, directly into his eyes, his heart hardened.  “ _I don’t love you_ ,” he said again.  “You’re amazing in bed—that’s all.  Or on the floor, respectively.”  _Please don’t hate me.  I couldn’t bear it if you hated me—but I’d never forgive myself if Anders left you heartbroken, and I can’t—I don’t know how—to fix you.  But Anders does, and I don’t think this will hurt you as much as Anders leaving you._   “I like you.  And I like the sex.”  _I like the sex, and your voice, your lips against mine and your arms around me.  I like your skin against mine, and being close to you, and I wish I never had to leave your embrace—I feel safe there._

            “Then see a whore,” Hawke snapped angrily.  “If you wanted to get laid, see a whore, Fenris.  You…  I cheated on Anders.  I’m going to lose him.”

            Fenris watched him, the emotion in his eyes.  Hawke looked at Anders in a way that he had never seen him look at him.  He loved Anders.  “If you don’t tell him, you won’t lose him.”

            Hawke was aghast.  “I can’t lie to him; I love him.”

            The elf was quiet as he pulled on his tunic.  “Like you love me?”

            “You left me!” Hawke snapped.  “You said you couldn’t be with me, and then you keep doing this shit.  What do you want?”

            “You,” he whispered, sliding into one gauntlet, then the other.  Dressed, he looked back at Hawke.  “All I’ve ever wanted was you.”

            “Do you love me?” Hawke demanded.

            Fenris turned away from him, and flinched.  “No.”

            Hawke was stunned, and all he could do was watch him go.  He fell into a chair, staring at the treacherous glass of brandy, still sitting on the table where he had left it.

 

The rain had let up to a drizzle outside, the lightest it had been all week.  The streets in Lowtown were muddy, wide, deep puddles he had to skirt around.  Darktown was even worse, and there was no option except to walk, on his toes, through the mud—and he had no doubt it wasn’t completely mud.  Fenris stepped up to the clinic, wiping off his feet as best he could on the boards.  He pushed the door of the clinic partway open, peering inside.  It was barely light enough for the elf to see the shadows in the room, and he couldn’t tell if the mage were inside.

“Anders?” Fenris called.  He heard a door open, and a light flickered.  Fenris blinked, his eyes adjusting rapidly to the light.

Anders stopped, the sphere of bluish light hovering over his hand.  “Oh—it’s just you.  Can this wait until morning?” he asked in a whisper, yawning.  He was still dressed, even his boots.  Had he been awake at this hour, or just fallen asleep in his clothing?

Fenris shook his head.  “No—I need to talk to you.”

Anders was not amused.  “Keep your voice down,” he hissed, stepping closer.  He gestured to a dark figure on a cot.  “I have a kid here sleeping off the flu.”  He tilted his head.  “C’mon then.”  Fenris followed him to a back room Anders usually kept locked.  The room was small—more a large closet than a room.  It had a small cot stuffed into one corner, a table beside it, a creaky chair, and rows and rows of shelves, each shelf filled with bottles, jars, horns, satchels, little bundles of herbs and plants and all manner of other things.

            On the desk, in an open skin, was a small pile of grayish-looking sand, a mortar and pestle, and various other tins and bottles.  The desk boasted one drawer, and Anders hurriedly removed a piece of worn parchment from the desk, sliding it into the drawer.  He locked it, and turned back toward Fenris.  “What’s that?” Fenris wondered, looking at the pile of sand.

            Anders blinked, and the orb of light flew up to the ceiling.  “Nothing—It’s nothing.”  He went to the desk, folding up the skin.  “I’m making something…  for someone—that’s all.”

            Fenris dismissed it.  “Look…  I…”  He stopped, staring down at the floor under his bare feet.  “I’m sorry, Anders.”

            Anders looked back at him.  He turned toward him, leaning against the desk.  “What did you do?” he demanded.

            Fenris looked up.  Looking at his face made it harder.  He hadn’t thought it would be this hard, but he knew what he had done was wrong.  He had to do something.  He loved Hawke, and he had to do something.  He took a breath and let it out slowly.  “I went to Hawke’s library last night.”  He guessed it was almost morning.  He looked up.  “Hawke wasn’t there—“

            “I told you not to come over!” Anders hissed venomously.  “I fucking told you—“

            Fenris stared at him.  “I know.  And I’m sorry.”  He paused.  “Can I go on?”

            Anders gritted his teeth.  “Can you?”

            The elf shifted, looking away from him.  “I…  Hawke had gone out to the Hanged Man.  I didn’t care—I really just wanted to read for a bit.”  He paused.  “And I wanted to apologize to Hawke.  He and Sebastian came over a couple days ago, and…”  He hesitated.  “I got angry.  I thought I owed them both an apology.”

            Anders shrugged.  “So…?”  His heart hammered in his chest.  Fear made his blood rush through his ears.  Fenris had come to _Anders_ to apologize for something.  What had he done?

            “Hawke was drunk when he got home,” Fenris said quickly, before he lost his nerve.  Anders froze, his every fear coming true.  Tentatively, Fenris looked up at him.  “It was my fault, not his.  He was drunk, and I…”

            The blood drained from Anders’ face.  His hands were shaking.  _No, no, no…_   “What did you do?” he whispered, but it was rhetorical.

            Fenris bit his lower lip, agonizing over whether or not he should go on.  “I’m sorry,” he whispered.  “Anders, he loves you.  It’s not his fault; it was mine.”

            Anders fell into the chair, staring numbly ahead.  It felt like his entire world were breaking.  His eyes fell to the skin on the desk, then slid closed.  Nothing felt real.  This couldn’t be happening.  It just couldn’t be…

            Fenris stared at him.  “Anders, I don’t want you to be mad at Hawke—he was drunk; he didn’t even know what he was doing…”

            Anders’ gaze shifted toward him.  “Oh, I have no doubt it was you, Fenris.  Why can’t you just leave it alone?”  He rose from his seat, angry.  “Why do you have to destroy _everything_?”

            Fenris looked back at him.  “Anders, I know I fucked up.”  He paused.  “I love him.”  Why could he admit it to Anders, but to no one else?  Maybe because Anders loved him too.

            “Did you tell him that?” Anders asked, his voice flat.

            The elf shook his head, staring down at the floor.  “I told him all I cared about was the sex.  I told him I just wanted to fuck him.  He’s terrified of losing you—he doesn’t care about me.”  He looked back at him.  “Anders, I don’t care if you hate me, but I don’t want to see him unhappy.”

            Anders said nothing, remaining silent as the horror of the situation rolled over him, and his grief and hurt consumed his heart.

            Fenris wondered how much longer he could keep all of these lies up.  He wondered how much of it Anders saw through.  “Anders, I understand if you’re angry, but be angry with me—not Hawke.  He loves you.”  He remembered Hawke, his lips on his.  The apostate telling him that he loved him.  Stupid things said during sex—that’s all.  A lot of people say stupid things they don’t mean during sex.  Or when they were angry.

            “He had sex with you!” Anders exploded.  “You… Blighted whore!  You fucked him!”

            Fenris held his tongue.  There were things he wanted to say, awful things he wanted to say.  He wanted to tell Anders what they had done, tell him all the things Hawke had said.  But it was immature, and would defeat his purpose.  It would feel good, and righteous, but it would be very fleeting, and it wouldn’t make this better.  “Anders…  Do whatever you need to do.”  He looked down, and back up.  “If you need to hit me, I’ll let you.”  He stared at him, suddenly desperate.  He didn’t want Hawke to lose the person he loved.  “If you need to beat the shit out of me, I’ll let you.  But please…  _Please_ don’t take this out on Hawke.”

            Anders’ fingers curled into a fist.  Fenris saw him.  He wanted to react, wanted to block the blow, but he didn’t.  He saw his arm fly toward him, and he stayed still.  He remembered all the times Danarius or Hadriana had slapped him, and he stayed still.  Anders’ fist connected with his jaw, hard enough to knock him back against the door.  His head slammed—hard—into the wooden frame.  He flinched, and when Anders advanced towards him, seething with barely controlled rage, he only looked back at him.

            Anders’ hand touched the bruise he had made on his jaw.  Fenris felt the healing magic dance over him.  He stared downward, knowing he had deserved the blow.  Probably the one true time he had really deserved it when a mage hit him out of anger.  Danarius used to heal him oftentimes when he hit him too.  The man’s fingers fell to Fenris’ neck.  He peeled back the collar of his tunic, his lips pressing into a thin line.  “Isabela’s, or Hawke’s?” Anders asked, tapping against the dark mark on his neck.

            Fenris wanted to lie, and say it was Isabela, but he felt like he had lied enough to Anders.  “I think Hawke’s.”

            Anders hit him again, healing the bruise just as quickly.  He touched the mark on his neck, and it was gone.  “Any other places?”

            Fenris stared at him.  “No,” he lied.

            Anders nodded, and swung his fist again.  That time, Fenris fell to the floor, his head spinning.  “If I ever see you again, it’s too soon,” Anders muttered, turning from him, as he cast one last healing spell.  It swallowed Fenris for a moment, every bruise, every mark of passion, every scratch, healed and gone.  It didn’t take the pain away.

            The elf looked up at him, up at the mage he had let hit him.  Danarius had done much worse to him.  For once, Fenris felt like he had truly earned each of the three blows.  “I’m sorry, Anders,” he whispered.  _And I’m sorry, Hawke._

            The walk back to Hightown was long, and it gave him a lot of time to reflect on his actions, and the consequences of them.  This was what freedom was.  It was having to be responsible for his own actions, having to face their consequences.  It wasn’t easy; it was difficult.  It meant doing things he didn’t want to do, saying things he didn’t want to say—it meant doing the right thing when the wrong thing might be easier.

            He didn’t like Anders, and he loved Hawke, but that didn’t make what he had done last night right.  This was how he had to fix it.  He had to take responsibility for his actions.  He had to stop running from every problem he had, and learn to face it.  He wasn’t a slave anymore; his actions and decisions were his own.  He had to live with them.

 

            Shaislyn had run out of options, which is what had brought him here.  He followed the servant down the long hall of polished cherrywood, past a room with olive drapes and green-veined marble tile, past rich tapestries, over thick rugs, and up a staircase made of redwood.  The room the servant brought him to was the master of the house’s solar.  The door, like the staircase, was redwood, intricately carved knotwork decorating it.  Shaislyn imagined the hours of work put into the door, some poor slave bent over the task, hungry, tired.

            The handle was carved to imitate a dragon’s claws, and when he took a step back, away from the door, he saw the pattern.  The dragon rose out of the knotwork like mage’s fire, the twists and turns of it making the pattern of its scales, its flared wings, its snarling fangs.  Flames spilled around it, from it, consuming it and becoming it, creating and destroying.

            The servant made a face.   _Peasant_ , the man thought snidely, and opened the door for their odd guest.

            Shaislyn passed through the belly of the beast.  His boots echoed on the polished hardwood, and then were muffled by the carpet.  He looked down, at the carpet.  It was so large as to nearly cover the room, the polished hardwood its frame.  He imagined the slaves who had woven it, inch by inch, thread by colorful thread.  Above, was a glass ceiling, the steel latticework in a starburst pattern.  Rather than tapestries, statuettes, or any other sort of decoration, there were plants.  They squatted in their pots, well pruned and cared for but never free.  Birds in cages chirped prettily at the far end of the room, by the enormous window.  The furniture matched the floor perfectly, accented by the drapes and the rug.

            An expensive room, built on the backs of slaves, like everything else in the Imperium.  His gaze fell to the man in the chair, sipping tea.  The man looked at him coldly, saying nothing.  Shaislyn strode forward, determined not to linger in the doorway like a timid servant.

            “I want you to acknowledge my father’s wishes,” he said immediately.  “Cillian Danarius.”

            Agasius’ cold stare turned into a cold smile.  “There’s no proof that isn’t a forgery.  The notary died in a fire I’m afraid--unfortunate circumstance, that--so many of his documents were lost.  The witnesses, I fear, are quite unreliable too.”

            His eyes narrowed.  “Your doing,” he accused him.

            Agasius looked at him.  They had the same hair, and many of the same features.  “You have no tact or social graces,” he said pleasantly.  “You would tarnish the name anyway.”

            “I only want the damn title to keep my mother out of slavery,” he hissed.  “Give me that, and I’ll drop the case.”

            The mundane head of the family was unfettered.  “You’ll drop both,” he said, keeping his tone pleasant.  “Pursue your own interests, slave.”

            “ _What?_ ”

            He smiled, lifting a small file from his desk.  “The originals in Seheron burned, but you’re technically still property of the Imperial army.”  Shaislyn’s heartbeat seemed to fill his ears, blocking out everything.  He was still a slave.  “Now, if you agree to let the matter go, I’ll give you these.”

            His eyes narrowed.  “Cillian Danarius made me a citizen.  I have the documents.”

            “He wasn’t your master.”

            His fingers curled into fists.  Those papers could destroy everything.  He was already a member of the Circle, but it would colour his social and political life forever; he’d never amount to anything, even if the Circle did not immediately send him to Seheron to fight.  In the best case scenario, his Soporati citizenship documents would help him and he might be able to argue for Liberati status, but he might as well be a slave for all the good it would do at that point.  He’d never be able to help his mother.  He let his anger go with a deep breath.  Agasius had beat him, and he knew it.  But, if those were the only copies...  “Are those the only copies?”

            “No,” he said serenely.  “You’re a mage; you could set them on fire right now.”  He cocked his head to the side, perhaps guessing that this was exactly what Shaislyn had in mind.  “But, sign an agreement to abandon this futile effort, and I’ll give them to you.”

            “How do I know you only have two?”

            “My part of the agreement will nullify those documents.”

            Then it wouldn’t matter.  Shaislyn turned from him, but not to leave:  To pace.  He paced from one end of the rug to another, thinking.  If he didn’t do it, Agasius was going to sabotage him.  If Agasius felt especially vindictive, something might even happen to his citizenship documents, and he’d be a slave to the military again.  He bit his lower lip as he thought, trying to decide what he could do.  There wasn’t anything he could do.  If he tried to fight it, Agasius could see him back on an Imperial leash, and very easily.  The remaining option would be to abandon the idea of rescuing his mother and become an apostate again.  Worse, he would be a wanted criminal:  Thievery, subterfuge, and a runaway slave.  His bounty may even be close to Fenris’.  Tevinter, a former refuge, would become a very dangerous place for him to be.  He turned back to Agasius.  “Let my mother go, and I’ll agree.”

            “No.”

            Shaislyn glared at him.  “It means nothing to you.  Let her go.”

            “I’ll sell her to you,” he said, a smile spread across his face.  “You can either sell yourself to me--I’ll send you straight to the Grand Proving; you can fight until you die.”  Shaislyn stared downwards, at the rug.   _Damn bastard_ , he thought.  “Of course we’ll have to do something about your shapeshifting ability--can’t have you getting away.”  All colour drained from the half-breed’s face.  “Or, if you prefer, you can buy her back.”

            He raised his head.  “How much?” he asked, his voice quiet, defeated.

            A slow smile crept across Agasius’ face like a snail over a flower.  He named a figure.

            Shaislyn exploded, outraged.  “I can buy half the army for that!”

            “But it’s what she’s worth to you.  Now, you can take it, or I won’t sell.  I’ll take payments, if you please, but you’ll have to put down a deposit of 50% for me to keep from selling her.”  _I’ll just steal it,_ he thought.  _And a good portion of it from you, you bastard._   Agasius smiled.  As if he could read his mind, he added, “And if you’re caught stealing again—and you will be, because you’ll be watched—you’ll be executed.”

            His heart felt like it had dropped down to the floor.  Theft was how he had gotten by all his life.  How could he…?  “I can’t…”

            “No?  Then you had best hurry.”

            They argued over the contract, but Shaislyn gave up when Agasius would not budge on the price.  He lowered it not one copper penny, and all of his other terms were solid.  Worse, Agasius was just as happy to walk away from the deal, and leave Shaislyn a runaway slave with a bounty on his head.  Not knowing what else he could do, he signed, relinquishing any claim he had to the bloodline.  What was the alternative?

 

            Varania heard a knock at the door, and her spirits flew.  Shaislyn?  Her heart pounded in her chest.  Was he returning in defeat--or triumph?  Had he succeeded?  She flew to the door, unlocking it.  She started to ask, and then saw the tired, defeated look on his face.  She stepped to the side, letting him in.  She knew when he wasn’t using the sight magic, because he kept his fingertips against the wall, moving slowly.  He sat down heavily on the bed, eyes unseeing.

            “I’m sorry.”  His voice came out in little over a whisper, broken and defeated.

            “Shai, you tried,” she started to say.

            He shook his head.  “I’m too late,” he whispered.  “We needed to do this while Danarius was alive--I’m too late.”

 

            The stairs creaked in complaint as one foot after the other traveled down them.  It was still somewhat early in the morning, and the pub, for the most part, was empty.  There was a handful of stragglers left behind having a breakfast of greasy sausage, watery potatoes, and oily eggs to try to clear up a leftover hangover before they drug their sorry behinds into work late, many of them rehearsing what they would say to their bosses.  The truth would be the wise thing, but a lie would sound better.

            Varric was surprised to see Fenris, sitting alone at the bar, staring forlornly into a pint of ale as if it contained all of life’s secrets.  If he drank enough, it would divulge a few of those secrets to him.

            “Why here so early?”

            “I just got back from the Chantry,” Fenris muttered.  “Sebastian is busy.  So I thought I needed a drink.”

            Varric watched him sip from the mug, and set it back down, but mostly the elf stared at it.  His eyes looked hollow, and he actually smelled like sex.  Strange—Isabela had been here all night and he had never seen Fenris.  Varric guessed it wasn’t his business if Fenris went to whores though.  Nothing wrong with that.  Frankly, he would prefer it if Fenris plowed his way through the brothel rather than abuse drugs.

            The dwarf sat down beside him.  “How many have you had?” he asked amiably.

            He shrugged a shoulder.  “Fifth one—now.  Or something.”

            The bartender, apparently having heard him, piped up, “Sixth, actually!”

            Fenris nodded to him.  “Thanks for counting,” he said with some sarcasm.

            “One of us has to—and your limit is about ten before you can’t walk, so drink it slow, elf,” he said, not in an unfriendly manner.  Fenris nodded weakly; he had spent a lot of time here, and he supposed it wasn’t out of the question that the man knew how much he could drink.

            Varric raised an eyebrow.  “Don’t you think you should slow down a bit?  It’s a bit early for that.”

            Fenris glanced at him sidelong, knowing when he was being judged.  He picked up the mug, looking away from him.  He took a long swallow and set it back down.  He stared at the mug.  “I had sex with Hawke last night.”

            The dwarf let out a low whistle.  No wonder he was drinking.  “Hell,” he swore.  “You make some shitty decisions.”  Fenris only nodded.  Varric watched him for a moment.  A fly landed on the counter, and walked across one of the elf’s fingers.  Fenris watched it, but made no move to scare it away.  He only stared at the insect as it paused at a joint in his gauntlet.  The fly flew off.  The elf sighed.  “So.  What are you going to do about it?” Varric asked, as Fenris was unforthcoming with furthering the conversation.

            He picked up the mug, raising it slightly.  “I toast to Hawke’s relationship with Anders—may Anders forgive him, and I hope they are very happy together.”

            The other was not impressed, and wondered how much of that was sarcastic.  “Are you really getting over Hawke?”

            He drank again, and set it back down, staring at him.  “I’m not; I just realized last night that even if Hawke didn’t love Anders, it won’t work between us.”  He paused.  “He called me ‘Anders’ this morning—I guess it was still dark, but ‘morning’… whatever--when I woke up—I think he was half-asleep, but you get the point.”

            Varric flinched, and nodded with sudden understanding.  “Ah.”  He paused, wondering if they should really continue this line of conversation.  He looked at his posture, judged his overall demeanor.  He considered Fenris’ rational decision to stop pining over Hawke.  No, this conversation was best left where it was.  He refused to get involved.  “So, do you mind answering this, because I’ve always wondered—when you’re in bed with another man, how do you decide who is… on top?  I mean, I’m assuming it’s Hawke; he’s taller than you.”

Fenris rolled his eyes, clearly irritated, but not at the question; at his ignorance.  “First, there’s a power struggle and one of us has to assert our dominance over the other.  You know, like dogs.”

Varric got the idea that he was being mocked.  “Is that so.”

Fenris nodded and continued, “Then, the dominant one gets to choose.  And… believe me, Varric, it isn’t awkward just because he’s taller than me.”

Varric stared at him.  “Hmm.  But don’t you… get… shit on your dick?”

Fenris smirked, and laughed softly.  “It’s best not to think about it.  But if you’re planning on sex, cleaning out is a good idea.”

The dwarf stared at him.  “I really don’t want to know.”

The elf’s smirk widened.  “Two fingers and some soap.”  He gestured to emphasize his point.  “Usually this ends in masturbation though.”  He gestured again—a familiar gesture to every male in the pub.

His hand covered his face.  “I said I didn’t want to know.”

“Now tell me how you prefer to masturbate.”

“I think I’ll be going now,” the bartender said, and found something to do at the other side of the room.  Fenris was dimly amused.

Varric, for once, was temporarily shocked and at a loss for words.  He recovered quickly, however.  “I… see.  This is more than I really needed to know about you, Fenris.  Or your sex life, for that matter.”

The elf smirked.  “One day, Varric, you’ll find yourself in bed with another man, and he will plow your ass into the mattress—“

Varric got up, turning around.  “I think we’re done here.”

Fenris continued on, “And you’ll fucking love it.  When he hits your prostate for the first time though, make sure you’re not standing, because your knees might buckle.”

Everyone in the bar who had heard laughed.  Varric rolled his eyes, shooting Fenris a nasty glare.  He heard the elf chuckle as he walked away.  Who would have ever thought that discussing masturbation and sex was a great way to get people to leave him alone.

 

            In the library, he had said.  Anders hoped that was true.  He hoped it was just the library, and not the bed he slept in with Hawke.  He walked inside, spying Orana mopping the floor.  She stopped when she noticed him, nearly dropping the mop.

            “Anders!” she exclaimed.  “Um, the floor is still wet over here…”

            “I won’t walk on it,” he promised her.  “Could you leave me alone for a minute?”

            She hesitated, and put the mop back in the bucket, and started to walk past him.

            “Orana, actually…”  She stopped, turning back toward him.  “Did you… Did Fenris come over last night?”  _He could be lying,_ Anders thought desperately.  _Fenris could be lying.  He could be trying to make me believe it._

            She hesitated.  “I never _saw_ him,” she admitted.

            He paled, just a little.  “Did you… hear anything?”

            She looked distinctly uncomfortable.  She stared down, at the floor.  “A…  A little bit…”

            He didn’t need to ask whatever she had heard.  “Oh...  Thanks, Orana.”

            The elf that used to be a slave nodded, and turned, leaving quickly.  He looked at each chair, each table.  Every surface was suspect.  Had Hawke kissed him here?  Had they undressed there?  Did it happen here?

            _Why_?

            Miserable, he sat down heavily, praying that nothing had happened in this particular chair.  He guessed it didn’t matter.

            He stared at the object, hidden in a sackcloth bag and small enough to be concealed in his coat, in his hands.  No, it really didn’t matter.  He sighed, and moved the object away, hiding it.

            On the table sat a tiny carving.  He had never seen it before, so he lifted it off the table.  It was very old, carved from a smooth, buttery wood that he assumed must be walnut.  It was carved into the shape of a dog, badly, as if the carver were new at the craft.  Or was it supposed to be a wolf?

            _Little wolf_.

            Maybe it was supposed to be a wolf.  Maybe it was Fenris’.  He rose from his seat, slipping the little figure into his bag at his belt.  He went for a long walk, back down to the docks, staring out at the sea.

            He turned, looking in the direction of the Circle Tower.

            He could just ignore all this.  He could walk away.  He could try to ignore Justice, and the wrath he felt at injustice.  He could try.  He had used to be able to.

            He could just walk away, go back to Fereldon.  The Grey Warden Commander would welcome him back with open arms.  Smile and ask him where he had been for so long, catch him up to speed on everything that was going on.  He could see it all so clearly.

            He would leave Kirkwall on the next Ferelden-bound ship.  He would make his way to the Keep.  They would ask him who he was, and he would smile and laugh, say he was a Grey Warden, explain who he was.  Nathaniel would be pleased to see him.  Sigrun would ask him to set something on fire.  Oghren would get him a stiff drink, and demand to be told the story of the Qunari invasion in Kirkwall, while grumbling about missing a good fight.  Velanna would cross her arms, and give him that famous scowl, demanding to know how he could leave her, while complaining that she knew nothing about healing.

            Maybe he would see Alistair on his next visit.  Alistair, he had to say, was by far his favourite Templar—the only Templar he had ever met that he liked, for that matter.  They had a similar sense in humor and often had each other in stitches if they were alone for too long.

            And maybe the world would keep going.  Maybe children would continue to be ripped from their parents, outcast from society.  Maybe terrified people would continue to be thrown into cages and trapped, living like animals.  Maybe they would continue to be beaten, starved, a brand pushed against their foreheads to take away everything they are and have ever been, to take away any future they might have ever had.

            Which is when he knew that even though he _wanted_ to let it go, to throw the thing he had made into the sea and forget about it, he knew he could not.

            _It’s not too late,_ he reminded himself again.

            But he stared at the Tower.  _No.  It is too late.  Too little, too late._

            _I’m so scared,_ he thought as he walked back to Hightown.

            Hawke was home when he got there, pacing in his room.  The cat slept on the rug by the fireplace.

            The apostate turned toward him.  “Anders, I have to tell you—“

            Anders wrapped his arms around him, and kissed him to silence.  He was quiet as he tugged at his clothing, every time Hawke tried to say something, he kissed him.

            Hawke finally pulled away.  “Anders, I can’t…  I need to tell you that…”

            “I don’t care—whatever you’re going to say, I don’t care,” he told him, his voice soft.  He went to kiss him again, but Hawke moved his head away.

            “You will care.  If you’d let me tell you, you’d care,” Hawke tried again.

            Anders shook his head, and kissed him, feeding magic into the kiss.  He had read about the spell in the Ferelden Circle, and _everyone_ had tried it.  He had never needed to use it on Hawke; he was always eager.  But, just this once, he wanted him to shut up and hold him, so he used the spell.

            It had been discovered by accident in somewhat compromising circumstances about two hundred years ago by a promiscuous Tevinter mage with a blood fetish.  They had discovered a non-blood magic, “safe” version, and Anders, being an over-eager teenage boy, had tried it with a couple different and just as eager girls.

            It felt good to be held, to be wanted, and loved.  It felt good to be desired, and to desire.  It was comforting, and safe, and as the spell wore off—it didn’t last long—Hawke didn’t stop.

            Anders woke two hours before dawn.  He washed off, and brushed his hair.  Hawke was asleep in bed, dead tired.  He smiled softly.  And he better be after what they had done.

            Anders dressed, and remembered the carving in his bag.  He removed it, looking at it again.  _I’m glad you won’t be alone.  If you decide to hate me for what I am going to do, I’m glad you won’t be alone.  Fenris loves you, and if you hate me, he’ll be too happy to be there for you._

            It hurt to think about, to even imagine.  But he was comforted, too.  He didn’t want Hawke to be alone.  He wanted him to be happy, more than anything.

            Anders looked at the man he loved, and with all his soul, he wanted to crawl back into bed with him.  It would be easier if he did.  He wanted to.  Just ignore all the hardship and cruelties in the world, all the injustice and the despair, and crawl back into his arms where he was happiest.

            _And that would be selfish,_ he thought to himself.  People were miserable, cold, hungry, wet, tired, terrified—and he wanted to crawl back into his lover’s embrace.

            He couldn’t do that.  He couldn’t do that anymore.  He had had a few precious, beautiful years of happiness.  He had tasted what love was like, and he knew it was horribly unfair that so many people in the world would never feel it.  So many people never had that.  He wanted to give them the chance they had never had, a chance he had almost never had.

            He leaned over the bed, kissing him softly.  He whispered, “I love you.”  He touched his hair, longing to hold him, just for another hour.

            Hawke’s eyes fluttered open, sleepy.  “Come back to bed,” he breathed.

            “I’m sorry,” he answered.  But not for not being able to come back to bed.  _I’m sorry for everything.  I’m sorry for hiding this from you, and I’m sorry I tricked you.  I’m sorry._

            “Mmm—Anders, don’t go.  I want you to stay.”

 _You have no idea how hard this is._ “I’ll see you later,” he promised him.  “I love you.”

            Hawke lifted his head, and kissed him again.  “I love you too, Anders.”  His eyes closed, and he fell back into bed.

            Anders felt his eyes water, and he took a step backwards, and was gone quickly.  He stared up at the sky.  It would be a beautiful day.  He took a deep breath, holding back the tears that threatened to spill.  He blinked it away and took his first step forward.

            _I love you, Hawke.  I’m sorry._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like Fenris has made real emotional and psychological progress. It's taken a while, but he's learned and is even seeking to correct the behaviour.
> 
> He is also learning what love is: Sacrificing your happiness for the sake of the person you love.


	98. Answers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris begins looking for answers to questions he has had for a long time, with varied results.

            It was the second best kiss he had ever received.  A nameless kiss that wiped away everything, took his breath away, made his heart race.  A kiss that was passionate and filling—No, he wasn’t a teacup filled with tea; it flowed out of him, filled his heart and soul to bursting and there was still so much left.  It was a kiss that defined the word, a standard to live up to.  Nameless, wordless communication of simple and impossible phrases.  It was an embrace that meant every word, every sentence left unsaid.  Longing, of what might have been, what could be, and what wasn’t.

            It ended, just like that.  Hawke said nothing, but pressed a small object into Fenris’ hand, and the look in his eyes was all Fenris needed to understand, yet still he felt content.  The apostate turned from him, and his chosen three companions fell into step with him.

Hawke felt Anders staring at him, distinctly unhappy.  He looked back at him.  “Will you ever forgive me?” Hawke asked him quietly.

Anders was silent for a long moment.  “I don’t have room any more to demand you beg forgiveness,” he said softly.

Hawke shook his head.  “Yes you do.”  He flinched.  “I slept with him.  I kissed him goodbye just now--and I know you’re angry.”

Anders nodded dimly.  “Yes.”  He cocked his head to the side, looking at him.  “But it was the last time, wasn’t it?”

Hawke reached his hand out toward him.  Anders hesitated, and took it.  “Yes.”

“I love you.”

Fenris looked down, at the wolf carving Hawke had handed back to him.  He sighed, pocketing the figurine.  He couldn’t believe he had forgotten it.  He also could barely believe that Anders had not decided to destroy it out of spite, but he was glad he did not.  He remembered, for a moment, every kiss he and Hawke had shared, every embrace.  His favourite of them had been the first of them.  _You always remember the first—and the last._

He felt some amount of sorrow as he watched Hawke depart, watched a brief moment of closeness between the two apostates.  Carver and Aveline followed close behind them, their twin disapprovals almost palpable, even if they were for different reasons.

Isabela looked up at Fenris.  “Are you angry that Hawke chose Anders?”

The elf shook his head.  “No.”

She cocked her head to the side quizzically.  “No?  You aren’t angry that he left you behind?”

He shook his head again, and the corners of his mouth curved into a slow smile.  “He left me here with you.”

She returned the smile in kind.

“Hey, you two lovebirds, we have incoming,” Varric called, aiming Bianca at a shade.  The bolt hit home hard, and Fenris sighed, as if this were the greatest of chores, reaching for his sword.

“I would use a different term,” Isabela commented, bringing her daggers to hand.

“It doesn’t describe our relationship,” Fenris agreed, swinging the sword down against a ravenous corpse.  The blade cleaved through bone, and smelled abominable.  He stepped quickly away from it, trying to avoid the shower of blood.

“Drinks later?” Isabela asked everyone.  There was a general chorus of agreement that drinks would definitely be needed after this.

 

            The dawn came the next day.  Fenris didn’t know why he had ever doubted.  Meredith had become… a statue of red lyrium, and the Templars, what was left of the loyal ones, tried to keep everyone away from it.  It wasn’t difficult.

            The aftermath was… tremendous.  Repairs would take years, and that was only the buildings.  So many people had died, and there had been a moment when he had held his breath when he heard people demand a purge of the alienage.  Why?  Humans made up all kinds of reasons to kill elves.  They thought there might be apostates in the alienage—true, Merrill was there.  There might even be more now, but too many innocents would die.  When humans led these “purges” they often killed anyone.  Fenris was only surprised they didn’t kill everyone.  Fenris had went to Aveline after he had been accosted on the street, demanding something be done—and soon.  He was about to start camping at the alienage door—he felt he _had_  to do something.  And it was only a matter of time before Tevinter slavers saw fleeing refugees as fodder.

            Hawke and Aveline had put a stop to the idea of a purge, and Aveline arranged patrols to watch the roads for slavers.  Fenris was happy to assist with that.  Without Aveline, Kirkwall might fall apart.  There were few people Fenris respected quite so much as Ser Aveline. 

            Many places in Lowtown were a disaster, and Hightown had fared a lot better.  Fact of the matter, the alienage had tightly shut its doors and in many ways, that had kept a lot of the looting and killing out—likely another reason for the demands for a purge.

            Fenris had completely forgotten about the letter his backstabbing little sister had sent to him.

            One foggy midmorning some weeks later, someone came by and told him that Varric had something for him.  That must be the package he was expecting.

            Shortly after Meredith’s death, he had become curious about the effects of lyrium on the body—a personal interest.  Seeing that statue had been horrifying to him.  He had asked a few Templars, and done some independent research too.  His conclusions were startling, and troubling.

            He had no doubt that his memory loss happened during the Ritual, the pain of it wiping away everything he was.  But was it only the _pain_?  It was entirely possible that it was the lyrium.  One of lyrium’s main side effects was memory loss… and madness.

            Troubled, he had decided that what he really needed right now was to learn about the Ritual.  Maybe, just _maybe_ , it would be entirely possible to remove the lyrium.  He wondered what that would be like.  What would he look like?  Would it leave scars?  Would it relieve the constant pain he felt?

            It was a pleasant daydream, an exciting one, but also kind of frightening.  It would mean he wouldn’t have the power he did now.  It would be his sword skills alone, and while he knew he was an excellent warrior, he had never had any reason _not_ to rely on the abilities the lyrium gave him.  Not having it would be… strange.

            He went down to the merchant’s guild and picked up the package from Varric directly, but didn’t stay long.  He went back home instead, and opened the brown paper containing the book.  He smirked down at the leather cover.  It was Danarius’ published piece—detailing the entire Rite.  He had to mark passages he didn’t understand, or needed clarification on.  It had been translated into the Trade tongue, which was good because he spoke Tevene fluently, but he couldn’t read it.  Much of it he really needed a mage to interpret for him all the same.

            The diagrams were easy.  It looked like Danarius had drawn up plans for a female body too.  And, as he looked at the other diagrams, he had male and female elf and human both.  He supposed that it would have depended wholly on who the magister had chosen.  Or, if Varania could be believed, who had won a tourney.  He wished there was a way to verify that.

            The book did mention previous experiments, but only briefly, and it certainly never gave name to them.  It mentioned the number of slaves who had died for it, and it made him feel sick to consider that people had _died_ so that he could live his life in pain.

            Beyond that, he really couldn’t understand the Ritual, though he did try.  He studied other forms of magic and theorem in an attempt to make any sense out of the book.  It was horribly fascinating the way watching a cart overturn was fascinating, but useless to him because he wasn’t a mage.  He could read about it, but he didn’t really understand it.

            Feeling hopeless, he finally went to Hawke about it.  Anders was there, and sat quietly in a chair, watching them as if he expected the elf to do something.  What he expected though, Fenris had no idea.  He did his best to ignore him.  “I need your help, Hawke,” Fenris confessed immediately.

            Hawke nodded, long used to hearing those words.  “Everyone does.”

            The elf glanced down at the book in his hands.  “Danarius published a book about the Ritual several years ago,” he began slowly, opening the volume.  He flipped to a marked chapter, of the diagrams.  “Varric got the book from the Imperium…”

            Hawke’s eyes widened, looking down at the diagram of the male elf.  One of his fingers touched the blue ink on the page.  Every mark on the diagram was exactly how he remembered it on Fenris’ body.  Anders looked up.  Fenris wanted to roll his eyes.  “This is--?”

            Fenris nodded.  “Yes, and I’ve read it, but I don’t really understand it—“

            The apostate pulled it from his hands, eagerly turning the pages, fascinated.  Anders rose from his chair, walking over to them.  He peered over Hawke’s shoulder curiously.  Fenris’ lips pressed into a thin line, irritated.  _Mages!_   “Oh, Maker—look at that.”  Fenris glanced at the page.  It was another diagram, this one in red ink, and was meant to be on the floor of a hexagonal room.  In real life, the diagram would have been created in someone’s lifeblood—it would have needed to be a killing blow, preferably to a major artery.

            What room did he know of that was hexagonal?  He always had assumed that the Ritual had occurred in Ath Velanis, but he couldn’t seem to actually recall a hexagonal room there.  He had certainly not been in every room in the Tower there; Danarius had only been into a few rooms.  Maybe that room was in Ath Velanis, and he had just never seen it.  How could he ever know?  He wondered if it even mattered.  Danarius’ library was actually hexagonal, if all the bookcases were gutted out of it.

            He froze, blinking as he considered.  The stained glass was leaded, filtering light and Danarius had once told Hadriana that the glass sealed spells inside the room, and also kept them out of the room.  _A dark room, fear and death heavy in the air, blood…  So much blood…_

            “But how--?  It would need to be stabilized…” Anders murmured.  Fenris was pulled from his thoughts by the mage’s words, and was, for once, not angry about it.  He shivered.

            “How did he suspend the soul…?  This is impossible…”

            “Clearly, it wasn’t,” Fenris interjected, but neither paid him any heed.

            Anders considered.  “It’s possible—look you’d have to anchor it from the Fade.  It mentions a blood link.”

            “What’s that supposed to mean?”

            “I don’t know—I’m not a blood mage.  Maybe it mentions it somewhere else in the text.”

            “Do you think we should ask Merrill about it?”

            “I hate to, but that wouldn’t be a bad idea.”

            Fenris sighed in annoyance.  “I think I’ll be going.  Let me know when you are finished with it.”  He didn’t think either of them were listening to him, but Hawke did wave vaguely when he left.

 

            Merrill had been sitting, scarcely moving except to take a sip of clear water from a crystal cup, for almost two hours.  Orana was dusting the library in the background, and Hawke and Anders were going over diagrams.

            Orana jumped when Merrill snapped the book closed.  Hawke turned toward her.

            She uncurled from the padded armchair like a cat, her bare feet slipping down to the carpeted floor.  “It’s impossible,” she said.

            Anders sighed.  “I knew it.”

            She was genuinely frustrated.  “That shemlen left things out of this book,” she said, raising the leather-bound copy slightly.  “What’s the ‘blood link’?  What’s its connection to Fenris?”  Frustrated, she dropped it down on the table.  “And how much blood was used?  It’s terrible, and I feel like something is missing from it, but I don’t know _what_.  All the pieces connect.  Everything makes sense.”  She bit her lip in thought.  “It’s perfectly put together—and that’s what’s so infuriating!”

            Anders frowned.  “What do you mean?  So much of it doesn’t make sense.”

            She rolled her eyes.  “If you had ever tried to communicate with spirits, or use blood magic, it would make sense to you, Anders,” she said peaceably.

            Hawke crossed his arms.  “So how did he suspend Fenris’ soul?”

            Merrill waved the matter off.  “The entire thing is right there,” she said.  “He explains it very thoroughly.”

            Anders was confused.  “But it’s impossible.”

            She shook her head.  “No.  When we dream, our soul wanders the Fade.  The Rite would have failed with a Qunari or a dwarf; they don’t dream.”  She paused to gather her thoughts.  “But elves do.”

            “He didn’t put him in a coma,” Anders pointed out.

            Hawke groaned.  “Fenris was in a coma for six weeks after the Ritual.  He told me.”

            Anders blinked in surprise.  “Shit.”

            Merrill nodded.  “That makes sense; Danarius induced a coma.  That’s probably why he survived.”

            Anders shook his head.  “But the _how_ of it—that’s not…”  His voice trailed off as Merrill shook her head.

            “Blood magic, in higher function, is to manipulate the minds of others,” she said slowly.  Her eyes widened a little.  “I’ve never—I’d never—“

            Hawke raised a hand.  “We know, Merrill.”

            She calmed.  “Well, I mean to say, rather than tweak Fenris’ memories or rifle through his thoughts, he induced a very deep sleep.  But that’s only the first step; he had to keep the soul where _he_ wanted it to go.  If Fenris had dreamed—and he would have—he might have died.  So Fenris’ soul had to go somewhere Danarius had already planned on him being.  He would have had to…”  She struggled for a moment.  “The second diagram, the one on page 108, that one is probably the mage’s link to the Fade.  He would have had to go into the Fade to keep Fenris’ soul in one place.”

            “That’s the blood link one,” Hawke said.  “So what’s the link?”

            Merrill shrugged.  “He never says.”  She hesitated.  “Maybe a blood relative of Fenris’, or even just someone he had an emotional bond with.”

            All three mages were quiet for a long moment.  “Is it wrong that this is fascinating?” Hawke wondered quietly, and they could not help but chuckle.

            “I’ve been wondering how he can live with all that lyrium in his skin for years,” Anders muttered.

            Hawke glanced at him sidelong.  “Not without negative repercussions; it’s why he’s curious about it, and wants to get _rid_ of it.”

            Merrill nodded.  “I don’t know very much about lyrium,” she said with some regret.  If she knew more about the substance, she would have an easier time understanding the book.  “But I do know, from the book, that Danarius was worried about sterility, memory loss, and brain function.  There was even some question of if he would wake at all.”

            “Paralysis, too,” Anders chimed in.  “There’s a fair amount of lyrium around quite a few nerves, and chakra points.  Removing it would be just as much risk.”

            Merrill nodded.  “The skin also _isn’t_ just under the lyrium,” she said slowly.  “The lyrium is burned into his skin, and the layer of skin under it is very thin, if it is even there at all, and much of the lyrium sits overtop of his nerves.”  She paused.  “It’s why he’s in pain all the time.  And also why it reacts to his mood.”

            “Well, I don’t think Fenris cares so much about being sterile, but he might care about paralysis, memory loss, and brain function,” the Champion commented.

            Anders leaned against the desk.  “I don’t think there is a way to remove the lyrium—not without killing him.  I mean, I’ve seen him get cut by a knife before in battle.  The skin around the lyrium is damaged, but the lyrium is fine—not even a cut.”  He shrugged.  “I don’t think you can just cut it out.”

            “But magic might…”

            Merrill shook her head.  “It would effectively skin him,” she pointed out.  “Burning it into him nearly killed him, but trying to remove it…  Even if it were possible, he might end up bleeding to death before we could hope to heal him.”

            Anders thought about it seriously for a moment.  “If the lyrium goes all the way to the muscle, removing it could kill him.”  He sighed.  “If we somehow found a way to remove it, it would take hours.  He’d have to stay still while we removed it piece by piece, and healed it as we went.”

            The three looked at each other.  No one liked that idea.  Fenris would probably even decline it.  The pain of having his flesh flayed from his body would be more than anyone could bear, and he would have to endure hours of it.

            Hawke looked up.  “How does his hair grow overtop of the lyrium?  There’s lyrium on the base of his skull, and behind his hairline.”

            Anders glanced at Hawke.  He had a blank expression on his face, and he raised one eyebrow.  “Well.  Have you touched any of the lyrium?  Did it feel like skin?”

            Hawke flinched.  “It…”  He thought about it.  “It did.”  They sighed, back to where they were.  “Which means…”  He flipped open the book again, hunting to a page.  “Vessels… construction…  _Here!”_   He looked up.  “Cryptic wording, but ‘lyrium carried in flesh’.  It’s poured metal, but he can’t just dump it on him and expect it to have the same effect.  I can’t cut my arm open and pump lyrium into my blood and expect it to do the same thing as Fenris.”  Hawke considered and turned the page.  “It’s a liquid.”

            “So is tattoo ink,” Anders pointed out.

            Merrill thought about it.  “When smiths melt iron and go to shape it, they have to pour it into a mold,” she said slowly.

            Hawke pointed at her eagerly.  “The lyrium still feels like skin because it’s sitting in a _mold_ made out of his skin.”

            “That is disgusting,” Anders commented.

            “It’s disgusting that someone thought it was okay to do this to someone else,” Hawke agreed.  He thought about when the lyrium was dimmest, when Fenris was calm.  It was always still visible, but that was because it would shine through anything.  “It’s not sitting on top of his skin—it just always looks like it because we can see it.”  He left out that the skin kind of felt different over the lyrium too.  “It’s why his hair can grow overtop of it—the skin is just thinner over the lyrium.”

            “It’s interesting, but it doesn’t really help us,” Anders pointed out.  He yawned.  “It’s late.”  He kissed Hawke’s cheek gently.  “Night.”

            Merrill felt herself blush, and look away.  They were so cute together like this.  It was sweet.  She found herself suddenly missing her home, her family.  She was so very tired of the alienage, with its sewer and cramped spaces.  She longed for a wide open sky, surrounded by grass and trees, completely alone without a soul for miles.

            She looked back at the pair, so safe and at home in one another’s arms.  They were home, in the place they were happiest, where they felt they belonged.

            _I want to go home,_ she thought.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is taking me so long! I really do work on it almost every day, and rest assured, I know where I want it to go. :)
> 
> That being said, thanks, guys! Readers keep me motivated. ^-^


	99. The Weight of Sin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris confronts his fears, leaving him to wonder at the difference between justice and vengeance. Isabela admits to a past wrong, prompting Fenris to consider what must be wrong with someone to cause harm to an innocent.

            The warm Tevinter sun spilled across the carpets.  Windows were open to let in a cool sea breeze, which was welcome in the heat of the summer.  The manor was quiet.  Fenris walked along the carpet, each footfall exact and almost silent.  He knew where he was, and with that knowledge came the knowledge that he was dreaming.

            He felt himself relax.  It was just a dream.  It could _only_ be a dream.  He would never see Minrathous again.  Killing Danarius wouldn’t get rid of the bounty, he was aware.  If anything, it would only go up; he was an escaped slave all the same, and he had killed two magisters, which would earn him the headsman’s axe if he were ever caught.  Danarius might have been able to alleviate the punishment for killing Hadriana, but that one chance was long gone.  It had occurred to him several days ago, and he did not regret his actions, but it made him uneasy all the same.  He would never not have a reason to run.  That was almost comforting though.  At least he knew nothing would truly change.

            He saw his hand raise, and open a door.  He felt himself pulled in, as if he didn’t have a will of his own, or perhaps something was guiding him.  He knew this room too, but the image he saw now was sharper than the one in his memory.  The wallpaper had also been changed since he had seen it last, which was odd.  Now how could he have imagined that?

            His eyes fell to the window.  It was open, and Danarius was standing in front of it.  The man turned, blinking.  It wasn’t the old man he had killed; it was the young man Fenris could never have known, but unmistakably the same man.

            “Come in,” he said, waving at him vaguely as the human stalked toward his desk.  “Don’t linger in the doorway like that.”

            Fenris hesitated, and stepped inside.  It was just a dream, after all.  He left the door open all the same.  He walked closer, stepping carefully, as if the structure might crumble at the slightest misstep.  Danarius, in contrast, sat down heavily.

            “You’re dead, Danarius,” Fenris said, feeling terribly glad to say it aloud.

            The man sat down in the chair behind his desk.  “I would have died anyway, Fenris,” he said, his voice oddly gentle, as if he were very much at peace with his own death.

            Fenris scowled.  This was not what he wanted.  He wanted Danarius to be angry and resentful of his death.  He did _not_ want him peaceful and happy.  He wanted him to suffer for an eternity.  “Of course you would have; we all die eventually.”

            The magister looked at him, his expression sad.  “I had heart problems, Fenris.  I would have given myself about five years, maximum.”

            Fenris could only stare at him.  He had thought he had killed a magister, not a dying old man.  He slumped in the chair, wanting to be angry.  Instead, he just felt vacant.  He felt oddly robbed.  Vengeance had been so sweet, and suddenly felt sour.  “Hell,” he muttered.

            “Do you want a drink?”

            He took a deep breath.  “Do I have to pour it?” he asked snidely.

            The magister shrugged a shoulder.  “It would be appreciated.”  Fenris did not miss the way he was looking at him.  Once, he would have shrunk from the stare, and wanted to hide.  Now, he glowered, and only felt indignant about it.

            Fenris could not say where the bottle and the glasses had come from, but they were there, the bottle uncorked, the glasses full.  He plucked one of the glasses off of the table and inspected the liquid inside.  It looked like wine.  It smelled like wine.  The red wine was so clear that it might have been stained glass.  Tentatively, he sipped it.  He expected not to taste anything; it was a dream.  Instead, he savored the bouquet, the rich fragrance, the way it ran down his throat.   _Southern Tevinter,_ he guessed the vintage.   _But I can’t tell if it’s Gerovassilou or even_ _Agiorghitiko.._ _.  Maybe neither?  It is just a dream._  It was… too vivid for a normal dream.

            They both sat in silence for a while, and Fenris had to ask, “Why am I here?”

            The man didn’t look at him, instead examining his wine, as if looking for imperfections.  There were none, not in a dream.  “I imagine, because I’m here.”

            Fenris frowned.  “That doesn’t make sense.”

            Danarius kind of flinched.  “Yes it does.”  He hesitated, and finally looked at him.  “I never told you the whole story, and, since I’ve nothing left to lose, I might as well tell you now.”

            If he was here now, what about the last dream he had?  Had that been as real as this?  No--no, it couldn’t be.  It just…  He looked up, watching the way the other looked at him over the rim of his glass, and suddenly felt cold.  It could have been.  But it hadn’t hurt him, not truly.  It had scared him for a little while is all.  It was just a dream, he had thought.  He shivered, as he realized that it hadn’t been entirely a dream.  He glared at him.  There were so many things he wanted to say, most of it expletives.  However, Fenris had questions that he couldn’t answer, that Danarius might be able to.  It wasn’t as though he had done anything Fenris did not think him capable of.   _And_ , Fenris thought with an inward sigh, _he hadn’t exactly done anything new either._  “Fuck you,” he whispered, staring at the wine.  Danarius had played off of his own fears, wandered into his own nightmare and made it _worse_.  “Stay out of my dreams.”

            Danarius looked at him, puzzled.  “You came _here_ ,” he pointed out.

            The elf stiffened, indignant.  “This isn’t the first time you’ve intruded on my dreams since you died,” he snapped.

            The man stared at him, clearly confused.  “Fenris, I can’t help what you dream.”

            He studied his face, trying to guess if he were lying.  Danarius had an excellent poker face, but he thought his confusion might actually be genuine.  Or that was a lie too.  He was convinced that Danarius had lied to him often.  Seheron was probably a lie too.  And that bit about his grandfather.  Maybe even the tiny bit about his mother, and his childhood--all of it was a lie to torment him!  “You’re denying what you did to me?”  He stared at him, disgusted.

            The man was unimpressed.  “I have no idea what you are talking about, elf.”

            It… really had been a dream?  It hadn’t-- _he_ hadn’t--?  “I dreamt I was chained on a ship going back to Minrathous,” he whispered.  “And you beat me, and raped me.”

            Danarius shrugged.  “I would have beaten you,” he said agreeably.  “You would have deserved it too--all the money I spent on you.”

            He had ignored that last part completely, Fenris noticed.  “And raped me after?”

            He sipped at the wine.  “Why?”

            The lyrium flared with his temper.  “Because you’ve always enjoyed doing it.”

            The mage stared into his wine glass absently.  “You don’t believe me when I say that was just your dream, do you?”

            “Why should I?”

            He shrugged.  “Fair enough.”  He did not even look up when he said, “What position were you in?”

            His eyes narrowed.  “Why do you ask?”

            “I never wanted to look at you during it.”

            Fenris looked up.  The man from his dreams had said quite the opposite.  He had implied that letting him look away had been a kindness directed to Fenris.  The Danarius before him just implied that it had never been for Fenris’ benefit, but for his own.  He was more inclined to believe that, actually; Danarius didn’t care about Fenris’ benefit.

            He frowned.  “I’ve also taken great pains in the past not to hurt you--did he?”

            Fenris flinched, and stared back at the wine cup.  “No.”

            “Then I would appreciate it if you didn’t blame me for things I didn’t do.”

            Fenris’ lips twitched into a frown.  “But you would have.”

            He stared at him.  “Beat the shit out of you, yes.  Your sister would have thrown a fit though, so even that’s debatable.”  He leaned back in the chair.  “But not personally; my heart was too bad for something like that.  Frankly, I’m surprised I didn’t have a heart attack and die _before_ you ripped out my throat.”  He looked at him.  “I’d had a heart attack only a week before you killed me.”

            Fenris didn’t even know what to say.  He had had a bad heart.  A heart attack before he had come to Kirkwall.  This wasn’t…  He felt so robbed, the sweet vengeance--what he had thought justice--taken away from him.  Like everything else.  But, he noticed, Danarius did not deny that he would have raped him; he had simply repeatedly changed the subject.  His teeth clenched.  “Why am I here?” he demanded again.  He stared downwards, angry.  “Leave me alone.”

            Danarius watched him, as if he were an insect under glass.  “You could always have not come when I invited you in.”

“You have no right to keep interfering in my life like this.”

            Danarius sighed deeply.  “You’re my slave, Fenris.  You’ve been my slave since you were three years old.”

            Fenris looked up, and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry:  He had used the present tense when he spoke.  Danarius had bound their souls together.  He felt something cold grow in his stomach.  If he died…  What would happen?  “What?” he said, cutting himself off at the first word.  Asking the entire question, and worse, the answer to that question, was more terrifying than he could put into words.

            The man only looked at him.  “You were three years old, off the ship from Seheron.  Your mother was five months pregnant with your sister.  Your father had died in Seheron.  That was about 30 years ago--or something--when I received you from the slave merchant.”

            Fenris could not even look up.  He didn’t remember that.  Of course, even if he remembered his past, who he had been before, he had been a very young child.  He likely would not remember that anyway, realistically speaking.  “Was I born a slave?” he asked quietly.

            “No,” Danarius told him.

            Fenris looked up.  “Why can’t I remember anything?”  It was a question he had asked himself for as long as he could remember.

            “You consented to that,” he said, with some unease.

            Fenris twitched.  “What?”

            “You consented.  I asked you to sell your memories, and you sold.”

            He looked down, his eyes sliding closed.  This conversation was already painful, and what he was about to say would only make it worse, but it had to be said.   “You could be lying to me.”

            “Why?”  
            He looked up again.  “Because you are cruel and sadistic.”

            Danarius sighed, and rolled his eyes.  “You don’t have to believe me if you don’t want to.  Can you read now?  I can get the contract.”

            “How can I believe any of that is true?” he demanded.  
            Danarius set his wine glass down, opening a drawer.  “If you ever want to go back to Minrathous, I’ll tell you where to find it.”

“Are you really here?” he asked him, changing the subject because this one was too painful.  How could he ever have consented to this?  Didn’t he know it would leave him empty, confused, and alone?

            “I don’t even know if it’s really you, Fenris, or a demon taking the form of a memory,” Danarius commented.  “If you’re really a demon, you are more convincing than the others.  But that’s all anything else in the Fade is.”

            “Why are you trapped in the Fade, Danarius?” he inquired, tasting the wine, trying to decide how much he could really trust him.

            Danarius stared at him, his eyes boring into his soul.  That had been a stupid question.  He was trapped there because Fenris was still alive.  He was a victim of his own ingenuity.  Fenris felt himself shiver.  If he died… would he be his slave here too?  He couldn’t…  “I’m trapped here until either you or Shaislyn dies.”

            “Shaislyn?” Fenris asked.  He hadn’t heard that name in a long time.  What did that little brat have to do with anything?

            “He is the bridge between both of us,” he said placidly.  He hesitated.  “He is your nephew, Fenris.”

            That, if nothing else, proved to Fenris that he could not have made this up.  It was too farfetched for his imagination, and just likely enough to be true.  “Varania’s son?” he said, his voice coming out a whisper.  All the things Shaislyn had said tumbled through his mind.   _My mother didn’t care about me much.  Mama was raped._

            “Yes,” Danarius said slowly.  “And mine.”

            Fenris looked up, and felt his rage boil.  “You…  Not just me, but her too?” he growled.  His teeth ground together.  “You…”  There weren’t any words he could say.

            “Varania forgave me.  So did Shaislyn.  Why are you angry about it?  You don’t even like Varania.”

            He didn’t know why it made him so angry, but he was outraged.  But at least he knew that it wasn’t a dream, not exactly.  At least he knew it really was Danarius sitting across from him, removing a document from a drawer and placing it on the desk.  At least he knew he could not have made this up.  Yet, it all seemed so obvious, didn’t it?  Shaislyn looked familiar to him because he looked a lot like Danarius.  He wondered how he could not have seen it before.  They even made some of the same facial expressions.  “You’re a monster,” he whispered, echoing the words Shaislyn had screamed that day in Seheron.

            “You think so?  People can say the same of you, pet.”

            Fenris looked back at him, his eyes narrowing.  “Call me that again, and I’ll kill you again.”

            “How?” he demanded.

            The elf wasn’t sure.  He had been to the Fade before, and killed demons, or what he assumed was death to them.  But could he kill a trapped soul?  He wasn’t sure, but he would not lament the attempt.  Moreover, this was a dream.  He wasn’t here the same way he had been before.  And he was only _here_ because Danarius had let him come, he was certain.  Fenris did not answer, but smoldered all the same.  He would figure it out, he decided.

            Danarius pushed the document across the desk, towards him.  “You couldn’t read at the time, but this is the document you signed; you can have a look at it.”

            Fenris picked it up, taking his time to look over it.  The legal jargon in it made his head spin, but he could still understand the gist of it.  Towards, the end, he became angry.  “You manipulated me,” he said, the memory coming to him of when-- _and how_ \--his master had offered the deal.  He cringed, his stomach twisting.  “You offered my family money so they could get out of Minrathous to achieve your own ends.”

            Danarius was unfettered.  “A merchant also sets the price to achieve his own ends, but you don’t accuse them of manipulation, do you?”

            “This is _nothing_ like that,” he slammed the document down on the desk, rising angrily to his feet.  He threw the cup of wine.  It went past Danarius, hitting the wall behind him.  The man barely blinked when it shattered, the vintage splattered against the wallpaper.  It dripped down the walls like blood, pooling on the polished hardwood amidst shards of broken glass.

            “Fenris,” he said, his voice taking on that no-nonsense tone that made the elf stop.  “Calm down.”  Slowly, he sat back down.  “You had a product.  I wanted the product.  So I bought it.  Your family took the money, and put it to good use; they needed it.”

            He fumed, his jaw clenched.  “Why?” he asked once he trusted himself to speak again.  He was getting all the answers he had ever wanted.  If he got angry now, he may never get another chance.

            Danarius looked at him, his eyes the most compassionate Fenris had ever seen them.  “I think you would have died if I hadn’t.”

            Fenris looked down at his hands, watching the glow of the lyrium.  “Did I really want this?”

            The magister shrugged a shoulder.  “No one forced you to enter the tourney to get them.”  He frowned.  “But, I suppose, pet, if you knew you were going to be a slave all your life, wouldn’t you prefer to become something… more?”

            The lyrium flared with his temper.  “I’m not your pet,” he hissed, rising from his seat with malicious intent.  “And I told you--”

            “Daddy?” a voice asked from the doorway.  Fenris stopped, and looked back toward the door.  A little girl, her hair in blonde ringlet curls, peered at the two from the doorway.  Fenris looked back at Danarius, who had walked around the desk.  Watching the little girl run toward him seemed oddly serene, and he felt strangely powerless watching him lift the child off of her feet, watched her little pudgy arms wrap around his neck.  He held her close for a long moment.

            Fenris watched them, his eyes judgmental.  “Is she a demon?” he asked curtly.

            Danarius’ eyes narrowed, then he sighed, defeated.  “I don’t know.  Probably.  Or maybe she’s just another lost soul--I don’t know.”  But he held on to her all the same, his eyes closed.  “This was all I ever wanted,” he whispered.  “My daughter, and Roschelle.”

            The elf slowly sat back down, and looked away.  It was a false fantasy, but let him have it, he supposed.  He sighed.  The girl leaned away, looking at Fenris.  “Who is he?” she asked.  Her eyes were a soil brown colour.

            “No one.  Forget about him, darling.”  He set her down.  “You look lovely.  Go show Mommy your new dress, okay?”

            “‘Kay!” she said.  She started to run back out the door and stopped.  She turned around, her curls bouncing.  “I love you, Daddy.”

            “I love you too, sweetie.”

            Fenris rubbed his temples, as if he were in pain.  “When I wake up, I’m going to vomit.”

            Danarius leaned against the desk, facing Fenris.  “Really.”

            Fenris looked up at him.  In the past, he had hated and feared looking up at him, because of how Danarius would treat him when he did.  He looked so much younger than Fenris had ever known him.  He decided not to answer.  “She’d be older than that, you know,” he pointed out.

            He cocked his head to the side a little.  “I like her at this age.”

            “You’re older than that too.”

            “Age is relative, especially in the Fade.”  Fenris looked at his hands, back at the lyrium, gently pulsating.  “She’d be about your age now, actually.”

            Fenris looked up, peering at him quizzically.  “Is that why you are so cruel to me?  Because I lived, and she died?”

            Danarius stared at him, and he looked pained.  “Yes.  And because Leto looked like… someone else.  And because you had everything I wanted.  You had your family, and I didn’t.  You were my slave, and you weren’t half as miserable as I was.”

            Fenris’ fingers clenched.  “So you took it away from me.”

            “Yes,” he admitted.  The elf stared at him.  He thought it odd that he wasn’t angry about it.  Rather, he felt oddly appeased--at least he knew now.  So many questions he had had over the years, answered.  He hoped he remembered all of this when he woke.  “I didn’t want you to be a martyr, and that’s what you were, Fenris.”

            He looked away, staring straight forward.  “Because everything I did, I did to help my mother and sister.”  Varania’s betrayal had stung when he didn’t know her.  It was worse now.  How could she?  He had done everything in his power to free her, and she just goes back to the man that raped her?  Why?  He remembered what she had told him as he left, that freedom had not been a release.  But he had still tried, hadn’t he?  She had said their mother had died, that she had struggled since then.  But hadn’t he tried?  Hadn’t he done everything in his power and more?

            He understood, now, why Danarius had not wanted him to remember.  It was logical--horribly, maniacally, sadistically logical.  If he had remembered, he would have done everything he could to protect Varania.  Begged and pleaded and wouldn’t care what the man did to him for any news at all about her.  He thought about the contract.  And he would have been, quietly, forever satiated because he knew that he had done everything in his power to get his family away from Danarius.  He imagined Varania, lost and alone in a world she could barely survive in, their mother dead and her brother long gone, trying to raise a son she didn’t love.  Of course she had been easily seduced by Danarius’ promise.

            “Varania…” he whispered.  How could he ever tell her that he understood?  He didn’t agree with her, but he understood.  Would he have done anything different, in her place?  If the roles were reversed and he was alone, Liberati and with a child, could he have done any better?  He liked to think so, but he didn’t know.  Why hadn’t she just told him?  Why couldn’t she have just told him how hard it had been?  Why hadn’t she just talked to him?   _I wouldn’t have cared_.   _If it’s my freedom, or her struggle, I would choose…_ It’s not selfish, is it?

            She could not have just left Tevinter if being Liberati was difficult; she would be arrested for crossing borders illegally, and worse, she was a mage; she would be taken to a Circle.  And the child?  He didn’t know.

            “Fenris…?” the magister inquired, reaching toward him, his fingertips just brushing his arm.  Fenris wheeled out of the chair, away from his touch.  The man’s hand fell away.

            “Don’t touch me,” he snapped.

            He crossed his arms.  “You looked troubled.”

            “Was all it took an offer to be your apprentice?  Was that it?” he asked.

            Danarius laughed.  “If only it had been so easy,” he said, shaking his head.  Fenris felt relieved to hear it.  “Shaislyn had to beg her, and even then, she almost backed out at the last minute.”  He paused.  “But she and I came to another agreement, and this is why she consented.”  He moved back behind the desk, and removed another document.  He offered it to Fenris.  The elf snatched it, and looked over it.  He slowly sat back down as he understood what it meant.

            “You were going to free me,” he whispered, and wanted to cry.  He had never even guessed…  His mouth felt dry, which was silly because he was dreaming.  He looked at the second page.  Real freedom.  Not a runaway, but a Liberati.  His sister would be a magister, and would have given him anything, he realized with a growing sick feeling.  But it would come at a very high cost.  He shivered as he remembered that dream of the ship, of what had happened.  That would have been a reality, even if it were only part of it.   He tore it in half, and threw it back at him, shaking with his wrath.  The papers drifted lazily to the floor and the desk.  “You wanted to take everything away from me all over again, enslave me, and then grant me my freedom when it doesn’t mean anything.  I would hate Varania anyway.”

            Danarius stared at him, and shook his head slowly.  He walked to him, his hand slid against his cheek.  Fenris stared at him, wondering why he let him do it.  “Pet.  I had every intention of erasing your memories again; you wouldn’t have remembered that she betrayed you.  It would have been easier on you and she both.”

            He wanted to argue, tell him how much he hated him or how much he had enjoyed killing him.  How could he just say something like that?  How could he make something so awful sound so casual?  He didn’t know why he was so surprised.  He shouldn’t be.  He pulled away from his touch, crossing his arms angrily.  “Don’t _touch me_ ,” he hissed lividly.  “I’ve had enough of you touching me.”

            Danarius raised an eyebrow.  “Could you blame me?  Why don’t you spend twenty years agonizing over something and obsessing over it, and then finally finish it--and it’s perfect, and beautiful, and everything and more that you thought it could be.  Then you try not wanting to touch it and admire it at every opportunity.”

            “I’m not an object,” he said with venom.

            “I never said you were, pet.”  His finger touched the vein of lyrium by his lips, running down his neck.  Fenris visibly flinched.  “Maker, but you’re beautiful.”  The lyrium glowed at his touch, responding obediently, the way it was designed.  What did that mean?

            Fenris stepped back, away from him, well out of reach.  He shivered, trying to shake the feeling of his hands on him.  “You raped me before you did this to me too.”

            “You were lovely then too.”  He paused.  “Did you think it was very cruel of me?”

            “I don’t see how it _wasn’t_ cruel,” he countered.

            Danarius frowned.  “You’re my slave.”

            As if that was a reason for every atrocious thing he had ever done to him.  Fenris stared down at the floor.  Maybe it was.  Danarius thought nothing of slavery; he had been around slaves his entire life.  Why should he have ever thought differently?  He thought of all the scathing remarks he could say, how much he wanted to yell and scream and berate him.  “I’m leaving,” Fenris said instead, walking toward the door, pulling away from him.  “It’s been very… informative.”

            “I’m not finished,” the magister said, and the door closed.  Fenris stood, wondering if he tried to open it, would it budge?  Could he phase through it?  He looked back at him.  He wasn’t trapped exactly.  If he woke up, that would be all there was to it.  He wasn’t trapped here.

            Fenris’ eyes closed.  “What are you going to do to me, Danarius?”

            “Sit back down, pet.”

            He slowly turned around, but stayed rooted to the spot.  “No.”  He stared at his face, as if in rebellion.

            Danarius raised an eyebrow.  “Do you really want to do this, Fenris?”

            The other’s confidence wavered.  He looked down.  “No.”  He tentatively looked back up.  “Just let me go.  You and I both know that I have to come back eventually.”  He flinched at that.  “Just let me go.”

 

            Fenris’ eyes opened.  He rolled, and sighed.  It was impossible to say if he actually had let him go, or if he had only woken up.  Maybe a combination of the two--who could tell?

            Sleeping was becoming terrifying, and because of his tendency to talk in his sleep, to glow, and thrash, he didn’t want to sleep with Isabela.  He just made up excuses about it, saying he needed to leave if they were out somewhere together and never letting her stay over.  It was better that way, he tried to tell himself.

            Shaislyn though…  He had never even imagined…  He had to know if it were true.  How?  He would have to find him first.  Shaislyn might even know and be able to confirm if the rest were true.  If Shaislyn would even help him.  Danarius had hinted that Shaislyn had been in favour of Fenris’ capture, and had begged his mother to consent.

            “My nephew,” he muttered.  And he had tried to kill him.  He closed his eyes.  No wonder the kid hated him.  If Varania blamed him for how sour her life had gone, Shaislyn might blame him too.  And Shaislyn had seen what had happened with the Fog Warriors.  He didn’t think the boy would help him, to be honest.  Worse yet, Fenris could barely blame him.

 

            At a loss, Hawke had agonized over that book and researched and had come to no real conclusions.  Merrill had been a good person to go to, and she had provided some valuable insight, but it still felt like things were missing.  He understood _how_ it worked, in theory, but he didn’t really understand _why_.

“Do you know if Danarius happened to experiment on anyone else… before you?” Hawke asked hesitantly.

“No, the book mentions experiments, but--”  Fenris stopped.   _Vairin._  “I think there is.”  He groaned.  “But he’s a slave in the Imperium.  Worse, he’s completely mad.”

Hawke blinked.  “Why does his master tolerate him being mad?”

He shrugged noncommittally.  “He just doesn’t talk--he can; he just doesn’t.  And he doesn’t really need to speak to work, I suppose.”  Fenris frowned in thought.  Who else would know?

“Do you think he has more complete notes to this?  An… unabridged version?  Or was this supposed to be read in conjunction with another book?”

Fenris began to say no, as he had never seen any such thing, then paused.  Annalkylie had mentioned, briefly, that she had read those notes.  “Actually…  He did have notes about it.”

Hawke brightened, then stilled.  “In Minrathous, I bet.”  He sighed deeply.  “But it exists--that’s something.”

Fenris shook his head.  “Agasius…  Ah, that’s Danarius’ nephew—his heir--he wasn’t a mage actually; he might have sold the notes, or even had them destroyed.”

Hawke’s lips pressed into a thin line.  “Who’d be the most likely buyer?”

Fenris did not even think about it before he responded, “Either the Imperial Chantry, or the Archon, I imagine.”  More people than that had been interested in the Ritual, but those were the two that had pursued Danarius the most for information about it.

Hawke’s hopes fell.  Getting those notes would be impossible.  “You sure you don’t know anyone who might have copied them, or at least studied them?”

Fenris hesitated.  “I… might.  I don’t know if she’s still alive though--I haven’t seen her since…”  He stopped, remembering a girl of fourteen summers, grinning and making him promise not to breathe a word of her existence.  “When Seheron was attacked, she never made it out of the city with the magisters…  But I know that her body was never recovered; she might still be alive.”

Hawke hesitated.  “That’s a long shot.  What are the odds Varania knows anything?”

“If I wasn’t so opposed to contacting her again, it’s not impossible.”

Hawke cocked his head to the side.  “Who’s the other girl?”

He let out a noisy sigh.  “Danarius’ niece.”

Hawke raised his eyebrows in surprise.  “I’m surprised you even consider her an option.”

Fenris shrugged a shoulder dismissively.  “ _She_ was never cruel to me.”  He sighed.  “Looking back on it, she tried to convince me to run away from Danarius.”  He laughed without joy.  “I should have.”

“Would that have even been possible?”

He considered that day, the way the wind had been blowing, and the overcast sky.  “No,” he decided.  “She would have been, at worst, executed for treason--I would have been punished, severely.”  He paused.  “Andthey _would_ have caught us.”

“‘Us’?” Hawke wondered.

Fenris nodded dimly.  “She was trying to escape from a bad marriage.”

“Seheron is your only clue?” the mage pressed.

Fenris lied, “Yes.”

He shook his head.  “I’ll ask Varric to do some digging.”  He groaned.  “This is going to be expensive.”

Fenris flinched.  “Sorry…  I’ll pay you back.”

Hawke laughed.  “You’re a walking stereotype,” he teased him.  He shook his head a little.  “You’ve been a good friend.”

            “Hardly, but if you say so.  Do you want company down to the Hanged Man?”  What was left of it anyway—alcohol was apparently an important commodity in crisis.  They had rebuilt it enough to be useable, but little else.

            “It’d be nice.”  Fenris fell into step beside Hawke.  “What parts are missing?”

            Hawke frowned.  “There’s a second diagram, really similar to that hexagonal one—but the text makes almost no mention of it or what it’s for—it’s really disturbing.  Merrill said it has to do with the ‘blood link’ but I can’t find anything in the text about the ‘blood link’.  He left out huge portions of the spell.  I’m amazed they let him publish anything.”

            Fenris considered.  Could it be Shaislyn?  Danarius had mentioned…  “Do you think it’s possible that large portions could have gone missing either in transit, or were lost when it was translated?”

            “It’s not impossible,” Hawke conceded.  “I think the translation error is more likely.”  He sighed.  “Which means we really need to get a hold of one of the Tevinter ones.”

            Fenris made a face, vaguely irritated.  “The language is actually called ‘Tevene’.”

            Hawke blinked, looking at him.  “Oh.  I just thought it was called ‘Tevinter’.”

            The other was unimpressed.  “Happen to know anyone who can read Tevene?”

            “ _Maybe_ Sebastian?” Hawke hazarded a guess.  “That’s not really an option any more though.  I guess I can always find _someone_ …”

            Fenris shrugged.  “I can try to figure it out—it’s been a while, but I do know the language at least, and so does Orana,” he added.

            “I always forget the Trade tongue isn’t your first language,” Hawke commented.

            The elf kind of smirked.  “You should have heard me when I first started speaking it.”  He chuckled.  “My accent was terrible.”

            “Can you do an impression of it?”

            Fenris considered, and looked back at Hawke.  “No, it’s really completely gone,” he said, in the thickest Tevene accent he could muster.

            “That was amazing.”  Hawke laughed.  “Oh, I love it.  Do it again.  Say something else.”

            “Oh, Maker…”  Hawke goaded him all the way to Lowtown, and Fenris decided to counter this by speaking _only_ in Tevene.  Hawke alternately thought it was funny, and thought it was annoying.  It was nice that Anders had to lift his clause on Hawke and allowed him to spend time with Fenris.  He knew nothing could ever come of it, but he did like spending time with the elf.  Anders had not liked it, but given everything, he no longer worried.

            Varric and Isabela were at a table, swapping stories and laughing about something.  The other two came in and sat down.  “Would it be possible to get another copy of that book you got for me, this time in Tevene?” Fenris asked, and his accent, for once, was much more noticeable than he had intended.

            Isabela laughed, hard.  Varric was only surprised.  The elf sighed deeply, scowling at Hawke.  “What was that?” Isabela asked.  “No—was that your Imperial accent?  Oooh, I like it.”

            “I blame Hawke,” Fenris muttered, swiping her ale off the table and downing the contents.  He handed the empty cup back to her.  She scowled.

            “I was making him speak in Tevinter—“  Fenris shot him a scowl. “Er—Tevene--all the way here--making sure he still remembered it.”  Hawke sighed.  “I think large portions of that book are missing.  I’d really like a _Tevene_ copy so we can figure it out.”

            Varric groaned aloud.  “Hell, Hawke.  Do you know what finding that was like?  Maker.  Fine.”  He shook his head.  “I’ll get my guy on it.  Anything else?”

            Hawke shifted.  “Actually…”

            Fenris cleared his throat.  This time without the heavy accent, “Any information you could find about Annalkylie Danarius—his niece—would be appreciated.”

            Varric frowned.  “Why—Fenris, you aren’t going to try to kill her, are you?” he asked, suddenly alarmed.

            He shook his head.  “No—I have no reason to, other than that she’s a mage.”  He frowned.  “But if I’ve tolerated Hawke for this long, I suppose I can endure.”

            Hawke punched him lightly in the shoulder.  Fenris smirked.  “Anything you can tell me about her?” the dwarf wondered.

            Fenris hesitated.  “The Qunari attacked on her wedding day.  She never made it out of the city with the magisters, _but_ no one ever found her body either, or heard from her,” he added quickly.  “Blonde hair, blue eyes, Altus bloodlines.”

            “What’s ‘Altus’?” Isabela wondered.

            Fenris groaned inwardly.  “There are several different social classes in the Imperium…”

            “Never mind,” she said quickly.

            Fenris was grateful not to have to explain it; it became complicated, and he didn’t think outsiders would really understand it very well.  These days, he considered himself to be a Kirkwaller more than Imperial; he had been here about as long as he had lived in Minrathous, come to think on it.  And he had been much happier here.

            “So… Fenris, she was last seen _where_ exactly?”

            The elf blinked.  “Sorry—in Seheron; it was the night I…  escaped, during all the mayhem.”  He glanced away, then quickly back.  Annalkylie had escaped that night too somehow.  “The last I saw her was in the great hall, in the castle in Seheron City.  She just… seemed to disappear.”

            Varric frowned.  “Kidnapping?”

            He shrugged.  “I imagine the Magisterium thought so.”  He hesitated.  “She was betrothed to the Archon’s son, married him only hours before.”

            “Poor dear died a virgin,” Isabela mused.

            He glanced at her.  “We don’t know if she’s dead,” he reminded her.  He shook his head a little.  It would be so much easier if he wasn’t bound by a stupid obligation not to mention that he knew she had been bound for Orlais.  He hesitated.  “She had once mentioned that she had always wanted to see the world—was always talking about wanting to travel.  She… mentioned Orlais, specifically.”

            “If she did get away, why not go home?” Hawke wondered, brow furrowed.

            Isabela shrugged.  “She saw an opportunity for adventure, and she took it.”

            Fenris was glad that Isabela had come to that conclusion on her own.  “Maybe she did go home,” the elf said instead.  “I don’t know.”

            Varric sighed, and nodded.  “I’ll see what I can find.”

            They got to talking of other things—women, sex, funny stories.  They drank as they talked, and somewhere their conversation drifted to the numerous stupid things each of them had done in the past.

            “When we were kids, Carver had this girlfriend—I knew she was crazy, but this takes the cake:  She didn’t want him hanging out with _Bethany_ because, and I quote ‘I don’t want you around other girls’.  I told him to get rid of her—I mean Bethany is our sister--but what does he do?”  Hawke laughed.  “He has sex with her, then she gets _even more_ crazy.”

            Isabela shook her head.  “Sex with crazy people is often the best kind,” she said enthusiastically, and winked broadly at Fenris.  He made a face.  “Not usually worth the baggage though.”

            Varric shot Isabela a judgmental look.  She shrugged.  He glanced back at Hawke, shaking his head.  “You _never_ stick your dick in crazy, Hawke.”  Then he laughed.  “And what do you do?  You stick your dick in two of the craziest people I know!”  
            Fenris scowled.  “I appreciate the vote of confidence, Varric.”

            Hawke could only smile and shake his head.  “In my defense, they’re both cute.”  Fenris glanced away.

            “Someone is clearly thinking with their smaller head,” Isabela said amiably.

            “I don’t deny it.”

            To change the subject, the pirate said, “Did any of you ever play that knuckle-coin game?”

            “Where you hit someone’s knuckles repeatedly by tossing coins at them?  Yes, I played that when I was a kid,” Varric said with a laugh.  “Bloody knuckles at the end of it.”

            “I never played anything like that,” Hawke commented.  “Poor farming village—we didn’t have coins to flick at each other.”  Isabela and Varric both laughed.  The mage gestured as he spoke.  “When I was a kid, we played this game where everyone would stick their hands in a pile, and the person with their hand at the bottom of the pile would swing a stick down—“  He mimicked this with both hands.  “—As hard as they could.  The object of the game was to make the stick-swinger hit their own hand.”

            “Why?” Fenris had to ask.

            “Because kids do stupid things,” he said, as if it were obvious.

            “Why aren’t we playing this right now?” Isabela asked, half-jokingly as she swallowed another mouthful of ale.

            Hawke shrugged.  “All right, but everyone takes their gloves off or this isn’t fair.  Isabela, you can swing the stick first.”  They went over the rules a couple of times, as not a one of them was completely sober.  Their extra rule was whoever got their hand smacked had to finish their drink and buy the next round, ensuring that whoever was losing continued to lose.  Fenris was accused of cheating on more than one occasion—the alcohol, combined with the alarm of getting his hand smacked with the small wooden rod was enough to make him phase, even accidentally, and the stick would just pass right through it.

            They played for a while, getting louder all the time, and each of them had bruised knuckles by the time Hawke left.  Isabela left with Fenris, and stayed for a sleepless night.  In the morning, they took a bath together, and were discussing walking to a nearby bakery for breakfast.

“I got a ship,” Isabela said conversationally with a rueful grin.

“From that slaver, I remember.”  Fenris nodded, quietly displeased that they had not just killed the man.  “Are you leaving soon?”

She sighed.  “No.  It got damaged a bit when Meredith lost her bloody mind.  It needs repairs--and they’re expensive.  It’ll still be a while longer, I suspect.”  She stared up at the ceiling.  “But, when she’s done, do you want to come with me?”

He looked at her, and was at first inclined to say yes.  After all, he had had a good enough time with the smugglers, until the end anyway.  “To where?”

She grinned.  “Anywhere.  Everywhere.  Wherever we want to go.”

 _Freedom_.  True freedom; that was what that ship meant to Isabela.  But was that what it meant for him, or would it be a way to shackle him to the sea?  What was freedom, anyway?  An ideal?  A concept?  “I’m not sure.”

“It’s not like I’m proposing marriage,” she said matter-of-factly.

He snorted a laugh.  “I’ve had some bad run-ins on the sea, and you don’t exactly have a perfect track record.”

Isabela laughed.  “Like what?  What run-ins?  Why is this the first I’ve heard about it?” she demanded.

His lips pulled into a lopsided smile--an expression she thought made him look cute.  He always looked _good_ to her, but not always _cute_ , like a puppy was cute.   _Oh, no,_ she thought with dread.   _No, no, no.  He’s a friend--that’s all._  “It’s never come up in conversation.”

“I told you the whole story about how _Siren’s Call_ wrecked--the whole damned thing.  And you didn’t think to mention any of your ship troubles?”

“Wasn’t my ship,” he pointed out.  “But we were caught in a storm, and the mast broke.”

Isabela whistled.  “Hell.”

He nodded in agreement.  “Exactly.”

She cocked her head to the side.  “And?”

He blinked.  “Well, that’s how I ended up in Kirkwall,” he said, cutting out everything that had happened between that moment and meeting Hawke.

One of her eyebrows rose.  “Really, now?  Something you’re not telling me?”

He stared at her.  “Yes.  But there’s always something you’re not telling me.”

She smiled.  “No, come on.  What happened?”

He made a face, and said, “I was caught by the bounty hunters--they had been chasing us.  Good news is, the smugglers and I didn’t die.”  He made a face.  “They almost got me all the way back to the Imperium, but they had a run-in with pirates on the way back, and I got away.”  He hesitated.  “I… did some things I’m not particularly proud of, in retrospect.”

Her demeanor softened.  “We all do.”

He raised an eyebrow.  “It’s not killing them that I regret, exactly.”  He stopped, and looked down.  “Two of them were lovers.  When I killed one of them, the other stopped fighting me and went to him.  And when I killed him too, I pulled him away from his lover, and let them die out of one another’s arms.  Why would anyone do something like that?”

She looked at him.  “You were angry, Fenris.  They were slavers, and taking you back to Minrathous.”

“They were bounty hunters, that’s all.”  He shook his head.  “I tortured a child.”

“ _What_?” she demanded.

He looked at her.  “I think he was about eighteen--still a kid, really.  And I tortured him.”  He paused.  “I cut off his fingers, promised him I’d let him go when he told me what I wanted to hear.”  He laughed.  “I don’t even think it was the truth; he was in pain and panicking.”  He flinched.  “He had sisters in Minrathous.  I had killed his father at Danarius’ orders years before.  What did I _do_?”

“You killed him?” Isabela asked quietly.

“Yes,” he whispered.

She looked at him; it was long before they had met, and many years ago besides.  They all made mistakes, everyone did things that they were not proud of.  “Back before Kirkwall, I wasn’t… quite the pirate I brag I was.”

He raised an eyebrow inquiringly.  “Oh?”

She made a face.  “I was… in debt to the Felicisima Armada.”  Fenris was dubious.  “Ships are expensive, and I have to pay dues to the Armada--so anyway, I was in some pretty steep debt, between the crew, the Armada, and ship maintenance.”  She sighed.  “So when I was in Denerim…”  She flinched.  “I did some things that are… illegal.”

He laughed.  “What kind of illegal?”

She stared at him.  She wasn’t laughing.  He wondered, with a sickening feeling, what activities she meant.  “Loghain was conducting slave trafficking, and sold many of the elves from the alienage to the Imperium to fund the war effort.  The Armada wanted a piece of the pie, as it were, and I was in debt.”

All the blood drained from his face.  “But… you said…”

She stared at him, unflinching.  “We were sailing away from Denerim, and an Orlesian ship saw us and gave chase.  We couldn’t get away; _Siren’s Call_ was too heavy.”  He didn’t like where this was going.  Not at all.  “I had to go back to Denerim later on.”

“Don’t tell me any more,” he whispered.   _While I can still pretend that this is the group of slaves you freed_.

She was quiet for a long time.  She rose, unflinching.  “They never made it to the Imperium.  And you can make whatever you will of that, but I am not proud of what I had to do.”  He looked up at her.  The question rested in his throat, a cold lump of fear:   _What had she done?  What had she done to outrun that Orlesian ship?_  “Goodbye, Fenris,” she said softly.

The world wasn’t the way anyone wanted it to be.  People thought of as friends could just as easily be foes.  There was no such thing as a “good person” or a “bad person”, he was beginning to realize.  He liked Isabela, admired her even.  And yet she had done terrible things.  What had she really done when she freed the other group of slaves?  Was that a lie too?  What had she done?

 _No,_ he thought.   _What have_ I _done?  Have I killed people, people who were just victims of circumstance like that boy I tortured?_  He knew he had.  Each person he had met weren’t good or evil; they were just people.  Whatever had gone on in their lives to lead them to one decision or another, he wasn’t the person to judge them.  He still believed that slavery was wrong, and he hated slavers, but how many of them only saw it as a job--maybe a job they didn’t like, but that wasn’t uncommon.  Maybe it was all they could do.  Sure, there were probably plenty of them who genuinely didn’t care, or thought nothing of it.  Was that even their fault, or was it society’s, for teaching them that it was all right, that it wasn’t wrong?  What happened to a person to make them see someone else as less than they are?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately, I didn't make that part up about Isabela. I read it in the Codex (under Siren's Call, if anyone wants to look it up). It's a thing. I can't say I was too surprised that she never talks about it in the game. Her guilt over it might be part of her inspiration to free the other group that she actually talks about, but the Codex is very, very clear that she made the decision to throw them overboard. :(
> 
> But when I read it, I knew I had to mention it.
> 
> On another note, psychologically speaking, yes, there's something wrong with you if you have no compunctions about doing harm to others. It's kind of been a big, background theme of this story. Among many other psychological themes and whatever. Morals. Lying to people to make them happy, and repercussions for deception. That vengeance isn't justice (Anders, I'm looking at you). That people aren't evil. That people that believe they are doing the right thing are often more dangerous than people that know what they are doing is wrong.


	100. Masquerade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All life is a masquerade, parading the face we think others want to see, or the one we want others to see. Fenris contemplates leaving Kirkwall.

Hawke came home to the vinegar smell that meant Orana had been cleaning the floors.  She did such a good job that the dark woods reflected the room like the surface of a lake.  He really didn’t know what they had done before her.

He was a bit surprised when Bodahn told him that Merrill was wanting to see him, and was still in the library if he had a moment.

Hawke hesitated, and changed clothes before he went down there.  He wandered down the stairs, and asked for a glass of sherry.  He found Merrill in the library, asleep with an atlas in her lap.

“Merrill?” he called gently.                                              

The elf jerked awake, the book falling to the floor.  She blinked slowly.  “Oh, no!  I’m so sorry!”  She scooped up the volume.  “I didn’t mean…  Oh…”

He smiled, taking the book from her.  He set it down on the table.  “It’s fine, Merrill—really.”  He leaned against the table.  “Are you all right?”

She shrugged a shoulder.  “I’m all right.  Are you?”

He nodded.  “All right,” he answered.  He tilted his head slightly.  “Make any progress on that mirror?”

She sighed.  “Sometimes, I just want to smash it.”  She laughed to herself at the idea.  “Actually, I wanted to ask you about the mirror.”

He was not terribly surprised; she had asked for help many times over the years regarding that mirror that held no reflection.  After what happened last time, though, he had thought she would not ask again.  “Do you need help with anything?”

She hesitated.  “I can’t bring it with me when I leave.”

His eyebrows rose.  “Where are you going?”

Merrill’s gaze fell to the atlas beside him.  “We aren’t safe in the alienage, and we are going to leave after—what was it called?  Wintersend,” she began.  She hesitated, looking back at him.  “The alienage was never really home to me, but I would feel… more like I was home if I go with them.”

Hawke paused, wondering what she meant.  “I thought you couldn’t return to the Dalish.”

“I have no intent to.”

He frowned.  “And the mirror?”

She shook her head in despair, but an old one; she knew defeat when she saw it, and she knew when it was time to give up the fight.  “I’ll never get that thing to work.  I’ve been trying for years, and I’ve been thinking—a lot actually—about what happened to the Keeper, and what happened to Orseno and the rest of the Circle.”  She paused.  “So would you take the mirror?  Please—I don’t know what to do with it, and I don’t want…”

Hawke breathed in relief.  “I’m proud of you.”

She looked up at him.  “Really?”

He nodded.  The relief he felt was overwhelming.  It was heartwarming to think of Merrill going back to her old life—a life of family and friends, freedom.  Over the years, he had watched her.  When they had met, she had been so full of life.  She had seemed sad and lonely, but hopeful and bright, like a flower.  Away from the sunlight and open air, in a filthy alienage, she had withered.  Now, he hoped she would bloom again.  “I’m glad to see you going home—well, whatever.  You know what I mean.  Is there anything else I can help you with?  I’ll take the mirror if you want me to, but is there anything else I can do?  Where will you go?”

She smiled warmly.  “We will probably stay in the Free Marches.  For a while at least,” she promised.  “I know where to start.”

He asked her when she would be leaving her apartment.  She confessed that her home had been partially destroyed in the riots, and while it was livable, she spent a lot of time with her neighbors, and Hawke insisted she stay in his extra room.  It had been his mother’s room, actually.  He had left it just as it was for the longest time, Orana still changing the sheets as if she would be back at any time.  But, well, it had been a long time, and he felt like if Merrill could change her future by abandoning her past and orienting her goals, so could he.

 

The bar was quiet tonight, likely owing to a street festival going on in Lowtown; it was Satinalia, and three neighbors had had a party, and they invited people who had also invited people, and soon it had melded into one party.  Given everything, it was nice to see that people were still so interested in maintaining their holidays—it made everything feel better.  As if, though many had died, life could still continue, and people could still laugh, dance, and make love in spite of it.

Fenris had walked by it on his way to the bar, but he was an elf, and even if he had wanted to partake, he couldn’t.  Racism and social stigma would see to that, and he knew it better than most.  Although, considering that Satinalia was a festival in which most people wore masks and costumes, he could have made it work anyway if he had wanted to go.  Isabela and Hawke had once forced him into a costume and a mask and drug him along to a party like that.  The mask had been stuffy and uncomfortable, the costume was freezing especially at this time of the year, being the eleventh month, and that had soiled any appetite he would ever have for Satinalia.

Not that Fenris particularly liked holidays to begin with.  He had always felt like holidays were for friends and family.  He had friends now, but he often still felt distant to them.  Their freedom came so naturally to them.  He always felt, even just a little, like he was an outsider.  Not like he couldn’t belong, exactly, but more as if he were unnecessary.  Holidays just made him feel lonely.

He had come to Lowtown because, for one, he played cards weekly with Varric and Donnic, but this time Varric had triumphantly recovered a copy of Danarius’ book, in Tevene.  The book sat on the table well within his range of sight.  Donnic had left a short while ago, saying that he really had to get back to work; Aveline had needed to pull in extra guards with the street party becoming wild, just to make sure that things stayed safe.

“So you never told me how that wyvern hunt a few months ago went,” Fenris commented, studying his cards.  Part of that was Fenris’ fault; he had traveled to a neighboring city-state and been gone for several weeks.  The job had paid really well, but it really had been incredibly dull, and then there was the mess he had when he was returning to Kirkwall.  Getting back had been more trouble than it was really worth—flooding had made him have to take the long way around, and he had regretted going by the time he got back.

Varric blinked, then laughed.  “Oh.  Hell,” he swore.  He laughed again.  “Let me tell you all about Tallis and the party.”

Fenris raised an eyebrow, listening to the story as they played cards.  Varric had always been an excellent storyteller, and he understood it was embellished, but it was still amusing to listen to.  Fenris had not met Tallis, but Varric described her as being a Viddathari and quite loyal to the Qun.  He disliked her already--why would anyone want to enslave themselves to _anything_ like that?--but listened intently all the same.  The hunt for the wyvern seemed fascinating.  He laughed when Varric described how he and Anders had come to rescue them from capture, and Varric chuckled as he told him how Tallis had flirted with Hawke.

“How did Anders react to that?”

“His expression was priceless, but Hawke--gently--let her know he wasn’t interested.”

Fenris made a face.  “It’s interesting that she did that though, if she really is Viddathari.”

The dwarf was curious.  “How so?”

He thought about Zekiel.  He had not thought about the Fog Warriors in a long time, but they were never far from his thoughts.  It was a sin he would have to bear the rest of his life, and they deserved to be remembered.  “Many reasons, the first of which is that Hawke is human, and Tallis is an elf.”  He explained that in the Qun, it was, to put it lightly, frowned upon to have interspecies relationships at all.  He went on to point out, “And in the Qun, you don’t choose your mate either; it’s decided for you—Tallis, honestly, could have gotten in a lot of trouble for something like that.  She would be reeducated under their jurisdictions.”

Varric was surprised by this.  “Then I guess she should consider herself lucky that she was alone.”  Fenris agreed.  Varric went on to describe what had happened afterwards, how it had never been about theft and Tallis was actually after a Qunari that had betrayed the Qun.

“Personally, I can’t understand how someone could _not_ betray the Qun, but to each their own, I suppose,” Fenris commented.  He dealt the next round of cards.

“You do anything interesting lately?”

The elf considered.  “An old… acquaintance contacted me recently.”

Varric was intrigued.  “Go on.”

Fenris and Varric compared hands.  Fenris sighed deeply as he watched the dwarf swipe the coins off the table.  “His name is Anastas.  I met him when I was traveling to the Free Marches.  He hired me to guard his caravan--he deals in artwork.”

The dwarf nodded thoughtfully as he shuffled the deck.  “Right.  So.  What’s he want?”

Fenris shrugged.  “He heard that Danarius was dead, and offered to pay off my bounty if I came and worked for him for a couple of years.”

The cards bridged perfectly, shuffled expertly.  Varric began to deal.  “Isn’t that indentured servitude?”

Fenris laughed.  “He promised to pay me in the interim, but my wages would be garnished to pay off the bounty.”  He sighed deeply.  “It is the best, and easiest, way to get the bounty hunters off my back.”

Varric rearranged his hand.  “You’re just a wanted criminal now, aren’t you?”

He shrugged.  “Escaped slave, wanted criminal.  I did notice that the bounty was updated to ‘kill on sight’, which is bothersome.  It would be much easier if I took his offer.”

“Are you going to?” Varric asked gently.

Fenris considered.  “I liked Anastas.  He’s a Liberati--a former slave, and a legal citizen of the Imperium.”  He was quiet a moment as the round continued.  “And it’s hard sometimes seeing Anders and Hawke together.”

Varric nodded.  “Ah.”  He sighed, shaking his head.  “Isabela and Daisy were talking about leaving too.  I guess this is the end of our little group—probably safest that way; I’ve heard some… things about the Chantry; they’re not too fond of what happened here.  Never thought you’d go back to the Imperium, though.”

“It’s only a thought at the moment, and I really don’t want to have to dodge bounty hunters all my life.  It’s just my best option right now.”

Varric nodded.  “I can understand that.  Still, I’ll hate to see you go, elf.”

“If I decide to go, he’ll be in Kirkwall in Wintermarch.  I suppose I have plenty of time to think about it.”

He saw the door open behind Varric.  Isabela stepped in, flanked by two of the girls she coached.  Isabela was carrying a painted mask, one girl had her mask pulled up on her head, and the other was still wearing her harlequin mask.  They were talking in hushed whispers as they stepped in.  Isabela locked eyes with Fenris, once.  Uncomfortable, he made an excuse to leave.  He walked past her with barely a glance in her direction.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was the most British conversation ever (Merrill and Hawke--all right?).
> 
> I'm doing some major editing right now to make this correlate more with Inquisition! No major changes--just really minor details. If things don't correlate, remember that it's under construction for the moment.


	101. The Art of Language

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris seeks out answers, and he and Merrill finally see eye to eye.

Fenris sat on his bed, both the books open to the first page.  He had been pleasantly surprised to find that many of the letters in Tevene were similar to the common tongue.  There were a few letters he did not recognize, but he was feeling much more confident now.  Knowing the language certainly helped.  Trying to read it aloud helped more, and he could puzzle out what the word was supposed to be.

Sebastian had been teaching him how to write in his free time, before he had gone, and when he got the idea of what the letters were supposed to be, he dug through the desk until he found an inkwell that wasn’t dry.  A quill that wasn’t broken was harder, but he found one that would work, if he could find a pen knife.  He tore apart the desk and still couldn’t find one.  Knowing it was a bad idea, he very carefully used the blade on his sword, cut himself, bled on the carpet, and sucked on his fingertip until it stopped.  But, the quill was cut too, so it wasn’t a total loss.

            “Where was I?” he wondered aloud.  He picked up the books and placed them on the desk.  He started on the alphabet he was working out.  He hated writing.  Ink would get all over his hands, he smeared it constantly, and he was the only one who could discern one letter from another.  Sebastian had been hopeful.  Fenris preferred memorization, but this was more efficient for the moment.

            He was careful, writing slowly, trying not to blot the ink on the stained parchment, or worse, break the quill.  Reading, writing--fighting and combat was so much easier.

            He was wrong about a letter here and there, but he eventually wrote down the entire alphabet.  The grammar was the most difficult part.  For example, in the Trade tongue, the sentence “Experimentation proved that laying the lyrium over major arteries and veins resulted in death in some subjects, and madness in others” would read one way.  In Tevene, the same sentence could be said with, to put it bluntly, very different grammar.  In Tevene, the subject of a sentence was more important than the verbs, making no differentiation between “the subject” and “a subject”.  Sentence structure was considered overall unimportant in Tevene, which was a bit different in the King’s Speech.  It grew more complicated, and his Tevene was… rusty.  He could read it, but sometimes sentence structure didn’t make as much sense as it would have ten years ago.

            He spent a day or two intermittently reading it.  It got easier with time, and he was relearning the grammar again quickly, but it was sometimes still confusing.  Frustrated on one particular section--his former master had written it so cryptically that he wanted to kill him all over again--he picked up the book and walked to Hawke’s manor.  A change of scenery might help.

            As he walked, his mind tumbled over the things he had read, the parts he had understood.  The diagrams were the easiest part of the book to understand.  Diagrams were like a language of their own, each one having meaning and context, if he only knew how to look for it.  It was hard for him to see all the lyrium markings on his own body.  He could feel them, but it was very different to see it on the diagram.

            He wondered, then, why there were four different diagrams.  Female and male human; female and male elf.  Why?  Hadn’t Danarius chosen him?

            He thought of what Varania had said, of what the Danarius from his dream had said.  Was it true?

            He froze mid-step.  It had to be.

            They couldn’t be lying, he realized, and felt cold in the early winter breeze.  Danarius had published a book with four diagrams.  He hadn’t even known if the “subject” would be male or female.  The story of the tourney had to be true, thus.  Or what if he had only drawn the other diagrams for people trying to follow his spell?

            He mulled that thought over as he walked.  Somehow, he didn’t think so.  He wasn’t so certain as to why, but he really believed that each drawing had been made with care and precision.  Each one was slightly different than the other, the largest difference between male to female, but the elf and human ones had different markings too.  He didn’t think it was a random design.  In fact, the book was very clear that it _wasn’t_ a random design.

            Each marking meant something, individually and as a whole, just like language.  Parts of the book explained each curve and twist of the lyrium—parts he thought were incredibly boring, because he already _knew_ what the stuff did—but there were whole sections devoted to the other three diagrams that had not been used.  Why put forth so much work into something he hadn’t used, had not planned on using?

            _Unless_ Danarius truly had just held a tourney and given out the “reward” to whoever won.  It would be easy.  An open tourney, slaves allowed to compete.  It happened.  It wasn’t even that unusual; the slaves fought and their master won.

            Was that why he felt so at home, when he killed that Qunari in the sands of the Grand Proving?  He _had_ fought and bled in those sands before.  _I was a gladiator,_ he thought, with a kind of dull peace.  It was like coming to a conclusion he had really always known, and he found satisfaction in it.

            Knowing three languages helped in making him understand the odd language and pattern of the markings; it was just like a different grammar.  Each symbol had an individual meaning, but the true interpretation had to be “read” together.  If a line had not been where it should have been, his abilities very well might be completely different.  He remembered Hadriana once commenting that she would like to know what would happen to him if he were to lose a limb.  He shivered.  If he never found out, so much the better.

            He thought of his own abilities.  One of his favourite sections in Hawke’s library was about fighting tactics and styles, many of them outdated, but still very interesting to him.  And, he liked learning, so he read them.  One of them he had spent a lot of time with— _Spirit’s Revenge._   It was about a fighting style called a “spirit warrior”, dating back centuries.  Summed up, it was like blood magic but without being a mage.  The ability, unfortunately, was nearly identical to what he could do.  True, he wasn’t a perfect image of a true spirit warrior, and he had abilities that a spirit warrior didn’t, and vice versa.  But it was very, very close.

            He tried not to think about the fact that his abilities, in essence, _were_ blood magic.  Was that why he had been so susceptible to the Pride Demon?  He didn’t know.  He couldn’t just stop using the ability if he wanted to, though; it was so much a part of him that it would be like deciding he shouldn’t eat.

            The ability had been woven into his soul.  That was a hard truth to stomach sometimes, that even his immortal soul was tainted by these markings.  But this was why he was studying it, trying to find a way to end it.  Or even just to find out if it were possible.

            He wondered what the other markings would have done to him, or the race and sex they had been designed for.  Would each of them in turn have slightly different abilities?  He wasn’t so sure how he would feel about coming across someone with his own power.

            Bodahn commented that Hawke and Anders were out, but he was welcome.  He went into the library, and poured over the book for a few more minutes before he decided he couldn’t stand it any longer.  He picked up a fiction volume and delved into the uncomplicated world of make-believe and happy endings.

            He liked reading non-fiction.  History was fascinating, horrible oftentimes, but fascinating.  He liked reading about different beliefs than his own, different times, real people.  He always imagined what their lives had been like, reveling in their triumphs and suffering with them in their woes.  It was nice to know that he hadn’t been alone; there were many others that had suffered through slavery and triumphed above it and found their way free.  It left him hope for himself.

            Fiction was more _fun_ though.  He knew there would be a happy ending, more often than not.  Fiction was a safe escape to another life.  Sometimes, an author imagined a world where magic did not exist, had never existed.  It was difficult--almost impossible--for him to imagine, but it sounded like a paradise.  No mages, no magic; there never had been any.  The characters never even imagined what real magic was like, and how terrible it could be.  They would still see something they could not explain and claim it was magic, but it wasn’t, not in the author’s world.  He wondered what a world without magic would be like.  No demons, no spirits, abominations, mages, lyrium--would it be a world without sacrifice and barbarism?

            He thought of Danarius killing dozens of slaves to fuel the spell that had cursed Fenris forever.  That never would have happened.  Why would someone kill so many innocents if there was no magic?

            In the books, some people were just evil--they did it for amusement or to terrify others.  But that was just a book.  People could be corrupt and terrible without magic, but magic always made those things worse.

            “ _I brought you some tea_ ,” Orana chimed brightly, her Tevene as flawless as it had been when he first met her.  Fenris looked up as she placed the tray down on the table.

            “Thank you.  You didn’t have to do that, Orana,” he said, but in the Trade tongue.

            She flashed a smile.  “ _I like to make herbal tea._ ”  She made a face, and switched to her second language.  “And Hawke never drinks it; he only likes black tea.”  She crossed her arms, irritated.  “Would you believe he would rather drink _water_?”

            He couldn’t help but smile.  She had changed so much over the years, and it often made him feel elated.  “He’s Ferelden--they’re naturally uncouth.”

            “And _proud_ of it!” she exclaimed.  “He was feeling homesick yesterday, and actually asked me to find _Ferelden_ recipes.”  She scoffed.  “I made him scones and little watercress sandwiches.  And he complained.  I told him he can eat it or starve.”

            Fenris laughed.  It was so, _so_ good to see her acting this way.  She was so much like him.  They had both lost everything, suffered at the hands of cruel magisters, and then free under not so dissimilar circumstances.  He was glad to see the cowed slave gone, to be replaced by the young woman before him.  His path had been harder than hers.  He had made terrible mistakes that she did not, suffered through more pain than she had.  It was harder for him, but seeing her was inspiring.  “Would you mind helping me with something?” he asked suddenly.

            “Sure--what is it?”  She turned to the tea tray.  “Do you like milk or sugar, or both?”

            “Sugar--just one cube, please,” he said.  She poured, stirring the sugar in.  He rose, setting the book down on the chair.  He went to the table.  “This is in Tevene.”

            She blinked.  “Oh, I can’t read Tevene…”

            He looked back at her.  “I can--sort of.  But I’m having some trouble remembering the language, and it’s confusing.”

            “I still think in Tevene,” she laughed.  “If you want to read it to me, I can help.”

            Reading aloud to Orana did help, enormously.  He understood it more aloud, and what he struggled with, Orana grasped right away.  It helped him to remember the language too, and a few hours later, they could carry on whole conversations in Tevene and he rarely stuttered.

            “What are you speaking?” Hawke asked as he wandered in, Anders shortly behind him.

            “Tevene,” Orana answered.

            “I’m working on the translation of that book,” Fenris said, gesturing vaguely at it.  “But so far, there aren’t any major differences in it.”

            Hawke sighed.  “That’s a shame, but keep at it.  Hey, Orana, what’s for dinner?”

            She jumped up.  “Oh, no--the soup!”  She rushed past him, nearly bowling into Anders.

            “How far along are you?” Anders asked, leaning against Hawke’s shoulder.

            Fenris did not look at them.  “Around that cryptic section about the way he refined the lyrium.”

            “The whole thing is cryptic--it’s infuriating.”  Hawke considered.  “I wish Orseno was still alive; he’d be a great source for that part.”  He made a face at Anders, who sheepishly slunk away.  “Maybe…  is there any way we can write to one of the Circles, perhaps?  Or, hell, all of them?  Val Royeaux would be a good bet.”

            Anders frowned in thought.  “Rivain would be a good idea--they specialize in all kinds of strange magic.  I can write to the Ferelden Circle too.”

            Hawke sighed.  “Writing to Minrathous would probably be the best idea.”  Fenris only stared at him, and the apostate laughed.  “Of course we won’t.”  He went to the desk, lifting the copy of the book.  “I can get that chapter copied for you--I’ll ask Bodahn to take it to a scribe and we’ll send it out.”

            Fenris couldn’t help but wonder if it would even do any good, the Circles being in the state they were in right now.  It couldn’t hurt to try.  It was somewhat infuriating that he had to look to mages for help, but what options were there?  Who else would know anything about magic enough to understand how to undo what had been done to him?

            _Danarius,_ he thought, thinking of that dream-that-wasn’t-a-dream.  He had slept since then, but he hadn’t dreamed.  Maybe Danarius was finally leaving him alone.  Maybe his soul had been devoured by a demon.  Maybe what little hold he had left on Fenris was fading.  He liked that last idea, and the one previous it.  He would even settle for the first one.

            _However_ , if he could dream, and speak to him again, maybe…  He couldn’t hurt him any more.  He was certain of that.  Danarius had told him that his nightmare had only been that--a nightmare.  The lucid dreaming he could escape from, he was sure.

            Was it even possible to induce it though?

            _I could have Anders make something for you._

            Fenris lifted his head.  “Anders?” he asked slowly.  The mage glanced over at him.  For the first time, he found himself wondering what Anders’ real name was, what his real accent had been before he had come to Ferelden.  What kind of person is a mage before they know they are a mage?  Kylie had been…  “I’m having trouble sleeping, and I only ask out of desperation--and because I promised I wouldn’t take drugs…”

            Anders blinked, then nodded.  “Sure.  When I go back to the clinic next, I’ll make you something.”  He paused.  “Or… is this more urgent?”

            Fenris lied, “I’m exhausted.”  He was tired, but only because he only slept for short periods at a time.  That was habit, though, more than because of his nightmares.  Running for his life for three years, and then constantly on the alert for hunters for several more had left him habitually waking frequently to check his surroundings.  Sleeping was dangerous when he was being hunted.  He didn’t know if he would ever get used to sleeping through the night.

            Anders sighed.  “After dinner.”

            “Do you want to stay?” Hawke asked.  Anders looked at him flatly.  The other man pouted, and Anders sighed, rolling his eyes.  The silent exchange over, the Champion of Kirkwall looked back at Fenris brightly.  “So?”

            “Ah…”  he hesitated.  “No.  Thanks.”  He excused himself quickly.  Nothing better to do, he walked down to Lowtown.  He passed Donnic out on patrol walking up the steps.  He waved vaguely, and continued on.  He didn’t visit Lowtown as often since Isabela and Varric had left.  She had asked him to come with her, but he hadn’t.

            With a kiss and a sigh, she had gone, just like that.  She still wrote Merrill letters on occasion, he heard.  Hawke said that she and Varric were doing something in Antiva—he had no idea what.

Fenris was bored.  Since Varric left, life just felt boring.  Isabela was gone, Varric was gone, Sebastian was long gone.   Merrill was talking about leaving too--it seemed like everyone was leaving.  And, he thought, just in time; he was getting ready to leave too.  Anastas would arrive in Kirkwall in two weeks or so, and then, he supposed he was finished with Kirkwall.  Varric, though, had every intention of returning sometime soon, he had heard.

Hawke was surprised he even considered going back to the Imperium, but it was, in all honesty, the best place to look into what he could do about the lyrium.  Moreover, Anastas had eliminated the bounty.  It was just easier this way.

“Fenris!” a familiar, irritating voice called.  With a sigh, he turned toward her.

“Merrill,” he answered flatly.

She stepped up to him, smiling brightly.  “I’m so glad I ran into you,” she said immediately.

 _What could you possibly want from me?_   He groaned inwardly.  “Is there something you need?”

She shook her head, blinking big green eyes up at him.  “I’m leaving in a few days; I just wanted to say goodbye to you.”

He blinked in surprise.  “To where?” he asked.  Stupid question—he knew she was just running off into the wilderness.

“Just around the Free Marches.”

He nodded absently.  At least he wouldn’t have to watch her go mad with possession and start killing everyone in the alienage.  She would be living like the Dalish again, and he worried that there would be no one to strike her down before she hurt someone all the same.  Certainly she had a destination somewhere?  What did the histories call it—“The Long Walk”?  It didn’t do it justice, but then, nothing in history had done an elf justice.  “Hauling that mirror with you?”

She shook her head.  “I’m getting rid of it.  I’ve never been able to get it to work—nothing I’ve done has done anything…  And I want… this to feel like home.”

He breathed a sigh of relief.  He hadn’t realized it would be this relieving to hear that.  He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them.  “Will you keep performing blood magic?”

She shook her head again.  “I don’t see a reason to any more—and…  I saw what happened with Orseno, Fenris.  I’m not blind.  I had thought—I’ve come so far, I can’t give up now.  But I haven’t accomplished a thing in all these years.”  She looked at him.  “So I thought, I’d go home—or something like home anyway.  Our past is gone and maybe we can’t reclaim it anymore, but maybe we don’t need to.”

He felt like laughing in relief; she was finally growing up.  It took her long enough.  An image of a young girl, her red hair in braids, looking up at him filled his mind.  _Varania…_   “I’m glad,” he told her, honestly.

She smiled.  “I thought you’d yell at me again.”

He frowned.  “Why?  You’re giving up everything I disapproved of.”

She shrugged a shoulder.  “I’m not Tranquil.”

He cocked his head to the side, scrutinizing her.  “Meredith taught me that seeing evil in everyone around you makes _you_ evil.”  He looked down at the broken cobblestone under his feet.  “Danarius was cruel to me; so was Hadriana.”  His eyes flicked upwards, back at her tattooed face.  “The Magisterium is evil, but they’re not evil because they’re mages.  The magic just makes it easier—it’s not the _cause_ of it.  Danarius would have been just as cruel to me if he were not a mage—I _understand_ that now.”

Her eyes widened, filling with hope.  A smile spread across her lips.  “So…?”

He looked at her.  “It’s not exactly mages I hate; it’s cruelty.”  It didn’t mean he didn’t hate magic though, but at least he had learned to differentiate the two.  And it didn’t mean much of a change of his views either—mages were _still_ dangerous and _should_ be under the watchful eye of the Chantry, at the very least.  Left unchecked, he still believed that they would fall to evil; it was just too easy for them not to.  It wasn’t the magic that did it, per se, but it made it that much easier for them.  The world, and normal people, still needed to be safeguarded from what they could do.

He loved Hawke, and he believed in him completely—which was why he had been angry that he had sided with the mages, but he hadn’t left like Sebastian had.  _Hawke_ was a good man.  And, if Fenris met a hundred mages and each of them turned out terrible, Hawke must be the one hundred and first, and there were still more mages in the world.  So, not _all_ of them had to be terrible, right?  It would be like saying all humans were terrible, because humans had enslaved his ancestors.  Logically speaking, by just a rule of numbers, there had to be _some_ , even a minority, of humans back then who had been against it.  There were exceptions to every rule, especially when it came to people.

Her smile broke out into a grin, and she threw her arms around his shoulders, holding him tight.  He cringed, and made a face, but hugged her back, and pushed her away.  She was still grinning.  “Fenris, I’ll tell you about the carving now—if you’re ready.”

He blinked.  “My wolf carving?”

She nodded, rocking back eagerly on her heels.  “It’s Dalish.”  Her fingers laced together, and her countenance turned solemn.  “In the Arlathan forest, there was a clan of Dalish elves.  They always came back to the forest, but they traveled in wider circles than many of the other Dalish clans—they went through Antiva, Orlais, and Nevarra.  When they were near Orlais, their Keeper was taken away by Templars.  When they passed back through Nevarra, they were attacked by Imperial slavers.”

His eyes widened, wondering what all of this meant.  _He_ knew that he was from Seheron, but where had the carving come from, then?  “Twice, they were attacked by slavers, within a dozen years.  The last time, they either murdered or enslaved all of them.”  She cocked her head to the side.  “If someone made that for you, that person was from that clan.  Look on the right back paw—there’s a little symbol on it—that’s how I know.”

 _There’s Dalish in the forest_.  Aramael—had that been his name?—had said that, before Fenris had killed him.  _Aramael was Dalish_ , he realized, after all these years.  A survivor of that clan’s massacre.

“Someone made it for me,” he whispered.

She looked at him.  “I’m sorry, Fenris.  I know it’s not much to go off of.”

He hesitated, and pulled both of the carvings out of his belt.  He looked at each of them in his hand, old, familiar friends.  “I don’t think…  I need my past.”  He hesitated.  “I need closure to it, but I don’t need it.”

She smiled at him, and her smile seemed sad to him.  “That’s how I feel—but about our past, our history.”

“I’m sorry I was cruel to you,” he said, and for once in his life, he really meant it.  Repaying cruelty with cruelty didn’t end the cycle.  Instead of being cruel to her, he should have tried to listen to her—at least shut his mouth and hear her out, and try to argue with her without insulting or yelling at her, and have a real discussion.  He should have tried to understand, because if he had understood, he might have been better able to stop the dangerous path she was on.  Instead, he had driven her down it.  Everyone who never tried to understand had driven her down that path, making her cling more desperately to her choices, because no one understood and no one had tried to help.  Hawke had only ever enabled her, in a distant, faintly disapproving way.  Isabela never talked about it with her, and Varric didn’t either.  Fact of the matter, _no one_ in her life had ever stopped and listened and tried to calmly reason with her.  They had just shut her out and left her isolated and alone with her mirror and her magic.

She nodded.  “I know.”  She paused.  “But maybe I needed it.  Maybe if more people had been opposed to what I was doing, maybe if more people had tried to stop me, instead of enable me, things would not have turned out this way.”  He left unsaid that he didn’t think _that_ had been the issue; he felt like so many people disapproving of her actions had led her to be only more rash.  If everyone already hates you, why keep yourself from making them hate you more?  He pulled Merrill out of the way of a cart passing by, and the pair started to walk.  “Do you care about our people, Fenris?”

He rolled his eyes, but he knew what she meant.  “I wish I didn’t,” he whispered.

She looked up at him.  “Is that why you never come to the alienage?”  Her voice was quiet.

He sighed, and glanced back at her.  “Yes.”

She looked away.  “I misjudged you.  All this time, I just thought you were selfish and didn’t really care.”  She shook her head.  “And you did.”  She looked back at him.  “Are you going to go to Halamshiral?”

He knew what was going on in Halamshiral.  He had even thought, deeply, about going.  If there was going to be an uprising, it will be there.  If elves were ever going to rebel—really rebel, and do something about the way humans had treated them for lifetimes beyond count—then it would be at the End of the Journey… and maybe it wouldn’t be “the end” any more.  Maybe, it would be… the beginning of something more.  “No.  I’ll be in the Imperium.”

She frowned.  “What will you do there?”

“Pay off my bounty.”  He sighed, looking up at the clouded sky.  “Trying to buy as many slaves out of slavery as I can.”

She looked at him, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, but she said nothing.  “Perhaps we will want to be in Halamshiral.”  She sighed wistfully.  “And maybe not.  You know, I really just want to go home.”

“Take care,” he said.

She started to walk away from him.  “You too.”

He wished he knew what it meant to want to go home.  He wished he knew where “home” was.  “Wait,” he said.

She looked back at him, frowning quizzically.  “Did I forget something?”

He shook his head slightly.  “No.  Merrill?  What does ‘home’ mean—to you?”

Her emerald eyes softened.  “Family.  The Dalish don’t have a permanent home.  But it’s when…”  She seemed to realize.  “It’s when you’re surrounded by people that care about you, and you care about them.  It’s when… you feel safe, and you miss it when you’re away.  And when you’ve had a hard day, you can come back to it and feel…  comforted.  Like you aren’t alone.”

“Thank you,” he whispered, and watched her go.  Was that what home was?

He had never had that feeling.  Maybe he never would, and he would just have to learn to be lonely.  Life can be lived alone.

 

Fenris stood on the dock, watching the sun go down and the ships sailing back into port.  He should be going soon.  He thought of the fat-bottomed bottle sitting at his stolen mansion in Hightown.  Anders had made it for him yesterday, and he hadn’t quite had the backbone to drink it.  He was afraid of confronting Danarius’ specter, and afraid of what it meant.  He knew he needed answers, and he had tried to find them elsewhere.

Hawke had heard back from Orlais recently.  They said that one of their Enchanters was looking into it, but they had some problems going on, and they didn’t exactly have the time to devote to the research.  A week before that, he had heard from Rivain, but not from one of their mages.  The Templar had rejected the petition immediately, because studying a way to undo what had been done to him would mean a mage would have to study the original spell, which would mean studying blood magic.

He supposed he should have expected it.  They still had yet to hear from Fereldon, but he was hopeful, or tried to be.

His best bet was probably asking Danarius, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tevene is based off of Latin, so I just did some research on the grammar, etc. I swear I don't just make this up as I go!
> 
> I also think it's interesting how a person's worldviews can change over time and over circumstances, and that's what is happening with Fenris. He's seeing the world as it is; he doesn't want to become Meredith, seeing only evil in mages and the people around him is just as dangerous as not seeing it when it's really there.


	102. Dreamscapes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris confronts Danarius in the Fade seeking answers.

Fenris was conscious of walking.  The first thing he noticed was that he was walking, and couldn’t remember how he had gotten here.  Dappled sunlight shone on the forest path.  A warm late spring breeze ruffled the leaves.  He was following--no, walking beside--someone he thought he should recognize.  “Where are we?”

            The man turned.   _Boy,_ he amended.   _Sixteen, maybe._ Human, but had never seen facial hair.  “A forest.”

            He recognized his voice, and nearly kicked himself for not seeing it sooner.  “I know that, Danarius.  I meant _where_ \--in what country is this supposed to be?”

            Danarius briefly considered saying “the Fade” just to nettle him, but instead said, “If my apparent age is anything to go by, I’d say Vinewood, when I was about fifteen.”  He sighed wistfully.  “You were not even born yet.”  He paused.  “I should see my sister.  Or the spirit masquerading as her, whichever.”

“You have a sister?”  This surprised Fenris, as he had thought he had known his family, but a sister had never even been mentioned before.

“Older, by about four minutes,” he commented.  “And she’s completely mad.”

  1. _Shaislyn was a twin too, and his sister is also dead._ “I often thought the same of you.”



Danarius, to Fenris’ surprise, laughed.  “I never would have guessed.”

“You would have not been pleased.”

“No,” he agreed.  “But I mean it when I say that--she tried to set herself on fire once.  She stuck her hand in a dog’s intestines…  Things like that.”

Fenris didn’t even know what to say.  He stopped, staring at him.

The dead magister looked back at him.  “I used to worry that, because she and I were twins, that I was mad too.”

“You _were_ ,” Fenris said bitterly.

“No more so than you.”  He paused, looking down a slender deer trail, then turned from it, continuing on the main path.  “I heard about what you did to Hadriana, and to Lysander.  He was barely eighteen.”

“Age doesn’t grant any sanctity to life.  You should know that.”  All the children that had died at his hand, at his word, as he stood idly by and watched.  It was the only life they would ever have, something so indescribably precious.  And so cheap, so wasteful.  They had barely tasted what it meant to live, barely even knew what life was, before it was so cruelly taken away from them--forever.   _He died too quickly._

“You always had a weakness for children,” Danarius commented, his tone disapproving.  _Because I care, and you never cared enough,_ Fenris thought scathingly.  The dead magister heaved a sigh.  “Did you know Hadriana had a child?  A child who actually saw you kill her?”

The elf froze.  He had never known, never even guessed…  He cringed at the thought of killing a parent in front of their child.  If he had known…  No, he had been so consumed by his own hatred, his rage, would he have stopped?  Could he have stopped?  Would he have even wanted to?  Or would he have wanted to inflict pain on the child, too, simply because of who its parent was?  He sincerely hoped not.  Whatever sins Hadriana had committed, a child--even her child--did not deserve to be punished for them.

Fenris looked back at the dead man.  “How?”  They had combed the place looking for her, looking for all the slavers.   _How_ had they missed a child?  He thought of Orana.  He should ask her, just to confirm what Danarius said.  He still didn’t feel like he could trust him.

Danarius had a patronizing grin on his face.  “Well, when a man and a woman love each other very much—“

Fenris thought about hitting him.  “They produce I child and then I kill both the parents, yes, I understand that.  How is it that the child was there?  I never saw it.”

The dead man seemed oddly disappointed.  “Hidden.  Doesn’t matter, anyway.  Why’d you come?”

He paused.  “I need to ask you something.”

He sighed deeply.  “Then ask.”

Fenris didn’t miss the implication that Danarius had not promised to answer.  “I’ve been reading that book you wrote about the Ritual you did to me.  Is there a way--without killing me--that will get rid of the lyrium in my body?”

Danarius missed a step.  He looked back at him.  “I never designed it to be possible to remove,” he told him flatly.  “If there is a way, I don’t know it.”

The elf was unsurprised, but annoyed nonetheless.  “You must know something.”

“I really don’t,” he snapped, and continued forward.  Fenris strode after him, contemplating strangling him out of irritation.  He was almost certain it would do no good, but it would relieve stress.

“You must be able to think of something--you designed it.”

“I have no interest in that.”

Fenris held his tongue, and kept his temper in check.  When he had calmed enough, he spoke.  “I think you owe it to me to try.”

“I don’t owe you anything.”

He couldn’t reign in his temper that time.  “You owe me _everything_!”

Danarius rounded on him suddenly.  “No.  No one owes you anything, Fenris.  The world doesn’t owe you anything, and neither do I.”

“You took everything from me!”

“No.”  He stared at him, and Fenris felt some of his resolve whither at the other’s conviction.  “Most of it, you did to yourself.”  He held up a finger.  “I almost didn’t buy you; I ended up with you and your mother because of _your actions._ ”  He raised an eyebrow.  “You stabbed me and tried to kill me.  You were three.  It scarred.”

Fenris actually laughed.  “I wish I remembered that.”  But that time, it wasn’t so bitter.  Who remembered things from when they were three?  He wouldn’t remember anyway.  He tried to remember a scar on the man’s leg, but couldn’t.  Any time he had seen his legs that bare, he had not been studying him.  Rather, he had been doing his best not to see him at all.

Danarius was not amused.  “The merchant just gave you and your mother to me.”  He shrugged.  “I paid for you to learn the sword—do you have any idea how much training a gladiator costs?  When I held the tournament, you were the one who volunteered; no one forced you.  A requirement of the Ritual was that I had a _willing_ subject.  Or did you conveniently skip that part of the book?  It’s in the second chapter.”

“You could be lying,” he said, but he doubted it.  It made entirely too much sense.  He hadn’t really believed that part in the book, but then, he hadn’t wanted to.  Hawke had tactfully never mentioned it, and maybe he had asked Anders and Merrill not to as well.

He snorted a laugh.  “Ask Varania.  If I find your mother, maybe I’ll have her tell you.”

Fenris stumbled.  His mother…?  Right, Varania said she was dead.  “Fine.  You’re telling the truth.  What about everything else?”

“You also consented to having your memories erased, remember.”  He sighed.  “And you knew very well what you were getting into when you won the tournament.”  He waved vaguely at him.  “The one that earned you those markings.”  He looked back at him.  “So, one could argue that, no, I don’t owe you anything; I’ve given you a lot more than you ever care to think about.”

Fenris contemplated swearing at him, scream that he had raped him, paraded him about on a leash, beat him, mentally abused him and made him believe he was worthless and that no one would ever care about him.  He had not even allowed his slaves the hope and peace religion would have brought them.  But isn’t that what you did to slaves?  He was angry, but fact of the matter was, it was pointless arguing with him about it.  It would be like trying to make Sebastian denounce the Maker; he believed as he believed, and saw absolutely nothing wrong with it, despite its glaring flaws.  Trying to argue would be a waste of his time and effort.  Trying to argue would only rile Fenris’ temper and accomplish nothing.  Arguing was not why he was here.

“So, if you want to complain about something I did, please complain about something you didn’t consent to before I did it.”

Fenris rolled his eyes.  Danarius had a twisted view of the word “consent”.  If he chose to debate the point, he wasn’t going to accomplish anything though.  “You really have no idea where to at least _start_ on a way to get rid of the lyrium markings?”

“Why do you want to get rid of them?  They make you so powerful.”

He wondered if Danarius had always been this irritating, or if it was because, at the moment, he was a teenager.  He had never really had a conversation with him before, his previous dream aside.  “I’ve met Templars that are suffering from its affects.”

Danarius glanced at him.  “Memory loss?” he inquired, his eyebrow raising meaningfully.  “I suppose that was always a risk.  I had thought it wouldn’t matter much; you’d never have to take care of yourself.  But we both see how _that_ idea worked out.  I hate to tell you this, Fenris, but you’re only suffering the consequences of your own actions.”

Fenris glowered.  There he went again, telling him that he was better off in slavery.  It disgusted him, and it was an effort to reign in his temper.  He took a deep, calming breath and let it out slowly through his nose before he spoke.  “ _You_ did this to me.  Call it what you want, but if I had had any other options, I would have taken them.”

“I don’t care to argue with you.”  The forest path opened to reveal the Vinewood garden grounds.  There were sheep where he was expecting the vineyard.  “Well.  Is there anything else I can tell you that I know nothing about?”  
            “No.”

“Good.  So you will abandon this foolish notions to undo the Rite?”

Fenris scoffed.  “Absolutely not!”

Danarius glanced at him sidelong.  “I think it would kill you.  Or worse.”

“Why?”

He snorted.  “You learned to read.  Or do you not actually care to study when you read?  I prepared you for the Rite for weeks.  I fed you lyrium to get your body accustomed to it.  Your body is _addicted_ to the lyrium.  You’ll have to consume it regularly, or you’ll lose your mind.  And your memory will go too.  If you don’t want that to happen, leave it alone.”  He made a face.  “I took very special care to make sure you wouldn’t go mad like the Templars do.  If you want to undo it, you will _still_ be addicted to the lyrium, and you may _lose your mind_.”

Fenris despaired.  He was addicted to it?  He would go mad without it?  He needed the damned lyrium to retain his sanity?  What made someone so perverse as to think it was perfectly fine to do this to another person?  “There _has_ to be another way!  You have no evidence that I will go mad.”

“True.  I don’t.”  Danarius crossed his arms, and for the first time seemed to seriously consider it.  “You know I like difficult magics.”  He sighed.  “Well, the first thing you’d want to do is separate our bound souls.”

Fenris was eager for this.  “How?”

“You don’t happen to know two mages, do you—at least one of them a blood mage?”

He started to say no, then thought of Merrill.  “Yes.”

Danarius was faintly surprised.  “Ah.  Well.  There’s a simple blood magic ritual for entering the Fade—kill someone, the blood mage performs the spell, and the other mage enters the Fade.  I’d be only too happy to help, actually—and we can separate our souls.  Since I died, I don’t have the power I used to.  However, I still do remember how everything works.  So if we separate each other, we’ll each be free of the other to—“

Fenris’ eyes rose in alarm as he realized where this was going.  “No.  No, that’s not what we’re going to do.  I need to get rid of the lyrium.”

“The binding was a part of the Ritual; you’ll have to undo it.”

“Not until after I undo everything else.”  His link to Danarius was his only hold on him, the only way he could keep antagonizing him for answers, and the only way he could force him to do what he wanted him to do.  The leash Danarius had put around Fenris’ neck went two ways.

“Well, give me some time to think on it.”

“Time is relative in the Fade.”

The mage’s arms crossed indignantly.  He looked very, very much a teenager as his lips curved into a pout, brow furrowing in annoyance.  But he was quiet as he thought about it, studying the lyrium.  “We’ll have to rip it out of your flesh.”  He paused.  “It’s going to hurt, and it will be very bloody.”

The elf’s stomach twisted.  _The scent of blood heavy in the air, sounds of flesh tearing, moans from dead throats, an infant screaming…_

Danarius’ eyebrows raised in alarm.  “Fenris, stop!  You’ll attract demons.  Whatever you are thinking about— _stop_.”

It was like saying the words “pink elephants” and then telling someone not to think about it.  He couldn’t.  The memory flooded his mind, and he felt the Fade all around begin to shift, to change.  He could smell blood.  His eyes squeezed shut, trying to will the tranquil forest again, but it didn’t come.  He felt Danarius’ fingers against his temples.

“Open your damned eyes, elf,” the man spat.  Fenris stared back at him, at his eyes.  His eyes had always been an intangible, off-limits place for Fenris, somewhere he had never dared to look, because he had always had to be submissive and subservient.  Now, he felt his eyes drawn there, unable to look away, and a part of him was afraid—for only an instant—of the repercussions of the simple action.  As he gazed at the pale blue of the magister’s eyes, he felt himself calm, a feeling of peacefulness washing over him.  The scent of blood was gone, and he heard birds chirping, the scent of evergreen.  His eyelids fluttered a little, and he bowed his head as his heart slowed in his chest.  Danarius’ hands fell away.

            The man’s face twisted into a frown as he stared into the trees, as if watching for demons.  “It’s a spell of calm—you’re fine.  It’s used to calm hysterical children.”  He heaved a sigh.  “Rochelle thought it would be useful when she…”

            Fenris paused, and wondered.  Rochelle, his dead wife.  A woman Fenris had never known, but he had seen the effects of her passing.  “Did you love her?”

            Danarius glanced back at him, but didn’t answer.  He didn’t really need to.

The living and the dead stood in silence, and Fenris knew he needed to steer the topic back to the lyrium in his skin.  “Removing the lyrium--is there a less painful way to do that?”

Danarius’ brow creased in thought.  “Depleting the lyrium, perhaps?  I designed it to be self-replenishing; it’s why you’re linked to the Fade.  Sever the link, and it will probably deplete with each use.  It’s just a theory though; I would want to test it before I tried it on you.”

He wanted to _experiment_ on living people?  “No.”

“Oh, since when did you become so squeamish?  Wouldn’t you prefer to know if you will survive the process?”

He thought of all the people that had died so Fenris would live.  He couldn’t…  “There must be another way.”  Danarius didn’t answer, and was wandering off.  Fenris strode after him.  “What if the blood in the Ritual was just the blood of some rats or something, and we put the lyrium on another rat, in small amounts…”

Danarius actually laughed, as if he had said something funny.  “Ask your blood mage friend why that won’t work.”

“She’s not my friend,” he muttered under his breath.  But he got the idea anyway.  He would run the idea by Merrill regardless.  Danarius was a bastard and wouldn’t tell him anything.  He didn’t see why it wouldn’t work.  “Didn’t you ever practice on an animal?”

“Yes.  Forming the vessels that hold the lyrium in your skin, practice burning it into their skin.  Not in making it functional, and I certainly never cared if they survived it being removed.”

Fenris sighed, staring off at the Black City in the distance, an ever-constant reminder of where they really were.  “You’re no help.”

“I think you have some ideas at least.”  
            He scoffed.  “That I’m never going to get these markings off of my body.”

Danarius seemed pleased by this notion.  “It’s really not my problem.  I offered suggestions; you rejected them.”

Fenris had had enough of this.  “Danarius.  You figure something else out—something that won’t involving killing people—and we both get what we want.  I’ll be free of you, and your soul won’t be bound to mine any more.”

He shrugged.  “Or you could kill Shaislyn; that would sever our souls, I am more than certain.”  He paused.  “It won’t help you get rid of the lyrium, but it would help the matter, I’m sure.”

The elf glowered.  Even if he considered murder to be acceptable for this, how could he even _find_ Shaislyn?  “Think of something.”

He considered.  “Do you like killing slavers?  Bandits, thugs?  Things like that?  What’s the difference between killing them in battle and using their blood to fuel a spell?”

“Torture!”

“You’ve tortured people before and had no qualms about it then,” he said.  “You’re such a hypocrite.”

The lyrium resonated with his mounting temper, but Danarius had turned and was, again, walking away from him.  He wouldn’t be so angry if the dead magister didn’t have an excellent point.  He _was_ being hypocritical.  He had tortured that kid.  He had tortured a slaver in a back alley in Kirkwall.  He had justified it at the time, told himself it was to a good cause, and that the two had deserved it.  He had slaughtered plenty of men and women—slavers, bandits, thugs, Tal-Vashoth…  Fog Warriors.

Was there no difference between he and Danarius?

 

Fenris rolled out of bed, and sat up, looking at the bottle.  Just a spoonful, Anders had said.  He had taken double the amount, and waking had been difficult.  He still felt sleepy.  He stood up and stretched, shaking his head a little.

 _We’re nothing alike_ , he decided firmly.  The difference was in the _intent_ not the deed.  The only similarity was that they had both killed and tortured.  _He tortured to be cruel._

He thought of a young man, in his early twenties, blood running from his lips.  He didn’t have a tongue.  No, it had been cut out, the bloody bit of flesh burned to cinders in a fireplace in front of him.

He couldn’t remember the man’s name, but he knew with a cold certainty that Danarius had tortured him, and he had made Fenris—no, Leto—he had made Leto kill him.

_I didn’t torture for the sake of it, nor as a display of power.  I tortured because I needed the information._

He thought of the children Danarius had killed.  He thought of all the people that had died for the Ritual.  He thought of all the people that died in the coliseum for entertainment.  He had never killed for entertainment, or for his own perverted ambitions.  When he killed someone, it was because they were a threat to his life, or someone else’s well-being.

Intent did not change the deed, but it did sculpt the nature of it.  He killed to protect; Danarius killed for his own ambitions.  If it weren’t for people like Danarius, he wouldn’t have to kill.

Fenris breathed a little easier.  _And may I never kill an innocent again._

It was a vow, a creed, a promise to himself.  Really, it was one he had made a long time ago, but never put words to.  If someone didn’t deserve to die, they should live.  And he should do his best to make certain they did.

Fully awake, he dropped back on the bed.  He felt better, but he still felt lonely.

He thought about Hawke, at this early hour, probably in bed with Anders.  He sighed, and then smiled.  But Hawke seemed so happy, and it made him glad to see him happy.  It _was_ hard to see them both together, but if he focused on how happy Anders made Hawke, his jealousy calmed.  He loved Hawke.

Loving someone meant caring for their happiness, and he did.  He never again wanted to stand in the way of Hawke and Hawke’s happiness.  And if Anders made him happy, they had his blessing.

He supposed, where he was concerned, this is what whores were for.  Or maybe he should try to meet new people once in a while.  It couldn’t _hurt_ , could it?

He dismissed the idea.  He was leaving soon, what would be the point?  Besides, whores were so much more professional, a sure thing, and with less emotional baggage.

The Blooming Rose would be open again in a few hours.  He should go pay Wensley a visit.  He hadn’t seen him in quite a while.

 


	103. Jigsaw Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris sees some of the larger picture of his life.

            Merrill listened with rapt attention while Fenris explained the things Danarius had offered to him.  She did not comment or ask questions while he was talking, but he could tell from the look on her face that what he was saying was implausible.

            He stopped.  “What is it?”

            She made a face.  “You can’t…”  She shook her head a little.  “You can’t use an animal’s blood in blood magic.”  She shrugged helplessly.  “It would be like trying to replace sugar with salt; they look alike, but you wouldn’t want to eat the cookies, would you?”

            He had come to like talking about magic with Merrill better than Hawke or Anders.  Hawke and Anders both seemed more formally educated in magic, particularly Anders, who had been a Circle mage.  In some ways, it was advantageous, but they didn’t know how to explain things to him the way that Merrill seemed to.  “It’s too different then?”

            She nodded.  “It’s why I use my blood when I use blood magic.”

            He considered this, his eyes involuntarily straying to her hands.  Under the fabric on her arms, there were scars on her flesh—a series of short cuts, marks on her fingers and her palms.  “But you could use someone else’s…”

            “A person’s,” she clarified, with some unease.  “Not an animal’s.”

            He frowned.  “A Darkspawn?”  
            Merrill stilled as she thought about it seriously.  “They have mages.  I don’t see… why I couldn’t…  I’ve never tried.”

            It would be impossibly dangerous to try to cage a Darkspawn or two and experiment on them, especially something like this.  Anders would be the only one who could go safely near them, and the problem with that is that it was _Merrill_ who would have to experiment.  “Perhaps it is too dangerous,” he said slowly.

            Merrill seemed relieved that he had dismissed the idea.  “We’ll think of something, Fenris,” she assured him.

            He rose.  “I need to go meet Hawke.”

            She bid him farewell and he left.  Merrill was leaving Kirkwall in three days, but said she would stay in touch when she could.  She had left her apartment in the alienage, and was staying at Hawke’s manor for the time being.  It made it easier to talk to all three of the mages he knew when he needed to.

Fenris found Hawke in the Lowtown market, where the mage had said he would be.  Anders was just walking away, down to Darktown, and Hawke was looking after him.

            “Hawke,” Fenris called. 

The man jumped, and turned toward him.  The apostate blinked, and the longing was gone from his eyes.  He yawned.  “Nice to see you,” he said.  “Been a while.”

Fenris shrugged.  “I’ve been busy.”  He paused.  “I was just talking to Merrill—about the Ritual.”  He ran by his ideas with Hawke, about needing to sever his link to the Fade.

“For someone who isn’t a mage, you can come up with some really interesting theories,” Hawke commented.

Fenris looked away, uneasy.  “I wasn’t the one who had that idea.”  
            Hawke came to the next natural conclusion, with some surprise; Merrill was good at deconstructing how a spell worked, but she had few ideas on how to fix Fenris’ problem.  “Oh, it was Merrill?”  
            “No.  I did talk about it with her though—she feels like she could perform the Ritual to get into the Fade, but we’d have to kill someone.  I was thinking… perhaps a slaver or a condemned criminal, but I still don’t like it.”

Hawke sighed, and nodded.  “We’ll think of some other way.”

“I don’t even know if that will work, or just make it worse.”  They started to walk up the steps to Hightown.  “My link to the Fade is like an anchor—what happens if I lose it?”  
            Hawke glanced at him.  Fenris was worried that if he phased after the link was severed, he would not be able to come back.  “Maybe nothing.”

This was why Danarius had wanted to experiment.  He cringed at the idea.  He couldn’t…  He _couldn’t_ do the same things that bastard had done.  “I need to know.”

“At what cost?”

Fenris shook his head, unable to answer.  There had to be some way.  It had to be possible.  “I don’t know.”  He paused.  “You remember the ‘blood link’ in the Ritual?  I think I know who it was.  I think they are part of my link to the Fade, so if I were to kill that person, perhaps that would be all I needed.”

Hawke was quiet for a long time.  “Would it be worth it?”

He thought about an eight-year old child with messy hair, blood dripping down his arm and stumbling over bleeding bodies.  “No.”  He looked away.  “But it might be my only option.”

The apostate considered.  Fenris wasn’t talking about vengeance upon someone who had done him wrong; he was talking about outright murder.  “I’m not going to judge you; I’m still with Anders after all he’s done—but are you sure you want to consider that?”

The elf shook his head.  “No.”  He sighed.  “I’m just… desperate.”

Hawke was visibly relieved.  “How did you come up with all of this?”

Fenris glanced at him sidelong.  “When I induce a deep sleep, I can…”  He hesitated.  “The lyrium binds me to the Fade, and… to Danarius.”

Hawke froze, and Fenris stopped, just ahead of him, looking back at him.  The mage was shocked, and appalled.  He knew some of what the magister had done to him.  He stepped toward him, protectively.  Fenris was dimly amused at that.  “We have to get you away from him.”  Fenris looked up at his face, saw the alarm in his eyes, the genuine worry.

The elf shook his head a little.  “He has absolutely no interest in me, and he is just a lost soul now.  He only seems to want me to go away when I see him.”  Lately, at least.  Maybe it had been an interesting quirk to him in the first dream, but by the second, Danarius had lost interest in living in a dream world and seemed to just want to pass on to whatever was next.  The magister was in limbo.  Mages, he had read, were often trapped in the Fade in a way that other people were not after they died, but Danarius seemed particularly trapped, chained to someone still living.  Fenris felt like whatever “inconvenience” it caused him, he deserved it and more.

Hawke did not back down, or look any less worried.  “He’s just tricking you.”

“I always consider that when I deal with him,” he agreed.  “But he doesn’t seem to want our souls to be connected; it binds him—somehow.  I’m not certain as to how it is affecting him; I never asked.”  Perhaps he should have; maybe it mattered.  Trouble was, he didn’t particularly care.

Hawke searched Fenris’ sage eyes for even a hint that this was all a terrible joke.  It wasn’t.  “Fenris, that man hurt you.  The things he did to you…  How can you even consider speaking to him?”

Fenris looked back at Hawke, his expression sad.  “No one else knows anything about the Ritual, and I’m desperate.”  He looked away, thinking about the Templar he had met whose memory was fading like mist in the morning sun.  Was that what would happen to Fenris?  How could he explain to Hawke how terrifying that was?  The Templar could barely remember anything at all, even his own name came and went.

Was this how it had been for Varania?  She had turned to Danarius because she, too, was desperate?

Hawke looked torn.  “Be careful, please.”  He hesitated.  “I care about you, and I don’t want you getting hurt.”

Fenris almost rolled his eyes.  “I’m just dreaming, Hawke.”

The other was unconvinced, but he had to relinquish his point; Fenris was a grown man and could make his own decisions, no matter how poor he thought they were.

 

Hawke kind of liked his mansion so full of people—Bodahn and Sandal, Orana, Anders, and Merrill.  All they needed now was a Qunari.  It was nice to see humans, dwarves, and elves living in one place, under the same roof.  He could tell that Merrill liked it too.  It was an ideal of unity and equality.  Maybe it was too idealistic, but it was a nice idea.

On Merrill’s last night in Kirkwall, Orana cooked up a large meal, and Hawke invited Aveline, Donnic, and Fenris over.  He missed Varric and Isabela, and even Sebastian, but it was still nice to do.

Fenris and Merrill were getting along a lot better than they ever had before.  He supposed that, since Merrill had given up blood magic, and started helping him, he had decided to be more civil.  They weren’t friends exactly—years of animosity had seen to that—but it was nice to see that they could carry on a conversation without it ending in hard feelings.

Someone brought up Sebastian, and some concern over Starkhaven coming to attack Kirkwall.  There hadn’t been any news as of the moment, but that didn’t mean much.

“What will you do if Sebastian really does raise an army to kill you and Anders?” Fenris asked Hawke.

The mage glanced over at Anders, and shrugged noncommittally.  “Run?  I don’t know.”  He looked back at Fenris.  “You’ll be all the way on the other side of Thedas though.  Would you drop whatever you are doing and hasten to my rescue?”

“I hardly think of you as a damsel in distress, princess.”

Hawke frowned.  “So you’d leave me to the mercy of a very vengeful Sebastian?”

“I’d attend your funeral.”

“Your vote of confidence is overwhelming.”

He smirked.  “I just don’t think I’d, realistically, make it in time to cleave through Sebastian’s army.  I can promise to avenge you, but that’s as far as that goes.”

“Thanks,” Hawke said flatly.  “Good to know I can rely on you.”

“Well, I still think of Sebastian as being a _friend_ and I refuse to kill him—at least until he hurts you.  I also disapprove of what you did that day--I just don’t feel as strongly as he does.”   _And I believe in you.  I don’t believe in the Maker, but I do believe in you, Hawke._

Hawke groaned.  “The second I hear about Sebastian moving south, I think Anders and I are leaving.”

“That’s not a bad idea.”

Anders suddenly tuned into the conversation.  “Leaving to where, love?”  
            “Satina,” he said with some sarcasm.  “That’s the only place I can think of that Sebastian wouldn’t hunt me down to—I cringe sometimes when I think about how we were friends, and now he wants to skin my hide and use it as a flag.”

Merrill blinked in alarm.  “What?  Humans do things like that?”

Anders winked broadly at her.  “That’s what all our flags are made out of.”

            The elven mage stared at him, utterly appalled.

“Don’t tease her, Anders,” Aveline reprimanded him.

Donnic chuckled.  “Don’t worry, Merrill; it’s only the mentally disturbed humans that do things like that.  We usually knight them and grant them lordships.”  Aveline elbowed her husband.

Hawke frowned, leaning back in the chair.  “You know, I’m not sure anything would have been much different if I _had_ sided with the Templars.  I mean, Orseno became an abomination anyway, and Meredith was already crazy, so it isn’t wholly unbelievable that she wouldn’t have tried to kill everyone no matter what we did.”

Anders looked down at the table.  “Do you think…”  He frowned a little, and flinched.  “Meredith was completely mad.  Do you suppose, if I hadn’t blown up the Chantry, that she still would have behaved like that?”

“Eventually—I don’t think that red lyrium helped the matter.  It probably just would have taken her a bit longer to tip over the edge.  That woman was insane,” Hawke assured him.  Anders was quiet.

Fenris spotted Orana.  She was kneeling down to Sandal’s height, talking to him in a gentle voice.  Sandal nodded understandingly, and trotted off to bed.  She rose, and looked back at Fenris when she noticed him approaching her.

“I wanted to ask you something,” he said slowly.  She nodded for him to go on.  “Did Hadriana have a child?”

Orana nodded.  “Oh, yes.  Little Lysander, named from his father,” she said.  _Lysander_.  Was that a coincidence?

“Hadriana married?”

The elf shook her head.  “No.  I don’t really know the whole story, but I know that she became pregnant, and the boy’s father had left the Imperium for something, and died before he returned, but she had intended to marry him.”

Fenris twitched, just a little.  It wasn’t a coincidence.  He had tortured and killed the father.  _No fucking wonder she came after me.  No small wonder she wanted to enslave me, or kill me._   “I… see.  And did Hadriana bring her child with her to the Free Marches?”

Orana nodded.  “That was the whole reason she brought me; to watch Lysander.”

He paled.  “Did you ever see him in the caves?”

Orana considered, thinking hard.  It had been a tumultuous day, and years ago.  The poor girl had been terrified.  “Yes—once.  Right after I saw you.  He was running after you, and I caught him.  But…”  She flinched.  “I heard a scream—this… terrible sound…  Like a demon…”

He couldn’t remember anything like that, but he had been in the midst of battle, and he had been in so many, much of them just sort of bled together in his memory.  “And?” he pressed.

She hesitated, clearly uncomfortable.  “He was in my arms, and I was frightened, and I let go of him and ran—I thought he would run too…”  She glanced away.  “But he didn’t.”  She looked back at Fenris.  “But I thought…  the mercenary would have taken care of him.”

“Mercenary?”  After he had killed Hadriana, he had just left.  He needed to ask Hawke if they had found anyone else. 

She shrugged helplessly.  “I don’t remember his name, or really what he looked like.”

He nodded, dismissing it.  Just another slaver they had missed, he assumed.  “Thank you, Orana.”

He turned back to the group.  They were talking about nugs—if they really made good pets or not.  Anders commented that he had eaten one before, as a roast, before another Grey Warden named Oghren challenged it to a drunken wrestling match, and no one wanted it after that.

Fenris looked between Hawke and Aveline.  They had both been there that day.  “Excuse me, princess?” he said, his tone light-hearted and teasing.

“Yes, peasant?” Hawke said agreeably.

“The day I killed Hadriana, you never did find anyone else in the caves, did you?”

Hawke shook his head, but Aveline stilled, thinking.  “No, I thought we pretty much cleared them out.”

Aveline was shaking her head though, and he looked to her.  “Varric thought he saw another slaver running away,” she said slowly, trying to remember the details.

Hawke’s eyebrows rose as he remembered.  “Yes.”  He flinched.  “I said I didn’t care or something, if I recall.  And we just left.  Do you know if he got a look at him?”

Aveline shook her head.  “I didn’t see anything.”

Fenris frowned in thought.  “Thank you.  So, what does nug taste like, Anders?”

“Ever eaten a rat?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, everyone! I fixed a small problem from earlier (ninja edit!), and now I move onward with the plot!
> 
> And, yes, the "excuse me, princess" was intentional and I salute Link's catchphrase.


	104. Farewell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris contemplates the meaning of his life, then goes to spend another night with his favourite whore.

            Fenris received word that Anastas had arrived in Kirkwall.  He met with him, noted his receding hairline and extra wrinkles.  He showed him a few of his paintings before they were sold, and told him they were leaving a week from now, the caravan headed back northwest.

            It meant he had to give up, at least for the moment, on freeing himself of the lyrium.  It would always be at the back of his mind, but he wasn’t making any headway on it in Kirkwall.

            Fenris told Aveline first, mostly because he saw her walking on his way from the inn Anastas was staying at.  He told her that he was leaving, but she was unsurprised; she had heard about it from Donnic.  “So I can finally stop making up excuses as to why your mansion can’t be sold and renovated?”

            He laughed.  “Yes.”

            “I’ll miss you,” she told him.

            “I’ll miss you too, Aveline,” he told her.  “You’ve been a good friend.”

            They walked, and talked for a while, mostly about old times.  They parted ways at Hawke’s mansion, and he found Hawke, as usual, not at home.  That was fine; he talked with Bodahn for a while, and sat with Orana over tea.

            It had been a few hours, and Hawke still had not returned, so he left.  He walked around Hightown, as out of place as only an elf could be in a wealthy district.  He ignored the disgusted looks people gave him, the snide remarks muttered under their breath, about his eyes, about his ears.  Some stared because of the lyrium, that awful lyrium that made it so painfully obvious that he must have come from the Imperium, making it so much more obvious that he had been a slave.

            And people would whisper about that too.  He ignored it, as he ever had, as he would always have to.  Acting upon those whispers only led to shouting, maybe violence and arrests.  And if he were not friends with Aveline, he knew that he would be in more trouble than a human would be, simply because of his bloodlines.

            He turned and walked down the steps to Lowtown, moving out of the way of humans and dwarves to avoid conflict, passing only very few elves—each of them servants, he didn’t doubt.  He watched the steps as he walked, stepping around pigeon droppings, listened to the cawing of a crow.

            He wondered what his mother had been like.  Aveline had told him that, when he was on drugs, he had spoken of her.  He had been humming something, and said he had learned it from his mother.

            Had she liked music?

            He wondered about Varania.  Aveline had said that he had known more about her when he was under the influence; that he had said that Varania was intelligent and logical.

            What was his father like?

            He didn’t know.  He had probably died a long time ago, and…  A loud, hacking sound made him jump, and his eyes widened.

            _His sad smile even touched his leaf-green eyes.  It had been unbearable to see his father beaten and chained, the way he had limped, and bent over the block.  The way the axe had bit into his neck, and did not cleave it in two.  It required a second strike, thunking solidly into the wood.  The head fell with a dull thud into the waiting basket._

            Fenris looked up, staring at the butcher, busily cutting into a pig carcass.  He shivered, walking quickly away.

            _My father was beheaded.  And I watched, helpless.  I couldn’t do anything to stop it._

            That was why Jairus’ beheading had so bothered him.  He felt suddenly ill.

            Why?  Why had his father been executed?  What had happened?  Beheadings were for betrayers, mutineers, prisoners.  _Prisoners_.

            He had been beaten, bruised, and possibly tortured.  Danarius said that his grandfather had been a warrior.  What had his father been?  What had his father done to warrant execution at the hands of the Imperials?  He suddenly felt angry.  His father had been a rebel fighter, and when he was executed, his wife and child were sold into slavery?  Or was it something else?  
            He guessed it didn’t matter.  He wanted to know, but it didn’t matter.  He was dead.  His mother was dead.  Varania was gone, and he hoped gone for good, after what she had done.

            He thought about Shaislyn, his nephew that probably hated him.  If the boy were still alive—no, Danarius was sure that he was.  He wondered what it would be like to have a real family:  Parents, siblings, his nephew.

            Against his better judgment, he watched parents minding their children.  He watched older children caring for the younger, or adult children caring for their elderly parents.  He imagined a different life, one where he had never been a slave.  A life where his name had always been “Leto” and he had never seen lyrium.

            He imagined a life where the word ‘master’ had never graced his lips.  A life in an alienage perhaps, maybe like the one he had seen in Seheron.  A life where he had grown up with both of his parents, and a little sister.  He wondered where he would be right now.

            He looked down the street, at the gates of the alienage.  His heart ached.

            At his age?  He’d be married, he imagined.  A child, children if they were lucky.  He wondered what it would be like to receive the unconditional love of a child.  What it would be like to hold that child, a part of himself.  Watch a child he loved and cared for grow into an adult he could be proud to have raised.

            It hurt, when he remembered that it was only too likely that he was sterile.  The lyrium had seen to that.  It gave him constant pain.  It took away everything he had ever been.  And it took every possibility of a family from him too.

            He walked down the steps to the alienage, and couldn’t say why.  He watched the elves there, as they went about their lives.  It was very empty, compared to how it had been before Wintersend, but not every elf had been willing to leave.  Two children were playing, and their mother was yelling at them not to run through the mud, but it was far, far too late.  He looked up at the venadahl, at its high branches.  He wondered what the trees meant to elves.  He should have asked Merrill.

            He knew that the venadahl was planted to remind them of what they used to be, but he wondered how much of that was true.  He didn’t know.  He knew why Merrill thought the past was important, because he so often wondered about his own past.  He wanted to know his own history, and felt like he had a right to know it.

            “Haven’t seen you before,” he heard a voice say.  He turned toward it.  “Have you just moved here?”

            He looked back at the woman.  He guessed her age around her early 30s, a newborn infant in her arms.  “Ah, traveling,” he said, the lie coming easily to his lips.  “We just stopped here—I wanted to see… the venadahl.”

            “Do you not have one where you are from?”

            He thought of the burned alienage in Seheron, and shook his head.  “No.”

            Her eyes conveyed her sorrow.  “I’m sorry,” she said earnestly.  “I’m from Ostwick—years ago.  We didn’t have one either.  My name’s Caisclyn, by the way.  Where are you from?”

            “Seheron, originally.  But I’ve travelled for so long, it’s hard to say any more.”

            She was about to ask what he did, he guessed, but one of the muddy children dashed past her, shrieking in mock terror.  The other child hurled a ball of mud at the other, hitting him squarely in the back.  The other turned, and stuck his tongue at the other.  “Boys!” she shrieked.  The pair laughed, chasing each other around her.  She grabbed onto one of them, and the other yelped and ran away.  She stared after him, but with the infant in her arms, she couldn’t go after him.

            Fenris hesitated.  “I can hold the baby,” he offered.

            She smiled warmly, and, despite that he was a stranger, she handed the child to him.  “Careful,” she said.  “I’ll be back in just a moment.”  With a firm hand on one of the boys, she hunted down the second.  He watched her for a moment, and then looked back at the infant in his arms.

            It was so small and helpless-looking.  So trusting, because it had to be.  Its eyes were open, peering out at the world curiously.  He wondered what the babe would grow up to be like.  Its personality had so many endless possibilities, its future so uncertain and divided.

            He looked up when he heard the boys screaming again.  They seemed to be causing a bit of a scene, and the mother, Caisclyn, looked exasperated.

            He frowned to himself, and walked up to the little family.  “Boys,” he snapped.  They looked at him, but only went back to throwing mud at each other and racing around their mother’s skirts.  He smirked to himself, the lyrium coming to life over him.  The boys stilled, and the lyrium dimmed.  Caisclyn seemed alarmed.  Apparently, he could still look intimidating with an infant in his arms.

            “Mind your mother,” he told them.  They stopped, mud slipping from grimy fingers, their eyes wide.

            Caisclyn finally laughed, the tension from the display easing.  “I never got your name,” she said.  “I’m sorry about that.”

            He realized he had missed the social grace to have supplied it for her.  He supposed that he would never really be very good at things like that.  “Fenris.”

            She had a curious look on her face, as if she were expecting him to say something entirely different.  “’Fenris’?” she echoed, a ghost of a smile on her lips.  “Really?”  
            He shrugged a shoulder.  “I didn’t choose it,” he said in defense.  And she laughed again.

            He sat with Caisclyn as she cleaned off the boy’s faces and hands, and made them change their clothes.  Now, they were playing—quietly—on the floor nearby.  She smiled gratefully at him.  “Thank you so much,” she said again.

            “It’s not a problem.”

            She shrugged.  “It’s just that—their father works all the time—and they know I don’t have the energy to chase after them.”  She sighed, making a face.  “The twins are good boys, really, but, well, they’re boys.”

            He looked back down at the infant, now sleeping in his arms contentedly.  “They’ll grow out of it,” he assured her.

            She smiled.  “I sure hope so.”  She cocked her head to the side.  “Do you have children?”

            He blinked in surprise, looking back at her.  “I—no.  I’m not even…”

            She paused.  “Oh.  I’m sorry.  I guess you move around too much to settle down.”  She looked back at him, holding her newborn baby.  “You’d make a good father.  I can tell.”

            He looked back at her, unable to tell her that he wouldn’t.  All he knew was death, torture, slavery, abuse.  He had tasted love, once, but it had been so fleeting.  “If you say so,” he said, his gaze falling back to the infant.  Its life was just beginning.  It was so precious, and so new.

            Caisclyn said that he could come back any time he wished.  He did.  He came back the next day, and played with the twins, and held the baby while Caisclyn cooked.  He met their father briefly, marveled at their family.

            Caisclyn’s husband walked him out of the alienage on the third night.  “Why do you keep coming here?” he asked him.

            Fenris struggled for a moment.  “I’ve always wanted a family,” he said.  “I don’t want to take yours, if that’s what you’re worried about.”  He hesitated.  “I just… like to see what it’s like.”

            The man searched his face.  “Your parents sell you when you were a kid?” he asked him, his voice not unfriendly.

            Fenris lied, “Yes—but I don’t remember it.”  It was so much less complicated than telling the truth.  “And I can’t have children.”  He wasn’t sure if that were true, but the odds were somewhat unfortunate.

            The man’s face softened.  Whatever the man chose to make of that, Fenris didn’t much care.  But he felt like the lyrium made it that much more apparent.  “I see.  Come back any time, Fenris.  Caisclyn and the kids like you.”

            He did, often, whenever he could.  He went to see Wensley, and lost himself for a time in his arms and his bed.

            He spent some time with Donnic and Aveline.  She made supper, and they played cards—Aveline got mad when she lost but he was willing to endure.  It had taken him completely unawares, but she hugged him goodbye, and asked him to write if he would.

            “I write badly,” he warned her.

            “I’d still like to hear from you,” she said.  Her eyebrows rose with worry.  “I worry about you going back to the Imperium.”

            “I trust Anastas.  My bounty is gone.”  He snorted a laugh.  “Legally, I’m his slave right now—the first thing we’re doing is going to go appear before a court and make everything official.”  He smiled a little.  “I’ll let you know when I’m _legally_ free.”

            She seemed uneasy.  “Are you sure he’ll do it?”

            He nodded, unworried.  “Most of his current servants and employees are freed slaves—his freed slaves.  Anastas was a slave himself.  I know that doesn’t mean very much, but I do trust him.  It helps that he gave me the paperwork for it.”

            She still seemed uncertain.  “If you’re sure.”

            “I am.”  Donnic and he clasped hands briefly, and Fenris went home for the night.       Hawke and Anders were out the next morning, but Fenris took tea with Orana and they chatted for a while before Hawke came back.  He stayed for supper, at Hawke’s behest.  Anders was at the clinic until well after, finding he and Hawke talking in the library.  Talking, and nothing more.

            Though Fenris often thought about that “something more.”

            He let the matter go, with little choice, and contented himself with Hawke’s happiness.  Anders loved him, and that was enough.

            When he went to leave, he was surprised when the door opened again, and it was Anders who came outside.

The blonde fidgeted, and sighed, flustered.  “I wanted to say that I’m sorry I hit you that night,” he said.  He took a deep breath.  “I’m sorry I hit you.  Three times.  In the face.”

Fenris looked at him.  “Good.  And?”

Anders rolled his eyes.  “And I’m sorry that I swore at you.  And berated you.  And I wanted to apologize for saying something else you never heard:  I once said you acted more like a dog than a man.”  Fenris raised an eyebrow.  “It was true at the time.”  The elf’s lips drew into a thin, unforgiving line.  “ _But_ , lately, you’ve matured a lot--it took you a _very_ long time--but you have.  And…  I’m happy to say that it was wrong of me to ever doubt you were capable of behaving like a mature adult.”

He stared at him, blinking slowly.  “I can’t tell if you just insulted me again, or if you really apologized.”

“Both,” Anders clarified.  “I still don’t like you.”

Fenris nodded.  “Good; I don’t like you either.”  He paused.  “But I will accept your apology, if you accept mine:  I am genuinely sorry about my behaviour with Hawke, and I am sorry for my petty jealousy at the time, and for hurting him.  And for passive-aggressively trying to ruin your relationship.”  He paused again, flinching.  “And I am sorry that I was so selfish that I couldn’t see that Hawke was happy--and I should have just been happy that he was happy.”

Anders actually smiled.  “I appreciate that, and thank you.”

“You ever going to pay me back the money you owe me?” Fenris inquired, cocking his head to the side, lips curving into a small smirk.

Anders laughed that time.  “I can certainly try, but I think I’ll be paying you back long after I’m dead,” he complained.

“You’re terrible at cards,” Fenris agreed.

Anders nodded in agreement, then paused.  He hesitated, and seemed oddly reluctant.  “Fenris.  One more thing…?”

The elf blinked.  “Yes?”

The mage looked down.  “You love Hawke?”

Fenris frowned, wondering where this was going.  “Yes.”

He seemed, for once, relieved to hear that.  “Years from now, I may write a letter to you.”  He stopped again, and glanced back at the door.  He stepped closer to Fenris, away from it.  “Do you remember when we went chasing the Carta into the Deep Roads?”

            “Yes, of course.”

            Anders nodded again, and stared up at the sky for a moment.  “You remember the Calling?”

            One dark eyebrow arched.  “Of course.”  It was a terrible price to pay.  It was what almost made Anders noble, in a twisted sort of light.  He knew he didn’t have long to live, knew how he would die, and what would happen to him if he didn’t fall upon a blade before then.  It must be a terrible burden to know, without doubt, your own death.  At the same time, he had abandoned his duties as a Grey Warden and ran away from it like a coward.  Like Fenris had tried to run away from himself in Seheron?  He could no more run from his past and his deeds than Anders could, and they had both tried.

            Anders looked pained for a moment.  “I know it’s a lot to ask, and it’s a long way off, but if you’re still around, I might ask you to stay with Hawke after I go.”  He shook his head a little.  “I don’t want him coming after me--that’s all.”

            Fenris nodded, sage eyes softening with the first shreds of sympathy he had ever felt for the mage.  “I understand, Anders.”

            He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.  “Sorry, but I know you care about him, and I just really don’t want him to die down there with me.”  He looked away.  “And you’re somewhat level-headed and I know…”

            “You can write to me.”

            Anders looked back at the elf, relief evident in his countenance.  “Thank you.”

            “I’d do anything for Hawke,” he told him.

            “Which is why I know I can rely on you.”

There was an awkward pause for a moment.  “You better look after him in the meantime.”

“I don’t think he needs me to, but I’ll always be there for him if he does.”

Fenris nodded, and turned away.  It was good enough for him.

 

            His last night in Kirkwall, Wensley had told him to drop by.  He had said it wouldn’t be cheap, but reasonable, and he promised, in a breathy whisper, to make it well worth his while.

            Fenris hadn’t known what to expect, as Wensley had blatantly refused to even give hint of it, but he had not been expecting this. 

Wensley was wearing a heavy wool robe, when he came to meet him, with black boots under it, and that was all he could see.  Wensley took him by the hand, his eyes already dark with desire, and led him up the stairs.  They came to his room, and Wensley opened the door slowly, leading the elf inside.

            Fenris blinked at the surroundings.

            Some might have said the fat beeswax candles drooling tallow wax over the desk, the dresser, lining shelves and bedstands, the windowsill with the drapes pulled back to let in the moons’ light, their small fires casting the room in a pleasant, low glow was romantic.  Some might have said the trail of white hardy cyclamen petals spread over the floor and the bed were cheesy, others might say words like “touching” or “thoughtful”.  Rose petals would have been more the norm for this sort of thing, but it was the wrong season for them.  The cyclamen had the added bonus of being heart-shaped.  The door shut quietly.

            At Fenris’ long silence, Wensley had to ask, “Is it cheesy?”

            Fenris glanced back at him.  “Yes.  But I like it.”

            Wensley breathed a sigh of relief.  “Good.”  He gave the elf an intimate look, full of dark promises and forbidden secrets.  The belt of his robe came undone at a tug from his hand, and the fabric slipped from his shoulders, catching Fenris’ attention.  He shrugged out of the robe, hanging it on a peg on the door.  Fenris drank in the sight of him, enjoying the way the leather harness fit over his shoulders, the way the straps ran over his chest, and a metal ring encircled his manhood.  The boots climbed to mid-thigh, laced tight over his legs, drawing his eye to the bare areas of his thighs.  His forearms were encased in laced leather bracers, showing only the barest glimpse of his skin between the lacings.  The elf reached toward him, wanting to touch, to see.  He wanted to slip his fingers between his muscular chest and the leather, to pull the other man toward him.  He wanted to figure out how he had slipped on that harness.

            Wensley stepped toward him, and let Fenris explore, let him touch and caress and enjoy the way his skin felt.  Wensley moved his hands down the elf’s back, gripping his buttocks tightly in one hand, pushing him against him.

            “Take that shit off,” Wensley said, his tone gentle but commanding.  Fenris pulled away.  He wanted to peel off his clothing.  He wanted to be naked and press his bare skin against the other man’s, feel the leather against his skin.  His armor had to come off first, and Wensley helped him, setting it out of the way.  Wensley folded Fenris’ tunic systematically, setting it in an empty drawer with the rest of things, and threw Fenris, half-naked onto the bed.  The man’s fingers dug into the top of pants, peeling them downward slowly, nibbling his suddenly exposed hip, licking a newly exposed thigh.  He eventually removed the pants, and moved away from the bed, back to the drawer, folded the pants and placed them in there.

            Fenris watched him move, sitting up, leaning forward.  He liked watching him walk, cool and confident in the bedroom.  He looked at the way the straps fit across his back, the buckles glinting in the dim light.  He liked the dominant and submissive play because it was only that—play.  The moment Fenris told him to stop, he would.  The moment Fenris felt uncomfortable, Wensley would stop, get him something to drink, hold him if he wanted it, and do everything he could to make him comfortable again.  It was safe.

            Wensley went to the bed, pushing Fenris gently back down.  He kissed him once, briefly, nuzzled against his neck.  He flicked his tongue over a nipple, and licked his way down to the edge of the elf’s underclothes.  Wensley bit along the edge of them teasingly.  He moved his mouth against Fenris’ stirring manhood, breathing warm air over it, his lips against it teasingly.  His teeth tugged against the fabric.

            He kissed his stomach, and clenched the top of the fabric between his front teeth.  Fenris was as accommodating as reason would allow, moving to permit the movement, enjoying the way Wensley would kneel submissively, the way he would stare up at him with every inch pulled down.

            When Wensley had tugged them down to his knees, he pulled them off with his hands.  He tossed the small garment on the floor, but moved out of the bed all the same.  Intrigued, Fenris sat up slightly, watching him, eager for whatever it was Wensley had planned.

            Wensley pulled a polished dark box from under the bed, and Fenris’ breathing quickened; he knew what this was.  It opened on silent hinges, but he couldn’t see what the man had removed from it when he shut the box and slid it back in its place.

            Wensley had something in his hand.  “Come here, darling, and stand up.”  Wensley had only ever affectionately called Fenris “pet” once—and never again when Fenris told him not to.  He hadn’t even asked why—he guessed that was why he liked him.  Wensley, henceforth, had stuck to things like “darling”.

            Fenris slid from the bed, and Wensley moved behind him, his arms encircling him for a moment.  His lips found his neck, pulling his back hard against his chest.  Fenris grunted with the force of it.  Wensley’s erection pushed against the small of his back.  Fenris moaned as the man’s hand moved down his chest, running over the sensitive spot on his hip and down his leg.  He rose on the tips of his toes, moving Wensley closer to where he wanted him.  Wensley stepped back just as quickly.

            “I’m going to punish you for that—trying to distract me.”  He tsked.

            Fenris glanced over his shoulder at him, his gaze roaming down between his legs.  “Then don’t be so eager.”

            “Mmm—talking back.  I think I’m going to gag you.”  Wensley quirked a smile, the dark lust in his eyes turning it into something almost malicious.  “You look cute with the gag.”  But he didn’t get it yet.  He unwound the coil of silk rope slowly, watching Fenris as he did as if he were mapping it all out in his head.  As he tied and moved the rope around him, he asked him if it were comfortable, if it chafed.  He would get distracted from time to time, kissing Fenris’ skin, licking along his ribs.

            The rope was safe too—more than safe.  If Fenris wanted to, he could phase, and the rope would fall around him in a useless puddle at his feet.

            Wensley finished his work by tying off the last of the rope in a braid between the elf’s shoulders, the end of it woven into another cross of the rope.  Fenris sometimes wondered if the whore planned everything, or just improvised, or if it were a little of both.  He was curious only in that he had left his arms unbound, only weaving the rope into an intricate harness.  He must have looked confused about it, because Wensley grabbed a hold of the rope, pulling him forward.  His other arms encircled him, his fingers grasping the rope behind him.  “It makes it easy to move you around.”  He crushed his lips in his, the kiss deepening with their matched lust.

            The whore’s hand held fast to him, but couldn’t help but roam, first only touching the exposed skin through the tangle of rope, edging downwards until he fit the other man’s buttocks in his hands.  He gripped him firmly, and Fenris tilted as his hand strayed further.  He rubbed against him, teasing him, only rubbing against him and never going deeper, circling him, starting to push against him, then withdrawing.

            “And one more part,” Wensley added, moving back behind him.  He picked up a smaller piece of rope, weaving an elaborate braid of shackles, binding his wrists behind his back.  Fenris was only amused at this; they both knew he could get out of it.  Maybe it was why he liked it.  He could pretend, for a while, that he couldn’t, having to trust someone else entirely.  Wensley had time and again earned that trust too.

            Wensley kissed him again, very briefly, before he kissed his clavicle, the center of his chest, the bottom of his rib cage.  He kissed the area just above his penis, and knelt in front of him, running his tongue along him.  He blew cool air through his lips over the wetness, gentle for all the leather and rope.  He put his lips against the tip of him, and his mouth moved agonizingly slowly down to the base of him, and back out again.  Fenris was annoyed when he immediately stopped, and moved away, in search of other toys.

            He glanced back over his shoulder, watching him select something from the box.  “Look straight forward, darling.”  Fenris moved his head back forward.  He heard Wensley rise, and the man moved his arms slowly over his shoulders, gliding his arms over him, joining his hands once in front of him.  Gentle, he moved the hard leather against Fenris’ lips.  Through much trial and error, Fenris had decided that the ball gag was a work of demon creation and the silk scarves usually came loose and just fell around his neck, but the “bit” was much more comfortable.  The bit also had the added bonus of still allowing him, to a degree, to speak.

            Wensley’s hands ran down his back, and he knelt, kissing along his spine, fingers trailing down his thighs to his ankles.  He moved his hands back up his legs, as if trying to memorize every bend of his muscles.  They curved over his hips, and he rose.  He kissed his neck again, lifting him off of his feet.  He cradled him as if he were a small child—a strange feeling.  Fenris stared up at him, leaning his head against his arm.  Even if he truly were helpless, he felt safe.

            One thing he would lament about leaving Kirkwall were these times.  How would he ever find another whore with Wensley’s talents?  He supposed he would just have to make sure that he came with Anastas on his trips to Kirkwall, and reserve the man for at least an entire night on those trips.

            Wensley did not move him onto the bed, which surprised him only a little.  He moved toward one of the walls, setting Fenris down gently on his feet.  The whore touched him again, caressing his face, a hand against his neck.  His lips moved to his neck, to his collarbone, leaving a trail of sucking kisses downward.  His tongue ran along his member, teasing again before quickly moving on.  He kissed his way down his thighs.  His lips moved to the back of Fenris’ knees, nibbling with his teeth, sucking hard.  Fenris moaned, feeling his legs going weak.  Wensley jumped, quickly away, grabbing onto him as his leg buckled.  He held him close for a moment.

            “Sorry—I should have remembered,” he whispered against his ear.  He kissed both his shoulders, and let go of him.  He pulled a heavy tapestry aside, hooking behind the object it had concealed a moment ago.  He glanced over at Fenris.  “I made it thinking about you, darling.”

            Fenris studied it.  It was elegant in simplicity.  Polished, smooth wood—he was guessing maple—the construction only a little taller than Wensley was.  Parallel bars ran across it.  He wondered, for a moment, what it could be used for.

            Wensley gently pushed him against it, leaning his back against it.  He leaned over him, the bars pressing into the elf’s back.  He moved behind him and Fenris heard a clicking noise.  Experimentally, he moved his wrists, finding the rope now connected to a chain—hence some of the point of the contraption, he guessed.

            Most of Wensley’s other clients were not _quite_ as into the play, or this kind of thing specifically, as Fenris was, so Wensley had since been collecting toys and studying to please his client.  He wondered if it were the first time he had used the rack.  He hoped so, not because it bothered him otherwise, but more that he would be the first to use it.

            His thumb rubbed against the metal chain, finding the place it connected to it.  It had the same closure as a leash, which meant he could easily unclip it if he wanted to.  He left it alone.  Wensley was always doing little things like that—little things to remind him of who was _really_ in charge while Wensley dominated him.

            He felt hard leather rub against his genitals, and his eyes flicked downwards, watching the riding crop rub against his testicles, tickle the area just under his member.  The crop brushed gently upward until it rested under his chin, pushing his head back up.  Wensley had a look in his eyes he recognized as excitement, and he felt a chill of his own eagerness rush down his spine.  _Now, now!_

            But Wensley was just as likely to tease as to deliver, just as likely to caress as to use the crop.  The leather brushed against his cheek, and lifted away, then snapped against his stomach.  He gasped, and it cracked down again, this time on his thigh.  He moaned past the gag, shuddering again when it rested, lightly, against his hip.  It twitched, a gently tap.

            “Stand up straight; you’re slouching.  Good.”  The crop slapped across his chest, and that time he jumped, head back, breathing hard.  Wensley smiled, self-satisfied and liking what he saw.  It crossed over his chest again, directly parallel with the other mark.  It fell against his hip next, and Fenris shuddered, feeling his knees getting weak again.  Wensley stopped, watching him.  “No.  Don’t you _dare_.”

            The elf took a deep breath, the human’s lips against his shoulder, down to the marks on his chest, kissing every red mark, rolling his tongue along the longer ones, until Fenris stood up straight again.  The whore moved away, and the crop crashed against his other thigh, his stomach, once more over his chest before it fell to the floor.  Wensley knelt in front of him, at his feet.  His lips brushed his inner thigh.  Fenris felt his long lashes flutter against his skin.  The man’s hands roved up his thighs, along his hips, curving behind him, gripping firmly as he rose, pushing himself hard against him.

            Fenris wanted him.  He wanted his hands free to touch him, to wrap his arms around his neck.  He wanted to pull his legs around his waist and let the whore fuck him against the rack.  But he was tied to it, and he couldn’t.  He rubbed his leg against Wensley’s, trying to convey his desire for him, but he didn’t think he needed to.

            The man kissed his neck, and moved to the other side to kiss along his cheekbone.  He cupped his face in both hands, kissing both his eyelids tenderly before he moved away.  He lifted one of the long, white tapered candles, dripping wax down the side of it.  Fenris felt himself panting, knowing what was coming and readily anticipating it.

            The hot wax touched his shoulder first, scalding against the lyrium and his skin alike, a burning hotter than the lyrium and for an instant, taking his mind off the constant ache in his skin.  As it dripped and dribbled down his shoulders, running in quickly drying rivulets, he shuddered and moaned.  When the whore moved to his chest, he gave a loud, desperate cry as it dripped over his nipple.

            Wensley’s other hand moved between his legs, gently moving his hand along the length of his erection, rubbing his thumb against the head.  Fenris watched him, helpless and yet not so, as the wax slowly moved down his chest, more of it over his stomach.  He moved the candle over his thighs, letting it drip over his skin, an instant of hot, and then quickly cool.  It made his toes curl, his fingers clench.  Sounds were wrenched from his throat, and he leaned heavily against the rack, tension on the chain that bound his wrists to it.

            The wax dripped slowly on the base of his penis, running down over him and he gave another muffled cry, sweating as it dribbled down him, Wensley working methodically, pleased with the sounds and expressions Fenris made for him.  The whore set the candle aside, his hand against him, moving along the dry wax, tracing the patterns the dribbling wax had made on his skin, interested to see it seem to curve against the lyrium as if it cradled it—a thing that, for a moment before it cooled, had a burn to match its own.

            The whore shifted away again, picking up a small bottle.  He opened it, and the liquid contents smelled like bergamot.  He dribbled a bit of it into his hand, and moved back to Fenris.  “Spread your legs.”  Fenris shifted, his breathing slowing as the man’s hand slid between his legs.  He took deep breath as he moved his finger against him, watching Wensley when the whore pushed into him.  He liked watching Wensley do this.  He liked the way the whore was so serious about it, all of his attention devoted to him as if there was truly nothing else.  He understood it was just his job, but he liked the attention.

            Wensley’s other hand roved over him, rubbing against his side, his mouth over the wax-covered nipple.  Fenris’ breathing came in long, deep pulls, escaping his lips in soft sighs.  Wensley’s movements were long, deep and precise.  He had large hands, and thick yet surprisingly dexterous fingers.  The movement changed abruptly, driving a sharp cry from the back of the elf’s throat, his teeth biting down hard on the leather in his mouth.

            Wensley moved his hand, jerking away quickly.  Just as fast, the crop slapped across Fenris’ breastbone, making him moan.  Two more quick, light touches of the crop, barely enough to leave a red mark, and the whore moved his hand behind him.  There was a cranking sound, and the chain seemed much more slack.  The crop touched Fenris’ shoulder, guiding him down to kneel in front of the whore on trembling legs.

            The crop rubbed against his shoulder, down his spine.  It snapped across his shoulders—once—twice.  A third time made him cry out loudly, and he heard Wensley make a small gasp of approval.  The sounds he made excited him.

            Wensley stood in front of him, and told him to look down at the floor.  His eyes fixed to the wood grain, he listened as Wensley stepped, the boots echoing faintly on the hardwood.  He set the crop down, and he picked up something else.  The hot wax dripped onto his back, driving a soft moan from the elf’s throat, and a second noise of approval as it dripped over his shoulders.  It dribbled along his spine, his sides, getting only a little over his arms.  The whore stepped over him, straddling his shoulders, a boot on either side of him.

            The whore leaned over him, letting the hot wax drip over the small of his back just below where his hands were tied.  The chain clinked as Fenris tensed, crying out.  The wax burned down his back, scorched its way over his skin, over the curve of his buttocks.  Wensley seemed to generally approve of the way Fenris moaned, wanting more of what he did, what he could do, to him.

            The candle was again set aside, and Wensley stepped off of him.

            “Look up at me,” he commanded, his voice barely above a whisper.  Fenris slowly tilted his head, looking upwards, his gaze lingering on Wensley’s wet and ready member, and finally pulled away to look at his face.  His countenance was cool, lofty, and in control, and it made the elf want him more.  The whore smirked, and said, “You’re a slut.”

            He walked away from him, and Fenris’ eyes tracked him, watching the way his muscles flexed as he walked, the way his footfalls seemed measured and calculated, especially as he bent, giving the elf a generous view of his backside.  Fenris wondered if that wasn’t for his benefit.

            He came back carrying a long, dark walnut cane.  It was polished to a fine gloss, its handle wrapped in supple leather, the head of a snarling great cat at the top of it.  “How’s my little bitch doing?” he cooed.  Fenris watched him, his eyes falling on the cane.  His tongue ran against the leather bit, his teeth rolling it in his mouth, first one way, then the other.  Wensley stared at him for a moment, watching the way the leather twisted as Fenris stared up at him, the desire in his eyes making the casual movement erotic.

            “Oh, I see,” he breathed.  “Up, then.”  Slowly, Fenris rose.  It was not as easy without using his hands for balance, but more than possible; the dwarf Mogren had trained him to compensate.  She had told him, once, that his hands would always be occupied, so he had to learn to rise using only his legs.  Wensley didn’t know the why of it, but he had always enjoyed the easy way that Fenris seemed to do it.  “Turn around, darling.”

            Wensley watched him, drinking in the sight of him.  He flipped the cane in his hand and a smooth motion sent it hard against the elf’s backside.  Fenris gasped, and Wensley took care to listen to the way he did it.  Satisfied that he hadn’t hurt him, not truly, he let the cane fall against him again.  He rested between each strike, more for Fenris than for himself.  He listened to the way the elf would gasp and pant, watched him sweat, delighting in each moan and belabored breath.

            He stopped, hooking the cane back in its place against the wall.  He looked over at his client, the elf’s forehead against one of the bars, still panting, still very much aroused.  His lips curved into a dim, self-satisfied smile.  He moved back against him, the leather rubbing against the raw flesh, making it burn again, his fingernails scraped along the red skin, digging hard into him.  Fenris gasped, and his lips pushed against the elf’s pointed ear.  He nibbled along it, biting gently against the tip of it, his tongue running back down all the way to the elf’s cheek.

            “What do you want next, darling?” he whispered, his breathing heavy.  His desire was plain, his manhood hard against the elf’s back.  “You’ve been so good—I’ll let you choose.”  He kissed his cheek, his hand roaming over the man’s chest.  “You really liked the candle wax.”  Fenris shuddered, and apparently approved of that idea.  The whore smiled.  “But I haven’t brought out the paddle tonight either.”  The elf’s green eyes shifted toward him, making a sound in the back of his throat he took for assent.  “I know you like the bull whip too, and that’s still in the box—it would be a shame to leave her all alone, wouldn’t it?”  The man’s sage green eyes gazed out at him, eyes a little wider, breathing heavy, and he knew the elf liked that idea too.  “Or… me?”

            When Fenris moaned a little louder, shifting until his fingers curved around Wensley’s erection, the whore nodded against his shoulder.  “As you wish.  You little slut.”  The whore stepped away from him, and lifted the bottle off of the surface he had put it on.  He did not look back at Fenris when he again opened it.  “Turn back around, back against the rack.  I like watching you.”

            Fenris turned, leaning back against it, watching the other man come closer.  He first coated his fingers.  The bottle still in one hand, he snaked his wet hand between the elf’s legs, his face all business as he touched and explored, staring down at the elf’s plain desire for him.  He moved his fingers in a quick, scissoring motion, twisting his hand and listened to his client moan.  Satisfied, he moved his hand away, rubbing a thin layer of the oil over his erection.  He hastily set the bottle down, and lifted Fenris, balancing the man against the rack.  He positioned himself with his other hand, quickly.  The elf’s legs swung tight around his hips, drawing him in closer.

            Fenris appreciated the talents of the very learned whore.  He liked the way Wensley always remembered the things he liked and didn’t like.  He liked that Wensley remembered that Fenris liked the tight feeling, the brief moment of hard pushing and the soft gasp as he penetrated him.  He liked the slow, deep thrusting as he filled him, followed by hard, fast movements.  He liked his back pushed firmly against the rack, the bars digging into his skin, grating against the stinging touches of cane and crop as well as the softly glowing lyrium.  He liked being supported completely by Wensley, knowing that if the whore’s endurance gave up, he might fall.

            Wensley’s hand roved behind him, and the chain came undone with a click, falling away from the rope.  He pulled them both away from the rack.  Fenris slid against him, slowly, drawing him as deeply into him as he was able with the other man walking.  He heard the whore shudder, and he laid him down on the bed amidst the petals.

            Wensley kept pushing against him, moving them both toward the center of it.  He unfastened the gag, dropping it to the side, to kiss him.  Fenris kissed him back, as Wensley pumped into him—slow, deep, and filling.  The whore pulled back, drawing out of him.

            Fenris licked his dry lips, wondering what the other had in mind.  He leaned down, his mouth covering his erection, and Fenris’ eyes closed in satisfaction at the whore’s honeyed tongue.  He felt himself rub against the back of the man’s throat, felt every twist and turn of his the wet tongue.  When the whore stopped, his eyes opened again, watching Wensley climb back over him, his legs straddling him.  Wensley’s fingers wrapped around the base of the elf’s member as he lowered himself onto him.

            He liked how, despite that he was moving atop Fenris, driving him deeper into him, then impaling himself to the hilt upon him, that the human man still looked to be completely in control.  He liked the way his back would arc, and he would pant and moan on top of him, and he had a look about him of total dominance.

            As Wensley moved, Fenris gasped, jerking his hips upward, meeting him, wanting more of him when there wasn’t more of him.  He watched Wensley as he moved, the man’s hand steadying himself on Fenris’ shoulder.  He felt like he was at the limit of his endurance.  Wensley had been pushing his sexual appetite for a long time, and he wanted the release and orgasm that came with it.

            He shuddered a sigh, and cried out.  “I…” he gasped.

            The whore’s fingers pushed against his throat, his hand wrapping around it.  Fenris stilled, controlling his breathing, closing his eyes.  He focused on breathing, even when the fingers tightened, then loosened in perfect tempo to the man’s movements.  He gagged once, and Wensley’s hand loosened more, letting him take several deep breaths before he held him steady again.

            His eyes opened, lips parted in a silent cry.  His hips tilted upwards, toes curling.  It came over him like a strike of lightning, running through every piece of his body, nothing in the world but _sex_.  The hand around his throat made him dizzy, made it impossible to think about anything but the way Wensley felt, the way his body felt, the incredibly good feeling of being inside him.  The feeling of fulfillment and satisfaction it left behind filled him as surely as Wensley’s erection had.

            Wensley’s hand moved from his throat, and the man leaned over him, hand against his own erection.  The whore kissed his neck, nibbling and biting against it, and Fenris tilted his neck to allow it, panting softly as he tried to catch his breath.  He moaned at a particular bite, gasped at a long, sucking kiss, and stilled then shuddered as he felt the man’s hot seed spill over his stomach.  Wensley crawled, backwards down his chest, licking the semen off of him slowly.  Fenris watched him, wanting to be aroused again.

            Wensley left not a drop on him, swallowing the last of it as he rose, smiling dimly at Fenris.  “Hey, gorgeous.”  He reached toward him, his fingers trailing along Fenris’ moist lips.  “Can I get you something?  Want some wine, water, tea?”

            “Wine?” Fenris said.  “Do you want to untie me first?”

            Wensley glanced at him at he climbed from the bed.  “No,” he answered flatly.  He opened a cabinet, removed a bottle.  He nearly dropped it when the light bathed the room.

            He turned back around, his eyes wide as the blue light dimmed.  Fenris sat up, drawing his legs up near his chest, his arms wrapped loosely around his legs, and smirking.  The rope lay tangled under him.

            “That scared me,” Wensley admitted.  “I’ll never get used to it—but it is kind of sexy that you can do that.”

            Fenris laughed gently as Wensley located the cups.  “I’ve never heard someone say it was ‘sexy’ before.”

            “Usually just ‘scary’?” the other inquired, hitting the nail on the head as it were.  “You realize, of course, that now I have to spank you for misbehaving.”  He handed him the wine.

            Fenris watched him over the brim of the cup.  “I look forward to it, Ser.”

 

            Fenris woke with a moan on his lips, a hot mouth around his erect cock.  It was wet, and Wensley knew what he was doing.  His legs spread a little, his hand reaching down, holding the man’s head there, fingers clenching in his hair with his desire.

            The whore’s fingers gripped his hips, and he sat up, pulling Fenris with him.  The elf hooked his legs around his shoulders.  The whore held him tight, eyes opened to watch him gasp.  His head pulled back, just his lips against the tip of his member, his tongue flicking out over him.  The tip of his tongue traced the vein down to his testicles, then ran between them, licking along him, and back further.

            His damp tongue ran over him once, watching him, waiting for a reaction, then he pushed his tongue against him, teasing at first.  His tongue darted out in quick, wet movements, lapping at him like a cat with cream.  The elf pulled his legs a little farther apart, making it easier for him to push his mouth against him, his tongue probing into him.  The wet tongue moved inside him, making him gasp, his back arch and curl.  The new sensation made his stomach tense, forcing small sounds out of the back of his throat as his fingers dug into the sheets.

            Wensley’s fingers wound in slow circles around his dripping penis, mimicking the movements he made with his tongue before he buried his tongue in him, greedy and almost hungrily, as if he could devour him.

            His hand covered him, pumping hard around him until Fenris gave a sharp, final cry.  Wensley barely had time to catch it in his mouth, and still missed some of it.  The whore wiped it off of his cheek with the back of his hand, setting Fenris gently back down on the bed.  He looked at him, long and intimate, then moved away.  He cleaned off his hand, and took a shot of whiskey, but only swished it around in his mouth for a moment before he spit it out the window.  Fenris didn’t need to ask why.

            “Get up—I made you a bath, and I think I owe you breakfast, considering what your back looks like,” Wensley commented.

            Fenris sat up, flinching when he realized how sore he was.  “Hell,” the elf muttered.  The hot water felt good, and the whore massaged him afterwards, with lavender and rose oil to soothe his irritated skin.

            Wensley made sure that he ate, and afterwards when Fenris was getting ready to leave, he said, “Do try not to forget about me, Fenris.”

            The elf glanced back at him, a wisp of a smile on his lips as he thought about all the things they had done the night before.  “I don’t think I could.  I’ll come visit you the next time I’m in Kirkwall.”

            “I’ll hold you to it.  Maybe I’ll have some more toys by then.”

            “I’ll hold you to that.”

            Fenris turned and left the Blooming Rose behind him, and the Imperium in his future.


	105. Cherished Beauty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris and Hawke share a last farewell, and Fenris heads to the Imperium.

            Fenris felt himself pulled along by the tide of people with Anastas’ caravan.  He had wanted to walk out of Kirkwall, the same way he had come in, thinking about how much had changed in all that time.  He felt like… he wasn’t quite the same person he had been when he had first lain eyes on Kirkwall.  So much had changed, and really, all for the better.

            He had learned things he could not have learned with the dwarven smugglers, things he could not have known with the Fog Warriors, and things he could never have even dreamed as a slave.  He had learned how to read, write, and he learned about history.  He learned about religion, the difference between justice and vengeance, a little of what love and family was, and truth above all.

            Every moment of pain and hardship had been worth the lessons.  Every moment of despair could be outweighed by a moment of joy.

            And he had Hawke to thank for much of it.  He wondered if Hawke would ever really know how much he meant to him.

            “Fenris!”

            He stopped, turning back around on the road.  The people around him kept going by.  Who had called his name?  He looked for someone he might recognize and saw an arm wave, a man jogging on the side of the road to catch up.  Fenris recognized Hawke and went to meet him.

            Hawke panted as he tried to catch his breath.  “Glad I caught you,” he said between breaths.  He looked at him.  His eyes were like tarnished gold in the late morning sun.  Another deep breath, and he straightened to his full height, his breath caught and subdued.  “This might be the last time I ever see you, and I…”  He sighed.  “I just wanted to tell you something.”

            Fenris raised his eyebrows.  “Well, I’m here.”

            The mage made a face, as if flustered.  “Look, I know things never worked out between us.  And I’m not saying I’m not happy, but I _do_ want you to know that I…”  His lips twisted, and he started to say something, and stopped, then let out another noisy sigh.

            The elf’s lips curved into a crooked smile.  “I think I know what you’re trying to say.”

            Hawke glanced back at him.  “You do?”

            Fenris was conscious of Anastas and his caravan moving past him.  He watched Hawke, and felt strangely serene actually.   _I love you,_ he thought, but couldn’t say it aloud, not any more.  Once was enough, more than enough.  Once, and he had poured his heart and soul into it.  He didn’t think he could say it again and mean it quite the same way.  It would never be as special, as holy and divine as that one moment he had confessed how he felt.  Fenris gave a slight nod of his head, barely an assent, and more of an invitation.

            The mage glanced around them, and looked back at Fenris.  “A part of me will _always_ love you, Fenris.  Even if I never see you again, I will _always_ love you.”

            He knew that.  He supposed he had known that for a long time, and he was glad to hear it aloud.  He looked down, at his feet on the hard-packed earth.  He thought of all the things he could say.   _I love you.  You mean everything to me.  My life revolves around you.  All I want in the world is for you to be happy._  But the words caught in his throat, a cold lump rising in his chest, and he did not know what to say, or if there truly were any words to say.

            “Please say something, Fenris.  This is incredibly awkward,” Hawke insisted.

            Fenris looked up, blinking large sage eyes.  “I’ll miss you,” he confessed.  “And I’m glad you’re happy.”

            Hawke looked relieved.  “Oh, thank the Maker; I thought you were thinking about what an idiot I am.”  Fenris raised an eyebrow, that one look saying everything, and Hawke laughed.  “I get it; I am an idiot.”

            Fenris wondered if he would ever again meet someone who could make him laugh during difficult situations like Hawke did.  He wondered if someone would ever hold him the way he did, or kiss him the way he did, ravage him the way he did.  He wondered if anyone in the world would ever love him the same way, or if he could ever love someone else.  “I love you,” he finally whispered, and looked away, out at the hills in the distance, watching an eagle soar over its peaks, outlined in a pale blue sky.  Why was this so hard?  It would have been so much easier if Hawke had just left the matter alone.  If he had just not come out today...

            “If you cry, you can forget the steamy affair when I see you again,” Hawke promised him.

            Fenris looked back at him, and instead of weeping with loss, he laughed, the would-be tears evaporating.  “I’ll miss you,” he said again.  “I’ll write to you when I get to the Imperium.”

            Hawke clasped his arm briefly in camaraderie.  “I’ll wait at the mailbox like a lost puppy.”

            “Don’t assault the mailman,” the elf warned him.  Hawke chuckled.  “Take care.”

            “You too.”

            Hawke stepped back, and they looked at each other.

            “Do you mean what you said about the affair?”

            Hawke gave him an intimate smile.  “We’ll see.”

            There was a longer stretch, and Hawke turned.  Fenris watched him go, walking back the way he had come, and the caravan pulled farther and farther away with every step.

            “Hawke!” the elf called.  The man turned toward him, and Fenris rushed to him, pulling him back to face him.  In the same breath, he pushed his lips against his.  He had intended it to be a brief, chaste kiss--something stolen before Hawke recovered, but his plans fell to ashes when Hawke pulled him close, trapping him in his arms.

            It was a place he wanted to be, and the best place he had ever been.  He inhaled the scent of him deeply, tasting him as if he never would again—because he believed he never would again-- trying to remember every touch and texture.  His lips were eager and needful, his tongue searching, his teeth nibbled against his lower lip, drawing his tongue into his mouth.

            It was Fenris who pulled away, who always pulled away, slipping out of his arms like water.  “Thank you,” he told him.  “For giving me that.”

            He turned, and followed after the caravan.  He looked back only once, to see Hawke turning and walking back the other way.  He wanted to stop.  He wanted to turn around and go back to him.

            And what?

            Pine after him?  Stare longingly at his manor, watch him out of the corner of his eye, seethe with jealousy at every touch between he and Anders?

            No.

            Kirkwall was not his future; it was his past.  There was nothing for him there, and all its fruits in his life were plucked.  If he wanted to grow, expand his knowledge, maybe do what he wanted to do, he had to keep moving forward.

            But all the same, he watched the mage go, and knew a part of his heart would always go with him.

 

Traveling with Anastas was exactly as it was before; all the Liberati and slaves alike joked and seemed to go where they pleased for the most part.  One of the slaves was apparently pregnant, not even showing just yet, and Anastas worried enough about her to make her only do light work, always asking if she was all right.  It seemed to annoy her more than anything.  Her husband was equally attentive, and she seemed like she would like both of them to stop.  It must have been her first child.

            It was satisfying to see even a slave owner worry about his petty property.  No, not to Anastas.  He treated each of them like people.  They were all well fed, cared for, and not a one of them had a thing to complain about.

            One of the slaves commented to Fenris that he was eager to get back and see his boy.  “He promised not to get too tall by the time I get back—we’ll see if he kept his promise.”  Anastas had a rule that if his slaves had children, the children weren’t slaves.  He also allowed them to marry non-slaves, and each of them knew that once they had paid off their debt to Anastas, they were free to go if they wished.

            When someone grew ill or got hurt, they were cared for.  One of the slaves was a mage and tended to things like that.  If this was all slavery was, he wouldn’t hate it so much.  But he knew what quarries were like, the mines, and the Grand Proving.  He knew the Imperial brothels, the ships, the slaves in the army.  Worse, he knew how most masters treated their slaves.  It was awful.

            Anastas was a good man in a sea of tyranny and evil, and he was glad to see him doing well, and that he hadn’t changed.

            “First order of business when we get back to Vyrantium, a long bath,” Anastas said, stretching in the saddle.

            “No,” Fenris said, smiling pleasantly.  “We’ll appear before a magistrate, and you’ll free me of bondage.”

            He laughed.  “Right—forgot about that.”

            “I’m here to remind you,” he said pleasantly.

            Making their way out of the mountains took a lot of time.  There was the occasional bandit gang and one time one of the slave girls came screaming out of the wood with a bear chasing after her.  The animal was dispatched, and they had eaten bear for a week.  It wasn’t a bad taste—somewhat tough depending on the cut, with a wild flavour.  Anastas commented that this particular bear had eaten a lot of meat.  He said that “you can tell from the meat what they’ve eaten.”  He had gone on to explain that bears that eat more berries and vegetables had a more pleasant meat.

            “I’ve never had it before,” Fenris said, swallowing a chunk of the roast.  “It’s good though.”

            Anastas was quiet a moment.  “You don’t know anything about Danarius’ bear, do you?”

            Fenris frowned.  “What?”  Danarius had a bearskin rug in his quarters, in front of the fireplace.  The elf had lain on it before, staying down when the magister had beat him.  He hadn’t known why he had hit him at the time, and the why of it had never mattered anyway.  Danarius had left him there all night, bruised but not bleeding, scared but not terrified.  It could have been worse.  It could have _always_ been worse.

            The man shrugged.  “His bear.  Some of the best gossip in the Imperium was about how your deceased master’s father died.  Called it a hunting accident.  I bet it was murder.”

            Fenris stilled, trying to remember if anything had ever been mentioned.  He didn’t remember anything.  No one would bother gossiping to a slave, but it wasn’t as if he hadn’t overheard a lot of gossip anyway.  “I don’t know—at least, I never heard anything.”  He frowned.  “It wouldn’t surprise me if he murdered his own father.”

            He cocked his head to the side.  “And his dead wife—did he murder her too?”

            Fenris knew the answer to that in the way Danarius had held that little girl in the Fade.  How it was all he had ever wanted.  He wondered, if that little girl had lived, if his wife had lived, if he would have still been so cruel.  “No.”

            The desert was as beautiful as he first remembered, exchanging his leathers for cotton and linen cloth.  Anastas taught him how to ride a camel.  He preferred horses, plain and simple.  The camels were ornery, smelled awful, and their commands were strange.  However, he got used to all of those things in time.  It was either that, or walk or ride in the wagons.  The camel was more interesting.  One of the children, about eight years old perhaps, asked him if she could ride with him.  He let her sit in front of him, and gave her the reins under his direction.

            The child seemed to enjoy it, and he liked it when she would laugh.

            He had a particular weakness for children, he had to admit.  Any child, really.  It was something about their innocence that he had never had, and a desperate need to cherish and preserve it.  Something about their naiveté, and their narrow views of the world.  How everything was so black and white to them, and they had not yet learned to see the shades of gray between the two.  They were precious, priceless even.

            And it sickened him that the Imperium _did_ put a price on their innocence.  He might live there, but he could never condone that.  Anastas would pay him.  He couldn’t forcibly free every slave he came across; that would earn him a noose at the very least.  But, maybe he could buy some of them out of it.  Maybe he could try to help them.  He wasn’t certain as to _how_ exactly, just yet, but maybe he could.

            The cheapest slave flesh, the ones who would be worked the hardest and most poorly treated were the ones shipped to the Imperium, a disgusting slave trade that every other country looked away from… because they were only elves.  They would  be the ones with a family to return to, if he could try to help them.

            It was weeks before they crossed the desert, and a few more weeks before they crossed into Tevinter.  At the border, they were checked, briefly, for smuggling.  When they came away clear, they were allowed to pass.  Fenris hadn’t realized he had been holding his breath until they were well away from them.

             He moved his horse beside Anastas.  “How did you convince the Magisterium not to have me executed?” he asked.

Anastas shrugged.  “Fact of the matter, most of them don’t actually care that much.  Pester them enough, and they’ll cave to get you to leave them alone.  The Danarius family I had to bribe though.”

Fenris flinched.  “And?”

“Agasius Danarius, the bastard, was willing to ‘sell’ you to me for a particular artifact I have.”

“And?”

He smirked.  “He has a perfect duplicate of it--but he had it inspected before the transaction was made, and if he ever finds out it is a duplicate, he’ll be too stubborn and proud to admit a rich Altus man like himself was tricked by an old Liberati.”

“That’s dangerous.”

“Nonsense--I’ll say mine is the duplicate.  As far as value goes, all that really matters is what people believe of it.  I’ll show it to you when we get to Vyrantium.”

When they passed the desert, and started into the mountains, he changed back to his familiar leathers, and the camels went to a camel herd Anastas rented them from, and he had horses for the rest of the journey.  At the border, Fenris found himself holding his breath as the guard looked over him.  It was perhaps three seconds, at the very most, as the papers were looked at, then he passed as the guards inspected the wagons.  He couldn’t help but feel apprehensive, even paranoid, as he crossed into the Imperium.

He had believed he would never see Tevinter again, and had not mourned that.  It was strange that instead of the guards calling him out as having a bounty on his head, they just let him pass without a hassle.  It was strange to ride along the roads, and eyes would linger but no one would try to cage him.  It wasn’t bad.  It was nice, in a lot of ways, to not worry about Imperial hunters.

The scent of incense filled his nostrils, and he realized he had almost forgotten what it was like to have an entire city bathed in it.  They passed through an assortment of towns and villages before they eventually came to Vyrantium by way of the Imperial highway.  Anastas’ caravans went around to the back of his estate, and the horses were stabled outside.  Anastas bade Fenris, though, to follow him.  It was the middle of the day, and Anastas had sent a runner into Vyrantium before they had happened upon it.  When Anastas led him into the courthouse, he understood why, and suddenly felt foolish for not realizing what they were doing.  They left the horses outside the building, and spent several long minutes waiting for the magistrate.

There was a bit of paperwork, a few signatures, and it was done:  Fenris was Liberati.  And, furthermore, Anastas was right—it was an incredibly dull procedure.

“How do you feel?” Anastas asked him as they mounted their horses again.

Fenris stared upwards, at the crystalline blue sky.  “Free,” he answered, though it might have been clichéd.

“You should,” Anastas agreed.  “I want to show you something—come with me.”

Fenris was surprised at the size of the man’s estate.  It was a newer building, not built to be large and imposing with fearsome gargoyles and images of tortured slaves and terrifying dragons like Minrathous.  Rather, it was a work of quiet beauty. 

The gates were wrought iron, iron vines and iron roses wrapping around the bars.  The walls held carvings of every sort, a parade of dancing bears, prancing horses, playful dogs, cats, goats, a rearing elephant with long tusks.  They left their horses with the stable boy, and continued past the gates.  The lawns inside were green, kept watered through an intricate aqueduct, the water flowing freely from a central fountain.  Bridges of wood and stone arched over them.

Flowers were in bloom, and there were honey bees amidst them, and humming birds, he saw.  Butterflies frolicked in the blossoms, and he was surprised to see a peacock.  Anastas must have noticed his surprise at that, and pointed to the colourful male.  “I have five of them—very aggressive birds, but aren’t they beautiful?”

 _Beautiful_ , Fenris thought.  Serene, elegant…  At least until one of them shits all over something anyway.

One of the peacocks, this one a much duller female, had her long graceful neck over the fountain, drinking from it.  Fenris studied the fountain.  The fountain was of a young maiden, a horn in her hand, and the water flowed endlessly from the horn, splashing down a cascade of bowls into the fountain.  He saw small fish in it.

They followed a meandering path through the flowers, past a pond with a stand of willow trees and ferns.  There were swans swimming in the water.  The path was white gravel, the flowers and grass well-watered through a series of small aqueducts and carefully attentive slaves.  A second fountain mimicked a waterfall in a stand of trees.  Coloured lanterns were placed along the paths, to be lit at nightfall.

 “ _This_ is the statue he valued your worth at,” Anastas said, stretching out his hand to draw Fenris’ attention.  “He wanted the rest of the collection too, but I talked him down a bit--which wasn’t easy, mind.”

Fenris looked up at the statue, sitting on a raised pedestal.  The carving was crafted from gold-veined marble, all the gold seeming to glisten in the sunlight.  He was surprised to see that the figure was an elven maid, dressed in a long, flowing gown that seemed to billow in a different wind, her face raised high and proud.  He detected a particular air of nobility in the tilt of her chin, the set of her lips, but a hint of sadness about her eyes.  He wondered at all the things she had seen, the great tragedies and every small joy.  And she had survived all of it.

“What do you think of her?” Anastas asked him after a long silence.

“She’s beautiful,” he said softly.  He had never seen an elf carved in something as expensive as marble.  Fact of the matter, he couldn’t remember having _ever_ seen an elf carved like that.  He had seen carvings of dragons, he had seen animated golems, works of stone.  But if any carving had been _meant_ to be an elf--like the horrible etchings in Kirkwall of tormented slaves--it was impossible to tell; their ears were covered and the carvings were not that detailed.  He had heard that there were ancient elven— _elvhen_ —ruins in Ferelden and Orlais still, but he had never been there to see them.

Anastas nodded.  “The Maiden of Arlathan--she’s older than the Imperium, and she’s a survivor.”  He smiled in satisfaction.  “She’ll sure take your heart away, won’t she?”

“Who is the ‘Maiden of Arlathan’?” he asked.

“My goddess of beauty.”  He laughed, and shrugged.  “No idea; we know she’s probably a deity or maybe some ancient leader, but we don’t know which one.”  He sighed.  “Probably, we’ll never know.  But her mystery, I think, is part of her beauty.”

He left Fenris to wander the garden.  He looked up at the Maiden for a long time, in awe of her.  The stonework was so old, and yet…  The stone carver had perfectly accented every detail, leaving no doubt to the mind that the dress was sheer, and so full of life that she looked like she may at any moment step down from the pedestal.

He turned away from the statue, and continued on through the garden.  Anastas had mentioned that he had a “collection” of them.  The Maiden was by far the most beautiful piece, but he found other pieces too, carved from the same marble.  A dancing halla in the rose garden, a wolf and a raven in a low hedge maze, and by the pond, he was surprised to see a griffin.  Obviously half, or even quarter-sized or maybe just young--the creatures were extinct so he couldn’t really tell--it stood as if gazing into its own reflection, wings partway unfurled as if it were stretching.

The Imperium carved dragons, and the carvings were skilled, but they were always fearsome and terrifying to behold, meant to inspire fear and awe.  These only inspired awe and wonder.  The griffin was not poised as if to attack; it looked as though it could come alive at any moment, and Fenris had only happened upon it.

Anastas treasured beauty above all else, in all its many forms.  Be it a painting, stonework, a simple flower or a garden, the peacocks or the swans, carvings, the laughter of a child, or the smile of one formerly without hope, he treasured it.  Fenris hoped, sincerely, that Anastas’ passion for beauty would never be eclipsed.


	106. The Circle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two years later, a sinister plot unfolds...

_Two years later—9:39 Dragon._

Part 7

            The library was busy.  There were slaves tending it, and apprentices studying.  Older mages sat in quieter corners with their own studies, some reading for leisure.  Some books could not leave the library, and a literate slave kept careful tabs of all of those on a ledger.  Presently, she was scowling at him from across the room, her blue eyes like daggers carving flesh from his skull; he had dropped a priceless book.

            Shaislyn sheepishly picked it up, and set it back on the table.  He sighed, staring back down at it.   _Mage’s Genesis_ was as close to historical fact of the origin of human mages as they were likely to get--all about dragons and learning magic.  A source of vague interest to him was humans coming to Thedas.   _What_ had they, with their power and their dragons, been running from?   _What_ had been so terrible that they had come to Thedas refugees, if that were even the case at all?  Where had they come from?  Were there artifacts there--the real human history locked away and buried in some remote place on the earth?  No one really knew.  More interesting, if they were _not_ escaping a disaster, like some scholars theorized, what had made them come to Thedas in the first place?  And, what Shaislyn had never been able to find an answer to, were there humans elsewhere?  If so, what were they like?  What was their culture and their language?  One scholar, he had read, had theorized that the humans were refugees fleeing a disaster--war, plague, drought, or something of that nature.            Another scholar had taken it a step further, and, blasphemously and infamously suggested it may have even been a Blight.  Of course, the Tevinter Chantry thought the theory interesting, but the _other_ Chantry considered it blasphemous.  But then, they _claimed_ that Darkspawn came from magister corruption.  While Shaislyn was perfectly accepting that the magisters were corrupt and it might be pleasing to think that such terrible men should be turned to Darkspawn, it was unthinkable and unforgivable that all living things should suffer for the sins of a few men for lifetimes beyond measure.  He did not, thus, believe that superstitious nonsense.  The suggestion that darkspawn had existed, elsewhere in their world, before the Golden City was “Tainted” was tantamount to blasphemy in the southern Chantry’s harsh eyes.

            Shaislyn would like to know the truth--not superstition and religious theory.  Unfortunately, there was little to be had; it was just too long ago, and what was left required blind faith rather than hard facts.  Maybe eventually they would find something more compelling than heresy, but he doubted it.

He had once made the terrible mistake of mentioning his idea of how spells were conceived, learned, and made to Cyma, his mentor.  She had listened in rapt attention as he had described how he didn’t think that Dumat, who was said to have taught humans magic, had simply taught them every spell in existence that could ever be done.  Things were constantly being expanded upon and researched even now, so that idea did not follow suit.  Elves had different abilities and magic before contact with humans, and humans were able to learn the same abilities.  Thus, it made more sense that magic could be learned, studied, and expanded upon just like every other subject.  In magic, one and one did not always make two, and relied on a number of other factors.  If a variable were changed, expanded upon, subtracted, new forms were discovered.  Magic was often just as complicated, and boring, as mathematics.  However, proving that Dumat had not taught humans magic meant that he would have to find, historically, a human mage in existence before the time of Dumat.  This was, obviously, impossible.

To expand upon the idea, many mages often thought of their magic as being a tool or a machine without a will of its own--a raw power waiting to be manifested and used.  Shaislyn wasn’t so sure about that--his magic, to him, felt all too alive.  It manifested in him and he merged with it; it _felt_ alive.  Or, perhaps magic was not alive nor machine-like and it existed in an in-between state.  Many apostates who were self-trained allowed their magic to manifest in different ways, and in his travels, he had encountered many different schools of magic and ways of doing things.  How, then, could it manifest differently and make new things if it was static?  It had to be something else.  If he read older books of magic, the theory was all the same, but some of the “facts” were just plain wrong, and the ideas changed.  Or maybe it _had_ been correct at the _time_ but magic, like mankind, changed and developed over time?  Magic was such an intrinsic part of the world.  It puzzled him that so many people were afraid of it.

She had been fascinated utterly by his idea, and had mentioned it to the First Enchanter.  Unfortunately, he thought the idea so stupendous and thought-provoking that Shaislyn had to write and publish his theorem.  Shaislyn had complained--loudly--about this scheme but in the end there was nothing he could do.  He could write the book, or he could oversee trade operations.  Since that meant dabbling in slaving, he picked writing.

He was, quietly, against slavery.  He opposed it when he could, but he lacked the political power, wealth, and allies to do much about it.  And, he did know how heavily the Imperium relied on it.

As he worked on his theorem, scribbling unintelligible notes and references, he then worked on producing them into sentences and had someone else try to put them together.  Two apprentices had been assigned to do that for him.

He rubbed his temples with the tips of his fingers, staring at the scribbled words in front of him.  Sometimes, he wanted to pick it up and dump it all out the nearest window.

He heard the chair across from him pull back, and heard someone sit down in it.  His vision, rather than his head, moved upwards, more because he was bored than curious about who it was.  He straightened in the chair, pulling back from the table.  His lips curved into a disapproving frown.  “You don’t belong here, Agasius,” Shaislyn said primly.

“But I do make generous donations to the Circle,” he offered.  “So they are willing to overlook that occasionally.”  He raised an eyebrow.  “I wanted to offer you something.”

Shaislyn’s teeth clenched.  His hatred for Agasius was trumped only by hatred for Fenris.  “I don’t want it.”

“Oh, you might.”

The half-breed raised an eyebrow.  “Not interested.”

Agasius’ lips slid into a sly, condescending smile.  “Your uncle murdered my uncle.  I know you have no love for this uncle of yours, and I would be happy to pay you to kill him.”

Shaislyn rolled his eyes, sighing.  He opened _Mage’s Genesis_ and busily started thumbing through it, doing his best show of ignoring the Altus man across from him.  He had no interest in beating that particular dead horse.  What difference did it make to him if Fenris lived or died?  He hadn’t seen or heard from him; his continued existence didn’t bother him exactly.  Absent, he had come to realize, was just as efficient as dead.  He hoped Fenris outlived everyone he had ever cared about and died alone.  At least then, they would be on even ground.

Agasius seemed annoyed.  “I’d pay you very well for your service.”

“Throw your money at the Crows, then.”  The half-elf leaned back in his chair.  “You get restitution out of this, and I get--what?--money?  No.”  Shaislyn shook his head a little.  “I don’t want money for murder--get the Crows to do it.”  He sighed to himself.  He just wanted to put it behind him.  He just wanted to leave the past where it was and stop dragging it around after him like a lead weight.

“If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

“The Void, I hope,” he muttered under his breath as the other man walked away.  He stared down at the words on the pages, watching the way the ink curved and flowed over the paper.  He thought about the dance of blades, how a sword would curve and flow in similar patterns, the way the foot moved to accommodate an assault and a defense alike.  He thought about Fenris.  He glanced out the window, _Genesis_ forgotten.

 

The light in the dusty pub was dim, the business bustling.  The soft moans of a whore could be heard through the thin walls, barely masked by the music of an out of tune lute.  The sound of mugs clinking, liquid sloshing, and bawdy tales and sudden bursts of laughter made up the cacophony of noise around the pair.

It was not the sort of place either would normally be at, as some things had to be compromised for what they discussed was murder and revenge of a singularly dangerous and somehow well-connected individual.  It was prudent to leave nothing to chance.  Secret meetings didn’t stay secret in obvious places.

The third chair pulled back, and the third person sat down.  The wood creaked under his weight.

They talked, their voices low.  They kept the discussion brisk; they all knew why they were here, and they all were of like mind.  No one needed convincing; there were only a few minor details to agree upon.

“Seheron,” the third whispered in answer to a question.

“It could be at any time,” the rich man said in protest.  “It would take so long to lure him…”

The mage considered.  “It’s very poetic.”

“It isn’t about poetry.”

“It’s about revenge,” the third answered.  “And I can think of no better place for it than Seheron.”

It was discussed, briefly, then finally agreed.  They would need a decent lure, and the mage made a suggestion.  Times were set.  Dates were agreed upon.  Bargain struck, and the three walked away, one by one, leaving only the third at the table, staring at the pattern of the scuffed wood, wondering if he was doing the right thing, or just what felt right.

 

As Shaislyn walked, he trailed his fingers along the fence, wondering what his old mentor would want to talk to him about.  Cyma had not spoken to him in half a year, when she suggested he write the damn book.  He supposed there was nothing wrong with it, exactly, but it was curious.  She didn’t care much for making social calls to a Laetan Enchanter with no ambition.

Cyma lived in the tower, a Laetan mage of Soporati origin.  As a Senior Enchanter, she had her own lavish rooms and slaves.  The half-elf walked past the Templar guards.  Once inside, a young apprentice nearly collided with him.  The boy stepped back, and dashed around him.  “No, nononono!”

Another apprentice was laughing down the hall a ways, leaning against the wall for support, her hand clasped over her mouth to stifle her laughter.  As Shaislyn passed, he asked her, “What’s going on?”

“Nestor’s mentor is examining his notes right now.”  She stifled another giggle.  “He drew some _terrible_ drawings of her in the margins!”

Shaislyn quirked a smile, and continued on.  He climbed the stairs, and went down a hall, then another set of stairs.  He found Cyma’s quarters and knocked at the door.  He heard someone tell him to come in and he opened the door.  Cyma was alone, sitting on a brocaded sofa.  Her robes were more like an elaborate gown of silks and rich embroidery with a high collar that was in fashion than proper mage’s robes.  Her hair was piled on top of her head in a confection of braids and curls he couldn’t begin to puzzle at.  Cyma was a creature of fashion.  She had always tried to get him to forego his leathers and practical garments for fashionable clothing, all to no avail.

The only thing unusual about this was that, after a quick adjustment of his vision spell, that he learned she really was alone.  She had always had at least one slave in constant attendance.  He wondered at the occasion.

“You’re on time,” she said, pleased.  Shaislyn was renown for being late.

“I was nearby,” he said with a shrug, sitting down opposite to her.  She, human and bedecked in riches; he of mixed blood and hadn’t seen a bath in…  How long had it been?

Her nose wrinkled a bit.  “Indeed.”  She nodded to the teapot.  “Help yourself.”  He glanced down at the tea tray.  There was a small cake, sandwiches, and other small tea things.  He poured a little milk into the teacup.  His one social grace, in Cyma’s eyes, had been an appreciation for tea.  He poured the tea and added a small amount of sugar.  He sipped at it, wondering what this was really all about.

He blinked in surprise at the taste.  “This is Anderfell chamomile.”  He frowned, just a little.  “It’s not in season either--may I inquire as to the occasion?”

She smiled warmly, and he was not at all comforted.  “It’s not often I see you, and I know you like tea.”

He looked at her, wondering.  “True.  Cyma, how have you been getting along?”

She told him about her business in selling spices, her sister’s recent wedding.  She had been one of the many Laetan mages with no ambition to become a political power.  She was quite content as a Senior Enchanter; low enough that no one would bother to assassinate her for power, yet with just enough power to command respect.  It was a position he cherished for many of the same reasons.  They were already talking about promoting him in a year or two.  They had long-since discovered that Shaislyn was more useful with a shorter leash--all the easier to have him act as a courier when needed, a spy when necessary, a thief when convenient, and someone to shank a Qunari or Viddathari when required--Shaislyn liked that last one best, always eager to volunteer to go to Seheron when requested.  “And you, Shaislyn?”

She had never butchered his name to “Shai” like many people chose to, always rolling the “slyn” off of her tongue like a snake, making it almost sound like a different word.  Southern Tevinter often had a sort of different accent than Minrathous, and when she had come here, she had made it her life’s ambition to lose the accent, and had only managed to lose _most_ of it.  Shaislyn, controversially, had stubbornly refused to lose his Seheron accent.  He studied her for a moment, still trying to sense her motive.  “I dance to the tune the Magisterium plays--I don’t think anyone can fault me for it.”

She smiled, as if amused at his analogy.  “As do we all,” she agreed.  “But, tell me, how are you _doing_?”

He blinked.  He looked down at the teacup in his hands.  He set the cup down.  “The Magisterium wants to transfer me to Seheron.  But I won’t go back there, not permanently anyway.”

Cyma nodded.  “Do you like Minrathous?”

He shrugged.  “I’d rather be on the mainland--if they wanted to transfer me to anywhere else in the Imperium, it would be fine.”

Her already straight posture somehow seemed to get straighter.  “I could mention something, come up with a good reason for you to stay.  I can think of other Enchanters I would rather see in Seheron.”

He wondered what she would want in return.  Cyma did not give favours for free.  “I would appreciate that.”

She clasped her hands together, as if in prayer.  Cyma, for all her exuberant fashion sense, was also a devout believer in the Maker and had on multiple occasions preached at him.  He had flippantly told her that she should join the Chantry.  He wondered, for one cringing moment, if she were going to pray, but her fingers neatly folded together, resting in her lap.  He relaxed.  “Do you have any family left?”  Her voice was gentle.

He picked up the teacup again, sipping before he answered, “No--”  He stopped.  He frowned into the cup.  “Yes…  No.  It’s complicated.”

She arched one delicately plucked eyebrow.  “How so?”

“Well, I don’t consider Agasius Danarius to _truly_ be my cousin, if you know what I mean.”

She nodded; this made perfect sense to her.  “You’re a bastard.”

He agreed, “Yes.”

She shifted, leaning forward to lift her teacup from its saucer.  She sipped graciously, her lips leaving a faint rosy imprint on the cup like a flower petal.  “What about the other side of your family?”

“My mother passed away recently.”  He was quiet a moment, and twitched slightly.  “And my uncle is still alive, I think.  But I’ve no interest in ever seeing him again.”

She nodded.  “Who is that again--remind me?”

He finished his tea.  “Fenris.  Do you remember Cillian Danarius’ slave, the one with the lyrium in his skin?”

            She blinked, and thought hard.  “Yes,” she said, blinking.  “I was an apprentice the last time I saw him--he was frightening.  That’s him?”

He nodded, considering one of the sandwiches.  “Yes, unfortunately.”

She frowned.  “Didn’t he kill Magister Danarius?”

“That’s right, and Hadriana Capena.”  He paused.  “His bounty is gone--I guess it was paid off a while ago.  Not my business.”

She considered, frowning.  “You should try to talk to him.”  Her features softened a little.  “Just speak to him.”

He scowled.  “Why?  I know everything I care to know about him.”

She sighed.  “He’s the only family you have left.  And you might be all he has too.  Try to talk to him, at the very least.”

He made a face.  “And what?  Tell him, ‘Hey, you asshole, want to know where all our family is buried?’”

She blinked.  “That might be a very good place to start.  He doesn’t know any of that, does he?  I would want to know.”

He huffed.  “Anyway, is there anything else?  I need to go stare at and catalogue some crap in the library--the First Enchanter has been bugging me about how it still isn’t done.”

Cyma sighed gently--a very ladylike sound.  “Very well.  I’m always here for you if you need anything, Shaislyn.”

He rose, stealing a sandwich as he walked out.  His thoughts wandered back to Cyma as the door closed.  Maybe she was just concerned over his headlong rush to his grave, concerned that one of her students might die alone one day, passing from existence with no one by his side, and no one to cremate his body, no one to keep a small urn of ashes in his name.  She had all but given up trying to convince him that he wanted to join the Maker’s side in the afterlife.  He would rather fall into oblivion and nothingness.  Nothingness was all he had ever known, and it had never really been as bad as recognition.

The thought did not bother him.

 _She didn’t reprimand me for swearing_ , he considered, his brow furrowing.   _That_ was unusual.  He doubted she had just given up on the matter.  What was it then?


	107. Damnation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaislyn confronts Fenris.

_The letter crumpled in his fist as his fingers tightened around it, the paper wrinkling.  He stared at the corpse on the stone slab.  Most slaves were not given that grace.  Most slaves were just burned, or tossed into a ditch somewhere and buried.  But this slave had the possibility of netting her master a fair amount of money even in death, so her remains had been placed in a cold room on a colder stone slab._

_His hot breath frosted in the air._ I need a drink, _he thought._ I am way too sober to deal with this shit.

_Shaislyn wasn’t supposed to be down here.  Agasius wanted fifty sovereigns just to look at the corpse.  Damned bastard had even put up a guard, but a single one--more the sort to raise an alarm and stall if Shaislyn had wanted to put up a fight, before Agasius brought down the small army of household guards on him.  The single guard was quickly put to sleep with a spell rather than killed, and a squirrel had wriggled under the door, down a long hallway, and here he was.  It had not been difficult to find._

_The room was dark, owing to being underground.  There were cold torches, and even the special lanterns designed to hold mage light, but he didn’t know that spell and he didn’t want to attract attention anyway.  Light or dark had never made a whole lot of difference to his vision spell though; he saw what was there, light or no.  Sometimes, he saw more.  Other times, he saw less._

_“I’m sorry, Mother,” he whispered as he approached.  She would not have wanted him to come near, but he was a disobedient child and always had been.  It wasn’t that he deliberately disobeyed her often--it was more that he obeyed his heart rather than others’ wishes.  Maybe that had never been his best course of action.  Maybe he should have been more obedient of others.  Would Mahkerin have sent him away if he had?  Would his mother have been more accepting of him?  Would Danarius have been more accepting of him?  If he just… were not the person he was, but instead he were the person that the people who had mattered to him wanted him to be…_

_Vanessa had accepted him as he was.  Funny, he could barely remember what the magister looked like.  She had been the last person in his life to accept him as a person. Something fundamental about him had broke when they had stitched his mouth shut, when they had named him Bas-Saarebas and locked him in a cage.  Something in him had changed the night of the Qunari attack in Seheron.  It was irreparable, and he thought he would despise all Qunari and the Qun until he died._

_She had been pretty alive.  Not stunningly beautiful, but pretty.  When death claimed her, she looked much the same really--cold and distant, uncaring.  He had only ever seen that part of her, so why shouldn’t he see that part of her in death as well?  She had been kind and loving as his grandmother had lain dying, and he had heard her voice soften in ways it never had for him.  He had seen her passionate, hopeful when she had first started writing to Fenris.  He had seen her love someone, or the remnants of someone.  That part of her had never graced his life, not directly anyway._

_He tried to remember her when she had began to care about him, too late in his life to make much difference.  She had tried to love him; she just couldn’t.  She had seen what he grew up to be, and it wasn’t, he didn’t think, that she thought he was evil or corrupt.  It was only the circumstance of his birth and conception that made her hate him.  That, at least, was something.  He would take whatever he got._

_Still, he had hoped to see something… more._

_He reached toward her hand hesitantly, half-expecting for one idiotic moment for the hand to withdraw, but she was cold and dead, and no matter how much she had hated him in life, in death she could not withdraw.  In death, she had to bear his touch, his presence, and his voice.  He was a selfish son; he did not respect her enough in death to not touch her.  He did not respect her enough to leave her be.  He cared more about his own pain than her wishes._

_“I didn’t want this,” he said to the dead woman.  He blinked at the growing dampness in his eyes.  He moved a little closer, watching her stillness, the dead hand stiff in his.  She didn’t look like she was just sleeping.  She looked dead.  He touched her vibrant red hair, never old enough to see it tinged with gray.  Her skin never old enough to see a wrinkle.  She had died alone, with no one beside her.  She had died in bed, and no one had been there with her.  She had never fallen in love, not that he knew.  She had never made anything out of herself.  Her life had been one misery and then the next.  No one deserved this.  “I tried.”  His voice cracked as he spoke, like it had when he had been a child growing into a man.  He swiped at his eyes with the back of one hand._

_“I wanted a life for you.  I wanted you to be happy.  I wanted to give you everything that my birth took away,” he heard himself say, even when she couldn’t hear him.  “I wanted you to be a magister.”  He had wanted her to have the social power and wealth to sustain herself, every freedom he could hope for her, every luxury, every dream that she had ever had he wanted it to be a reality.  Danarius had been his best chance at that, and her best chance.  Fenris had destroyed that utterly, though.  And why?  Why was it so terrible?  It was only slavery.  It wasn’t like Fenris hadn’t been free a long time--several years, in fact.  It wasn’t like he would have been alone.  It wasn’t like Danarius would have lived that much longer anyway.  Whatever cruelties that man had inflicted upon him, Varania would not have allowed it to continue.  For that matter, neither would Shaislyn.  He wanted Fenris miserable as he and Varania had been, but not_ tortured _._

_“Damned bastard,” he said, tilting his neck back as if he were staring at the ceiling.  He meant that for Danarius as well as Fenris.  Danarius could have put more effort into recapturing Fenris.  Fact of the matter, the hunters were all well and good, but with someone like what Fenris had to offer, a bounty wasn’t enough; he should have doggedly hounded him--never let him rest, never let him sleep, eat, stop.  The elf would have had to pass out from exhaustion eventually, and then they could just collect him, as it were.  Of course, if he had done that, he would not have been able to use Shaislyn._

_But maybe Varania would not have died in slavery, at the very least.  A servant and miserable maybe, but not a slave and even more miserable._

_It was only natural that the half-blood blamed Fenris entirely for it.  It was only natural that his anger and hatred at his own helplessness be redirected toward the one person he hated the most.  Even when he let that darkness consume his heart, he knew it was unfair.  Fenris was fighting for his life, his ideals, and his freedom.  It wasn’t fair for Shaislyn to hate him for it, but he did._

_He supposed it was much the same way one country hated another when they went to war.  They were overall the same, and everything was circumstantial._

_He had wanted Varania to die of old age in luxury, relatively safe and secluded in a seat of power where no one could do harm to her.  Maybe…  Maybe if that could have only happened, she would have at least thanked him for his efforts?  Maybe she would have cared, even a little?_

_He leaned against the stone slab, his heart like a lead weight in his chest.  Who was he fooling?  She never loved him.  She had tried, he gave her that.  She had started to care about him, but that was all.  Maybe she had just needed more time.  He had come so close.  He had just needed more time.  He was sure of it--if he only had more time, then..._

_He let go of her hand and sunk to the floor, his back against the stone and the corpse above him.  He picked idly at a loose thread on his cuff, rolling the thread between finger and thumb.  “Mother, I wanted…”  His eyes squeezed shut and a tear finally squeezed past his lashes and his will, and rolled down his face.  “Anything but this.”_        

            The hunter stalked along the dark alley, each footfall calculated and precise.  He passed among the shadows, past oblivious passersby.  He followed the rumor like a wolf followed a scent, like a hawk followed the twitching in the grass.  Satina’s light cast long, dark shadows in the streets, her sister making the lighter areas starker in contrast.  He pushed open the door and was greeted by the smell of smoke from a wood fire, the scent of cigars, and spilled alcohol.  The floor was scuffed in a thousand places, the tables an odd collection, and many of them looked to have been repaired with different woods.  Not a single chair, bench, or stool matched.  The patrons were openly gambling and telling loud, often crude, stories.  He liked it immediately.  The bar was filled with mostly humans, a couple dwarves, and he spotted one Tal-Vashoth with cut horns engaged in a drinking contest with a dwarf.  There was a big crowd around them cheering them on.  His eyes roved to a lone elf at the bar, watching the goings-on, but never a part of it.  Shaislyn was glad to find him alone--it would make it simpler.

            The half-blood walked up to him, leaning against the counter.  The counter seemed to be the only thing that was ever cleaned and waxed in the pub.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he commented.  “Tracking” would have been a more accurate term; he had been hunting for him everywhere, and of course he should find him all the way in the Free Marches on some kind of business trip with his employer.

The elf looked toward him, sage green eyes narrowing with suspicion.  “Why?”

Shaislyn blinked.  “You don’t recognize me?”  He laughed.  “No, why would you?”  He leaned against the counter, amused.  “Last time you saw me, I was eight years old.”

For the first time, Fenris looked beyond his weaponry, at his face.  He saw Danarius in his eyes, in his crooked, self-confident smile.  It had been a very long time, and he hadn’t been able to see the magister in the child, but he saw him in the man who stood before him.  He even saw some of Varania in him, and a little of himself, and that was the most disturbing part.  “Shaislyn?”

He laughed.  “I’m surprised you remember my name.”

Fenris sighed, and turned away from him; looking at him bothered him vaguely.  His eyes, though faded and milky, looked very much like Danarius’ eyes to him.   _Because he’s his son._  Shaislyn invited himself to sit down beside him.  “I don’t know how I could forget you.”

The young man raised an eyebrow.  “Feeling guilty?”

Fenris stared down at his mug of ale.  “Ale” was a polite term for it; it tasted brackish.  “Remorseful.  I should have killed you.”

Shaislyn’s eyebrows rose, just a bit.  “What would that have accomplished--other than child murder, I mean.”

Fenris glanced at him sidelong.  “And how many people have you killed, mage?  And how many would you sacrifice for your own ambitions?”

The half-blood crossed his arms, annoyed.  He wondered if Fenris knew about his involvement in Varania’s betrayal.  “How many people have you?”

The elf fell silent.  It didn’t take a mage to murder, nor did it take a mage to kill people for their own benefit.  Fenris knew that.  When it came down to it, they were just people.  People who were easily tempted, seduced, and corrupted--but no different than anyone else at the core of who they are.  He didn’t like the deflection of the question with another question though.  He wasn’t about to answer it either.  “Why are you here, Shaislyn?”

The other was quiet, and looked at the eavesdropping bartender.  His jaw set, irritated.  “I’ll give you a sovereign to go find something else to do,” he told him.

The bartender collected the coin, and gave the half-blood a complimentary shot of rum, but did stay away.  The mage downed it in one quick swallow, and removed a tarnished silver case from a pocket.  He pulled out a slender cigar, and offered one to Fenris.  The elf considered, then plucked one from its case.  Shaislyn snapped it closed, and the case disappeared back into his pocket.  Shaislyn extended a single finger, a small flame taking light.  He lit the cigar, and before Fenris said anything, he lit that one too.  Fenris sighed, then inhaled deeply, annoyed.  People had seen the display, and were watching.

            The two stared at one another for a short moment, quietly judging the other through a thin screen of smoke.  “My mother is dead,” Shaislyn said quietly.

            Fenris looked up.  “Varania?”

            Shaislyn looked at him flatly.  “That’s my only mother.”

            Fenris returned the look.  “And why am I supposed to know anything about your family?”

            The other smiled crookedly.  “Good point.”  He raised an eyebrow.  “You’re not really a part of it, are you?”  He paused.  “But you could have been.”

            Fenris had been ready to become testy, and maybe leave, but that made him pause.  “Oh?”

            Shaislyn nodded absently.  “Well, what do you think happened to us after you killed Danarius?”

            Fenris finished off the ale.  “I never cared to think about it.”  That wasn’t true, but it had never been at the forefront of his mind; he hadn’t even thought about Varania--or Danarius--in a very long time.

            The half-breed made a face.  “Right.  Well.  Before you were ‘Fenris’, you and Danarius drew up a contract, detailing that if you ever were to violate it--like run away or something--my mother, grandmother, and Lura would be slaves again.  Well, Lura and my grandmother are dead--I think Lura is dead anyway--”

            “Who’s Lura?” he interrupted him to ask.  He knew much of this, but he saw no benefit in telling him that, especially if the other were explaining something.  If he had learned nothing from Varric, it was to never give away how much he knew, no matter how little.

            Shaislyn’s lips pressed together in a disapproving frown.  “Your lover.”

            He blinked, looking away.  “Oh.”  He didn’t remember her either, any more than he truly remembered Varania.  Oh, he had a few images of his sister, an idea of her, which was more than he ever could have imagined having, but the name “Lura” meant nothing to him.

            Shaislyn cleared his throat and continued, “You violated your contract, which meant Varania was a slave again--and Danarius was fucking reasonable compared to Agasius, let me tell you.”  He made a face, staring at the empty shot glass as if wishing there were more.  “Damned bastard.”  He looked up at the ceiling.  “I begged him to sell me my mother.  He consented to sell, but for what he was asking, I could have bought a small country and crowned myself king.”  He traced the brim of the glass with a finger absently.  “I _begged_ him to lower it--I would have fucking blown him just so he would be reasonable.”

            Fenris shifted, suddenly uncomfortable.  What Danarius told him in the dream--it was all true.  He had always thought it had to be, but to have it verified...  “And…?”

            “And she died.”  He seemed angry for a moment.  “I worked so damn hard--for years.  I did everything I could to get money.  I didn’t eat, barely slept.  I’d do _anything_ for money.  I almost had enough for the _deposit_ , and Agasius was… kind… enough to write to me to tell me that she had died.  But, he said, for the amount I had, he was willing to relinquish her body so I could properly dispose of it.”

            Fenris felt like crawling under the counter.  He had unknowingly destroyed two lives that day--his only living family, in fact.  He felt guilty about it.  He would not have changed the outcome, per se, but he still felt guilty.  Maybe, if he had ever bothered to try, there might have been another way--something else at least.  “I’m not sorry,” he said softly instead.  “I couldn’t have known about that contract.”

            “Even if you did know, what would you have done?” the other demanded.  “You don’t know her--you don’t care.”

            He looked back at him.  “Are you blaming me for her death?”

            Shaislyn rose.  “Yes.”  He stared at him.  “And I’d like to settle it.”

            He stared back at him.  “Where and when?”

            “Two hours from now, in the field outside town.”

            Fenris nodded, taking a deep breath.  “Nice knowing you.”

            “Fuck you,” the half-elf spat, and turned and left.

 

            When Fenris, arrived, it was well past dark.  He assumed that he was on time, but maybe he was early; he didn’t see Shaislyn.  The stars glistened overhead like a thousand eyes, watching and judging him.

            _I wasn’t the one who challenged him.  I don’t care care if he lives or dies._

            But if he did kill Shaislyn, the half-breed was a mage, and had undoubtedly done _something_ in his life that would warrant death, he was more than certain.  He had more than likely had a hand in Danarius’ last plan to capture him, and for that, Shaislyn deserved to die.

            _He was just an angry kid.  And doesn’t he have a good reason to hate you?_

            He remembered Seheron.  He remembered the mists, the feel of the soil under his feet, the grass between his toes.  He remembered the way the air had smelled like blood and viscera.  The blood on his hands, under his fingernails, felt like it would never come out.

            He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.  When Shaislyn got here, he would apologize for what he had done that day.  It wouldn’t make it better, but it was a start.  And he would ask him if he really wanted to do this.  Like it or not, they were each other’s last living family, really.  Did they really want to try to kill one another?

            The bird of prey plummeted out of the sky, silent.  Fenris barely glimpsed it coming, and ducked down, out of the way.  Its talons raked over his scalp, but it otherwise left him unharmed.  Blood ran down his hair, a trickle of it dribbled down his face.  He spun, heart pounding.   _Head wounds just bleed a lot,_ he reminded himself.   _Doesn’t mean it’s serious._

            “What in hell?” he wondered, watching the animal wheel away.  His eyes fixed to the bird, he watched it turn back, watched it come back toward him.  His eyes narrowed in suspicion, and he dove to the side as it neared.  The bird was expecting it, and banked after him.  He raised his arms to protect his face, eyes closed.  Its talons slashed against his armor, and the bird let out an angry cry.  His eyes opened in time to see a flash of light, and he rolled away just as quickly, bringing his sword to hand.  He blocked against one slashing sword, and danced away from the other.

            _Shaislyn._

He was, briefly, annoyed; that was cheating, plain and simple.  As he fought, parried, slashed, and dodged, he thought of every bird he had ever seen, every dog and cat, every animal.  How many animals could he become?  Was there a limit?  Magic was terrifying.

            “You destroyed her life!” the mage cried, coming at him again.

            “So did you,” Fenris countered, his argumentative side getting the better of him, again.

            “I didn’t choose to be born,” he hissed.

            This wasn’t getting either of them anywhere, he thought with an inward sigh.  “I’m sorry!” he cried.

            Shaislyn paused, the black sword he used primarily to attack lowering slightly.  “For what?” he asked dubiously, sidestepping.  He wasn’t looking at him, but Fenris knew he could, somehow, still see him.  Instead, the mage’s head was turned, as if he were listening to him.

            Fenris stepped with him, countering the movement.  They slowly stepped, slowly circled.  The dance had only just begun.  “For what happened in Seheron,” he said, and meant every word.  “I’ve struggled with that every day of my life since then.”

            Shaislyn darted forward.  He was fast, and seemed to know what Fenris was going to do before he did it.  Fenris was taller than he was though, had a much longer reach with his sword, nearly as fast as Shaislyn, and his training had been much more formal and thorough.  Fighting the half-breed was exhilarating; no single opponent had given him this much challenge since Master Taggart and Mogren.  The lyrium bathed them both in its light, and he pressed the attack, stepping back when Shaislyn gave ground.  They stopped, staring at one another.  “You murdered them.  You _betrayed_ them.”

            “Your mother betrayed _me_ ,” he said.  Though he always tried to tell himself otherwise.  He always tried to tell himself that she had her reasons, that she hadn’t truly betrayed him.  Lying to himself made it hurt less.

            Shaislyn’s eyes narrowed.  “At my behest,” he countered.

            Fenris suddenly understood what this was really about.  Shaislyn was hurt because his plan had backfired in the worst possible way.  He was mad at Fenris, even hated him, but _Fenris_ was only half the problem.  “Shai…”

            The half-elf attacked again.  Each gave and lost ground.  This needed to end.  Fenris brought the sword down, but the flat of it.  His nephew wasn’t fast enough that time, and he fell to the ground, losing one of the swords in the grass as he fell.  There was another flash of light, and the wolf leaped toward him, all fangs and claws.  Fenris fell away from it, blocking with his sword.  It hit the ground on all fours and spun toward him, snarling.  It lunged again, and he hit it away with the flat of his sword, and struck out with the pommel.  It wasn’t easy to defend; two-handed weapons were not meant for defending.  The wolf, all the same, was stunned.  It gave a slight shake of its head as if to cast off the lasting dizziness.  It started to snarl, as if it might attack again.  The sword swung in a wide arc, knocking the animal back with the blunt, flat side of the blade.  It didn’t cut him open, but it obviously still hurt.  The animal yelped, backing away further.  Its ears drooped.  Gone was the venom of before.  Its head lowered, the tail hanging low.  The light encircled it again, and Shaislyn knelt, sensing defeat.  “Kill me.  I know you want to,” he muttered, sheathing his remaining sword.

            “I don’t,” Fenris said quietly.  The other looked up, confused.  “Shai, I’m sorry about Seheron.  Truly.”  He paused.  “And I’m sorry about your mother--I didn’t know.”  He put his sword down, and knelt beside him so he could look at him at eye level.  “I really didn’t know.”

            The half-elf did not move, or even look at him.  “It wouldn’t have changed anything.”

            Fenris stared at him.  “Can you blame me?”

            They looked at each other.  “Yes,” he answered.  Then he looked away, flinching.  “But I fought to not end up in slavery too, so I understand… but that was your fault.”  He took a deep breath, and let it out slowly and shook his head.  He looked back at him.  “You’re really sorry about Seheron?”

            “Yes.”

            “And my mother?  Are you sorry that she died miserable and in slavery because of your choices?  Are you sorry that I worked my ass off trying to buy her out of it, and failed?”

            Fenris flinched.  “I’m sorry anyone is in slavery--even Varania,” he whispered.  He looked up.  “But you can’t blame me for that.”

            “I can and I do,” Shaislyn muttered.  His mouth twisted into a frown, and he looked up.  “Come with me to Seheron.”

            Fenris had not been expecting this.  “What?”

            “Seheron.  Come with me,” he reiterated.  He cocked his head to the side.  “I’ll show you where I buried my mother, next to my grandmother.”  He paused.  “And I’ll show you where my grandfather died.”  He rose to his feet, extending an empty hand out to Fenris.  The elf hesitated, and accepted.  “Well?”

            “I won’t apologize for killing Danarius,” Fenris warned him.

The half-blood began to walk away, clearly expecting him to follow.  Fenris stood still, unmoving, watching him and suspicious.  “I don’t expect you to.”  He stooped, picking up his dropped sword.  He glanced at the blade and sheathed it.  “I thought about killing him a few times myself…”  Shaislyn looked back at him.  “But I found someone I hated more.”

Fenris hesitated, but his nephew had stopped walking, waiting for him to catch up.  He walked beside him.  Their discomfort with one another showed; one or even two more people could have walked between them.  Neither spoke for a long time, and then the blind half-elf said, “So.  I’ve been hoarding money since Danarius died, and now I have all this gold I don’t know what to do with.”  Fenris chose not to comment.  “That being said, let’s go get pissed and plow our way through the local brothel.”

The elf smiled.  “I like the way you think.”

Shaislyn laughed.  “Danarius _hated_ how I’d go get shit-faced and go whoring.  He had me _arrested_ once--in a brothel.  It was very awkward.”

Fenris couldn’t help but laugh.  “What?”

Shaislyn noticed they were walking a little bit closer.  “Like I said, it was awkward.”

“How hypocritical,” he commented.  “He used to get drunk--often--and go whoring.”

He scoffed.  “Damned bastard.”  A sentiment Fenris shared.  “My goal is to not be able to walk in the morning.”

“Aren’t we leaving for Seheron soon?”

“Seheron isn’t going anywhere, but I’ve noticed I have this awful disease--it’s called ‘mortality’--Damned humans, right?--and I’m not really getting any younger here.”

“Do you identify more with being an elf?” Fenris wondered.

“Don’t see why I wouldn’t.”

He looked at him.  “But you could pass as a human, so why don’t you?”

He scowled.  “You could about pass for a _very short, hornless_ Qunari, so why don’t you?” he countered.

            Fenris shoved him in the shoulder.  Shaislyn shoved him back, and they caught themselves smiling.  Shaislyn was the first to look away.


	108. Pilgrimage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris and Shaislyn start the journey to Seheron.

Come morning, Shaislyn rolled out of bed.  His entire body was throbbing, he smelled faintly of vomit, and his head was pounding so hard it was hard to cast a spell, so he felt around on the floor until he found his underwear.  He put them on, realized they were on backwards, and pulled them off again.  He slid back into them and half-fell out of his room.  Fenris was awake in the den, and it smelled like he had already requested breakfast from the innkeep.   Trailing his fingers along the wall, he walked slowly, trying to remember where all the furniture was.  His thigh bumped into a low table, and he skirted around it.

            “Do… you need a cane?” Fenris asked slowly.

            “It’d be nice,” Shaislyn commented.  “But I can figure it out.  I was born blind; I’ve been doing this a long time.”  His hand touched the back of a wooden chair, and he crawled into it heavily.  “I am way too hungover to cast spells right now is all.”

            “I wasn’t expecting you awake this early.”

            “If you’re naked, I don’t care; I can’t see you.”

            Fenris laughed.  “Not quite naked, no.”

            Shaislyn laughed aloud.  “Oh, Maker, are we ever related.”  He paused.  “How are you feeling?”

            “Better than you--you should eat something.”  Shaislyn heard a plate being pushed toward him.  He sniffed.  He could smell ham, bread, and a nutty cheese.

“Yes, _Mother,”_ the mage said.   He found the plate with only momentary fumbling, picking up a slice of bread before he found the cheese and ham.  Wrapping it all up, he bit down on it, chewing thoughtfully.

            Fenris frowned in thought.  “Something has been bothering me.”

            “What’s that?”

            His frown deepened.  “You said yesterday that Agasius said he would sell you Varania’s body for the amount you had, then you say that you buried her.   _Then_ , you said that you have all this hoarded gold…”

            Shaislyn nodded.  “All true.”  He bit off another chunk of his makeshift sandwich.  “See, he did offer that.  And by ‘bury her’ I meant, I buried a lock of her hair.  I realize it’s a poor substitute, but what else could I do?  I’m not paying six hundred sovereigns for a rotting corpse.”

            Fenris’ eyes widened.  “Six hundred?  And that was only the deposit?”  That was insane.   _Fenris_ , as a slave, had not been worth twelve hundred sovereigns, he didn’t think.  And he had, arguably, been the most expensive slave in the Imperium.  That had never occurred to him before.

            He nodded.  “Another six hundred, and I could have bought her out of slavery.  I told you Agasius is an asshole.”  There was a long pause, and Shaislyn picked at his food.  “I’m incredibly hungover--do you know how to make tea?”

“No.”

Shaislyn was incredulous.  “Why don’t you know how to make tea?”  He took another bite, barely chewed, and swallowed.  “Weren’t you a slave or something?”

Fenris rolled his eyes.  “I don’t know how I could possibly make that any more clear.”

The other scoffed.  “What good is a slave who doesn’t know how to brew tea?  Fuckin’ useless.  What did you even do?”  Fenris didn’t deign to respond to that, and he wasn’t sure he was even supposed to.  The half-blood stuffed the rest of his sandwich into his mouth and slid from the chair.  “Where’s my pack?”

Fenris rose.  “I’ll get it.”

He scowled.  “Don’t you dare baby me--where is it?”

The elf frowned, instinctively wanting to argue.  He sighed, relenting.  He had obviously survived this long being blind and hung over.  “By the door, to the right of it.”

Shaislyn nodded, pointing with an uncanny accuracy.  “The door is over there, right?”

He had no idea how he did that; he had been so drunk last night, there was no way he remembered.  The truth was that Shaislyn could hear someone walking in the hall, and he could feel a faint breeze from under the door.  “Yes.”

He nodded and trudged after it.  He felt around on the floor, poking with his toes until he touched his pack.  He knelt in front of it, blindly sorting through the contents until he picked up a small dented tin.  He stood up.  “Do we have a kettle in here?”

“No.”

He made a face.  “Fine.  Water?”

Fenris helped him with that, and Shaislyn poured it into a small cooking pot he had in his pack.  He placed it on top of the cold stove and opened his palm.  The fire hovered but a moment over his open palm before he, very carefully, sent it to circle the pot, both his palms on either side of it.  When it started to boil, his hands clenched and it extinguished.

“Can’t cast, you said,” Fenris muttered.

“My sight spell takes all my mana,” he commented blandly.  “That doesn’t.”  He picked up the pot, flinching slightly.  “Ow.  Burned myself.”

“Do you want help?”

Shaislyn shook his head, walking purposefully over to a pre-prepared pitcher, because he couldn’t find a teapot.  He slowly poured the hot water into it.  “If I want help, I’ll ask.”

Fenris sighed.  Shaislyn set the hot pan back on the stove, and sat back in his chair, waiting for the tea to steep.

“Was it at least a good night?  I don’t remember, so I’m assuming I had a decent time, but you tell me,” the half-elf said.

“I woke up in bed with two women--I’d say it wasn’t that bad.”

“I blacked out.”  He cocked his head to the side, listening.  “Did I do anything horribly embarrassing?”

“You threw up on a man’s shoes on the way back.”

“In front of the girls?  Where are they anyway?”

“They left an hour ago.”

“I’m assuming I just passed out immediately when we got back?”

“We put you into bed.”

“Great.”  He poured his tea, very carefully because he didn’t have a strainer.  Fenris watched him, fully expecting him to spill or for the cup to overflow, but neither happened.  “Do you want any?”  He filled Fenris’ cup and set the pitcher down.  He sipped at the tea.  “But we had a good time, yeah?”

“Yes.”

Shaislyn grinned.  “So.  Tonight, when I’m not feeling sick, I say we go out drinking and gambling.”

Fenris raised an eyebrow.  “Are you sure that’s wise?”

Shaislyn’s grin grew wider, despite the hangover.  “How do you think I _got_ all this money?” he demanded.  “Not honestly.”  He leaned back in the chair, taking another slice of cheese.  “Look, my amazing sight spell thing allows me to see _everything_ in a room, from every angle.  Super easy to see my opponent’s cards.”

Fenris made a mental note to never play cards with him.  “Then why do I have to be there?”

He leaned forward, the grin back on his face.   _He looks like Danarius when he smirks like that_.  Yet, somehow, not like him; there was too much mischief in his eyes, too much slouch to his shoulders and back.  “Are you familiar with hustling?”

 

They left the night after last, Shaislyn’s gold replenished temporarily before he paid to see a whore go down on a donkey.  Fenris caught wind of this from another whore, and abandoned his drink at the bar.  He went out back to the stable to see a crowd of gathered whores and patrons alike, alternately staring in mute horror and fascination, and some of them drunkenly cheering her on.  Shaislyn was laughing, a girl on his lap, and his hand down her blouse.  Fenris plucked his wrist away from her bosom, and pushed her gently out of his lap.

“You’ve had enough,” he informed him.

He pointed.  “Oh, Maker--look!  She’s gonna swallow it--Andraste’s tits, she’s gonna do it!”

Fenris turned around, appalled that he was even looking.  He quickly looked away, swallowing the impulse to gag.  He grabbed onto the young man’s arm and hauled him roughly away.  Shaislyn complained the entire way, and when the crowd let up a loud cry, he complained louder.  He glared at him all the way back to the inn, until he passed out on the floor an hour later, finishing off a bottle of spirits.

            Shaislyn said that they would board a ship in Rivain for Seheron, and then asked him if he’d like to walk to Rivain.  Fenris thought he was joking.  From what the elf could tell, at this point, he hadn’t been.

            Fenris had been on one of Anastas’ Free Marches trips, and so he let his employer know what he was doing before he and Shaislyn headed north towards Antiva.

            “We aren’t really going to walk all the way to Rivain, are we?”

            “Just to Antiva.  From there, I bet we can hop on board a cargo ship or something.”

            “Legally?”

            Shaislyn snorted.  “If I was alone, no.  Since nothing on this earth will make you particularly good at hiding, I suppose we must.”

            Fenris was quiet a moment.  “Shaislyn, I would like to ask you something.  Personal.”

            “Oh, goody,” the other muttered.  “You can ask, I suppose.  Don’t expect an answer.”

            Fenris glanced at him.  “You can become any animal?”

            He shrugged.  “To learn a form is like learning a soul.  It’s not easy--I’m good at it, but it’s not easy.”

            “Of course.  And… about that incident with the donkey…”

            Shaislyn kind of twitched, making a face as if he had bitten something sour.  “If this conversation is going where I think it’s going, the answer is ‘no’ and if you finish asking this particular question, I am going to punch you in the nuts--when you least expect it.”

            The barest hint of a smile danced about Fenris’ lips.  “Of course, Shaislyn,” he said indulgently.

            “Oh, you damn darkspawn shit.”  Fenris thought it prudent to say nothing and only glance at the half-blood loftily.  The other made a face.  “You have this whole idea in your head, don’t you?  You nasty motherfucker.”

            “You’re the one who paid to see a whore blow a donkey, not me.”

            “Touché.”

            The days passed on the road.  Some travelers liked to harass Fenris when he was alone, just because he was an elf, he assumed.  Humans did things like that, and always had.  He imagined they always would.  Shaislyn, though, was the one to butt in, to make the fight about him instead.  He would bluntly throw it in a person’s face that he was half-elven, paraded that he was a mage, and if someone still continued to dare to ridicule him in any way, well--Fenris had broken up more than one fight, and it had only been three days.

            “I don’t know how you are still alive,” Fenris commented dryly, watching Shaislyn nurse a black eye.  A farmer had hit him when Shaislyn had antagonized him.  He hadn’t done it without reason, but everything he did was too much.  Fenris had been content to ignore the racist jibe, but Shaislyn hadn’t been.  The half-blood had nearly drawn steel, but Fenris had hauled him bodily away before that had happened.  “Didn’t your sword master teach you _when_ to use your swords?  He was unarmed--just a farmer.”

            The other smoldered.  “He called me a half-bred mongrel,” he said darkly.

            Fenris stared at him morosely.  “Because you told him to gargle a bottle of horse piss.”

            “He insulted you!”

            The elf sighed deeply.  “So let _me_ handle it; it was directed to me anyway.”  He frowned.  “Well.  You did learn something more than how to fight, didn’t you?”

            “You mean fighting etiquette?  No, I didn’t pay much attention to that.”

            His frown deepened.  “You _do not ever_ attack someone unarmed with naked steel, Shai.   _Never_.”  He considered.  “There are extenuating circumstances, of course, but there’s no sense in drawing blood over that.”

            The half-breed started to argue, lost interest in the argument, and walked past him.  They walked in silence for a long while.  Shaislyn looked up, watching a hawk high above them soar.

            “They say a circling hawk at the beginning of a journey is a bad omen,” he commented.

            “I don’t believe in omens,” Fenris told him.  “And anyway, it’s been almost a week now.”

            Shaislyn looked back at him.  “It is stupid, isn’t it.”  He was quiet for a while, watching the hawk until it wheeled away.  “Walking is overrated,” he decided.

            “We could always hop onboard a caravan, I suppose.”

            He made a face.  “How about you just carry me?”

            “To Antiva?”

            “I’ll just turn into a squirrel or something and ride on your shoulder.”

            The other rolled his eyes.  “Could you turn into a horse, and I could ride you?”

            “Sure--we’ll switch.  But I don’t have a saddle.”

            He blinked.  He hadn’t meant that seriously, but he was awfully tired of walking.  “I can manage.”

            Shaislyn shrugged.  “All right, but I get to go first.”  Before Fenris could object, there was a flash of light, and a sparrow landed on his shoulder.  He scowled at it, and it chirped contentedly.  He hadn’t asked him if he could even understand if he spoke.

            “Shaislyn?” Fenris asked.  The bird looked toward him.  “Can you understand me?”

            The bird gave no indication that he understood.  Maybe he couldn’t.  That seemed so strange to Fenris.  How could someone give up their body and their language?  How much of the mage’s consciousness was forfeit when he used this spell?

            He frowned in thought.  Interesting to consider.  He would have to ask him when he got the chance.  He wondered how often birds shat.

            Halfway through the day, the sparrow flew off of his shoulder, and landed on the dirt near him.  A flash of light revealed Shaislyn.  He stretched.  “If you don’t mind, I can go catch us dinner.”

            When they set out, they had some travel provisions, but they were both quickly tired of that.  Fenris didn’t miss that Shaislyn had said “catch” not “hunt” though.

            “How many forms do you have?”

            The half-breed walked beside him.  “Ah…”  He hesitated.  “Eleven.  Mostly birds.”

            “Can you understand what people say when you’re an animal?”

            He shook his head.  “No--well.”  He made a face.  “It depends on the animal.  When I’m a dog or a wolf, I seem to understand a bit more--mostly because I had a lot of practice at it.  My raven understands a fair amount--or more accurately, I hear the words better and I can puzzle through what they mean, but it’s hard.  My horse knows a few words, but that’s the best I can do.”  He shrugged.  “It’s weird.”

            “If I should need to communicate with you…”

            He glanced sidelong at him.  “I’ll sense danger long before you do in most of my forms.”  He stretched.  “This is why I love being a mage.”  He winked at him broadly, and another flash of light enveloped him.  The eagle beat furiously in the air for a moment, heaving its great wings into the air.  When it was above the trees, in the wind, it soared.

            It was an hour before sunset when he saw him again.  Fenris had ventured off the path to make camp.  He hated doing these sorts of tasks.  He was glad he knew how, but it was the least enjoyable thing he could think of to do.  He had no idea how the Dalish could enjoy this sort of thing--tromping about in the dirt, camping, and other such things.  He didn’t mind the traveling so much; Shaislyn stayed in inns whenever possible and Fenris was much happier with a roof over his head and a floor under his feet, a proper bath, and a real meal.  None of those things could be found in constant camping.  He had, once, considered seriously joining the Dalish when he had been running from Danarius.  It would have made everything so easy; the Dalish were all elves and he would easily fit in, for one.  For two, they would be welcoming, and they already moved constantly and would be happy to keep him well out of Danarius’ reach.  But it had meant running about in the dirt and the rain--things he found to be detestable.  Isabela said that the Dalish had a permanent settlement in Rivain which would have been more preferable, but he had never been there.  He supposed it was all just as well.  Overall, it had turned out better than he had ever thought possible.

He was still working on building a fire when a rabbit thudded to the ground next to him.  He jumped, startled, and stilled when he saw the eagle swoop low, wings fanned.  It landed nimbly on the ground, folding its wings.  Shaislyn knelt beside the rabbit carcass, bringing a hunting knife to hand.

            “Ever skinned a rabbit?” he asked conversationally.

            “No,” he admitted.  He traveled alone as rarely as he could manage, and if he had to, he made sure to have provisions.  Shaislyn couldn’t seem to be bothered with carrying enough provisions.  He supposed, why bother when he could transform into an animal and eat it raw.  That was just so disgusting.

            The mage cast a hand out, and the dry tinder lit.  His hand dropped, and he went back to the rabbit.  “Do we have a spit or something?”

            “I’ll work on it.”

            “Thanks.”

            The half-blood skinned and gutted the rabbit while Fenris made a functional spit.  While it was cooking, Shaislyn’s wolf prowled around the area, like he did every night, sniffing and hunting out anything that might be dangerous.  A few nights ago, Shaislyn had came yelping and running back to camp with a bloodied nose.  The mage had slunk behind Fenris’ legs, head low and whining before the elf had seen the badger.  Fenris swore at the stupid wolf, a pulse of the lyrium sent the badger scurrying back the way it had came.  He had glared at the half-elf until his nephew had yelped plaintively again, then trotted off.  

The half-elf had also commented that he scent-marked the area and it would keep other wolves away, or should.  He also slept as a wolf, saying it was warmer and more comfortable that way.  Fenris suspected, correctly, that he just didn’t like carrying a bedroll.

            “You know, for an escaped slave who couldn’t read for half his life, you’re not completely stupid,” Shaislyn commented, walking out of the forest in the only form he had that could talk.  

            Fenris stared at him flatly without commenting.

            The other prattled on, either oblivious or willfully ignoring him, “You know, when I was a kid, before you slaughtered a whole bunch of people for no good reason, I used to really look up to you.  I thought…  I wanted to be at least half as good as you are at swordplay but without the backstabbing, and I thought you were really inspiring.”

            Fenris blinked in surprise.  Somewhere in that long string of insults and bitterness, Shaislyn had told him he had looked up to him.  It was… odd for him to hear someone else say that they thought that.  Aveline had wanted him to teach people swordsmanship.  He didn’t think he would ever make a decent teacher, even if humans would ever want to listen to an elf.  But, again, that was Aveline, with her idealistic worldviews, always wanting to do the moral “right” thing even in the face of opposition.  He didn’t think Aveline really saw race the way other people did; she saw a person’s moral standing.  He missed Aveline sometimes.  He had lost contact with her shortly after Hawke’s letters stopped coming.  He wasn’t worried about either of them, per se; life happens and letters were easy to lose when they traveled a long way.  And perhaps Hawke and Anders had fled in the face of Sebastian’s army—who knew?  “Really?”

            Shaislyn rolled his nearly white eyes.  “That’s what I said.”

            “Then why are you a backstabbing little shithead?”

            The other’s jaw set for a moment, and he swung at him.  Fenris caught his wrist, but couldn’t dodge the second blow in time.  His fist connected with his upper arm, at a pressure point he didn’t think was an accidental blow.  He flinched, and there was a brief struggle before Fenris immobilized his nephew and both of them were laughing.  Fenris let him go, and he slunk away.

            “I won’t be complimenting you any more.”

            The elf suppressed the urge to laugh, watching Shaislyn sulk.  “You must have really hated me,” Fenris commented.

            Shaislyn looked back at him.  “Still do.  But…”  He hesitated.  “You’re all right.  As a person.”  He sat down across from him, the fire between them.  “Why’d you do it?”  He looked hurt.  “Why’d you kill them?”

            Fenris looked back at him.  He didn’t know how to even begin explaining it to him.  “Shai, you used to be a slave.”

            He stared back at him.  They were both silent a very long time.  “I don’t understand,” he said flatly.  “I don’t understand how you can kill someone who cared for you.”

            The elf made a face, searching for the right words.  “Danarius ordered me to.”

            He saw the other struggle with the concept, watched him almost breach understanding, then saw it fail.  “It’s still vile.”

            Fenris glanced around their surroundings, and his eyes settled on the fire.  “A fire, by itself, isn’t evil.  A fire can provide warmth and light, but if someone knocks over a candle, or maybe someone purposefully sets fire to a house, it’s easy to blame the fire rather than the one who controlled it.”

            The other was quiet as he thought about what he had said.  “You are a sentient, self-aware, intelligent being, responsible for your own actions.  You make your own decisions, even if they are to follow orders.”

            He sighed.  “Not at the time,” he whispered.  “It’s taken me _years_ to overcome that, Shaislyn.   _Years_.”

            He saw him roll his eyes, but he didn’t respond.  They spent the rest of the evening in relative silence.  Fenris took the first watch, letting Shaislyn sleep.  Maybe he could find that field again, in Seheron.  Maybe he could stand on the blood-stained earth and his heart could break for the lives he had ended that early autumn day.  Maybe he could pray for their souls, and lay on the grass, and weep for his sins and wish with everything he was that he could take it back.  Maybe if the Maker were good, he could take it back.

            If he could go back to that day, knowing everything he did now, Danarius would have died instead.  And he would have still been in Seheron today.  He may have even been happy.

            _I never would have met Hawke._

            He thought about that.  He never would have found out who Shaislyn was.  He never would have known Varania existed or was his sister.  And was any of that so bad?

            _Hawke_ …

            A glimpse of love and happiness in a lifetime of misery made him reluctant for that wish.  He wasn’t so sure any more.  It was wrong to think that so many people’s deaths was worth a glimmer of joy, but he loved Hawke.  It was selfish, but he loved Hawke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Shaislyn did, in fact, buy a donkey a prostitute.


	109. Voyage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris travels with Shaislyn.

            It was strange riding bareback with no reins, but he guessed reins were only for controlling a horse, and Shaislyn knew where he was going.  A saddle would have still been nice though.  He very nearly opted out and chose to walk, but he just hated that his feet were dirty, and he was tired of walking besides.

            A mercenary riding a bay gelding came upon him from a crossroad.  She looked at him oddly.  “How do you control it with no reins?”

            “I don’t need to,” he responded bluntly.  The horse snorted, ears twitching.  The gelding stepped away from Shaislyn, and the horse seemed to regard the mage as oddly as the mercenary regarded Fenris.

            The mercenary shrugged, and they walked beside each other in silence for a long while, until Shaislyn apparently had enough of it.  He saw the way his head lowered, the ears flicking back.  Under his legs, he felt the muscles tense, and his thighs dug in.  His fingers gripped its mane, and the horse raced down the road.

            It was unlike riding a _real_ horse; Shaislyn knew what riding was like.  He was smarter than a horse.  If he came across a part in the path strewn with gravel, he would stop and look at it before he moved on, picking his way gingerly through the obstacle.  If he came to water, he would do the same.  It eliminated the need to dismount.

            A fair distance away, the horse slowed to a walk.  He wondered what that had been about.  Around noon, Shaislyn suddenly stopped, legs locked, and tossed his head.  When Fenris had no idea what he was trying to say, the other rose on his back legs, slightly.  Fenris hopped off of him.

            Shaislyn stretched.  “Good to know you can ride--I was worried I would lose you for a second.”

“Not that easily.”

He raised an eyebrow, smirking.  “Don’t inspire me to try.”

“Why did you take off like that?” Fenris had to ask.

“The horse knew something was wrong with me--and I thought the situation might be awkward for you as it was.”  True enough,  Fenris supposed.  “So, there’s a shortcut up ahead—saw it yesterday when I was flying, and it leads pretty much directly to the next village.  What do you think?”

“How long by the road?”

“We will probably have to camp again.”

Fenris glanced apprehensively at the sky.  The clouds covered the sky completely, and were heavy and gray with water.  He expected rain at any moment.  “Lead on.”  They walked on the road for a time, and two hours before sundown, they moved onto a more slender trail.  It was slower going on the trail, and time seemed to slip away quickly.

            It was darker under the canopy of leaves, the trees casting long shadows.  To a human’s eyes, it may have been too dark to see, but the lyrium gave off light to see where he was putting his feet, and he could see the path ahead of him well enough.  Shaislyn walked in front of him on the deer trail, too narrow for a horse.  They were mostly quiet, the half-elf occasionally calling out any peculiarity in the trail.  He supposed the vision spell was not very much affected by light.

            “There’s a river up ahead, but there should be a footbridge,” Shaislyn commented.  Fenris snorted, but otherwise did not reply.  The trees parted just enough to reveal the river and a rocky shore along it.  At first, Fenris was irritated, as the path was not there, then he saw the narrow footbridge.  The river was swollen with rainwater, and the water looked to be just beginning to flood the bridge.

            Fenris stared at Shaislyn.  “You first, mage.”

            The half-elf let out a noisy sigh, and trudged up to the bridge.  “I’m sure it’s fine.”  There was no guardrail, just a narrow planking.  “It’s pretty deep, though, and the current looks bad.”

            Fenris sighed deeply, and watched the half-elf cross.  Shaislyn slipped and nearly fell towards the middle, where a puddle was forming, but was otherwise fine even on the slick boards.  Of course, he had shoes.

            Shaislyn turned and waited on the other side.  Fenris started cross.  It was not as sturdy as it appeared, and Fenris, particularly with his sword, weighed more than Shaislyn did.

            He walked slowly across, testing each step.  The boards creaked, and the water rushed by under his feet, trickling over his toes.  The rain continued to pour.  He couldn’t wait to be out of it.

            “One more mile,” Shaislyn promised him.  “Then we can get out of this rain.”

            “That will be welcome,” Fenris commented dryly.  The puddle was too wide to step over.  His options would be to take one small step into it, and try to step the rest of the way over, or step in the center of it.  Hopping over it was not an option with the rain, and trying to skirt around it even more dangerous.  He groaned and went with the first option, standing on the balls of his feet, and hating Shaislyn more and more by the minute.

            He stepped on the other side, carefully putting down his weight.  He heard a cracking noise, and jumped back instinctively, too quickly.  He should have known better.

            He could hear Mogren in his memory, chiding him about how he needed to learn to step on wet surfaces, in puddles, in mud.  Her scolding him when he slipped and fell on greased metal of all things.  He should have known better, and as soon as he did it, he knew what would happen, and tried to brace for it, to correct the mistake.  If the bridge had not been so old, when he corrected his misstep, he would not have fallen.  Instead, the board splintered and nearly gave way.  He heard Shaislyn cry out, then he slipped.

            He fell forward, plunging into the icy water.  His fingers grasped the bridge for the barest moments before the current pulled him forward.  His head smacked against the underside of the bridge, and he lost his grip on it completely.  His skull pounded, and the logical part of his brain considered the possibility of a concussion or a cracked skull.

            The current threw him against the bridge again, buffeting him in it.  He couldn’t breathe. His lungs were on fire, and it was difficult to think against the pain in his head.

            He tumbled and rolled in the current, trying to figure out which way was up.  He couldn’t see anything and the water was dark as pitch.  The lyrium did nothing but illuminate how dark the water was.

            He had always thought drowning had sounded so pleasant.

            He had always thought if he were going to end his life, it would be by drowning.

            It wasn’t pleasant.  It was terrifying.

            The water clutched all around him, pressing against him, not warm and inviting but cold and harsh, pinning him under it, striking him against every rock.  For an instant, he touched the bottom of the river, dragged along the rocks at its bed, before he rolled and spiraled away from it, and again lost his sense of direction.  He struggled, trying to figure out which way was the surface.  His back struck hard against a stone and his mouth opened in a mock cry, filling with water.  He swallowed a lungful of it, and coughed.  His lungs felt like they were on fire.  The lyrium blazed, and still he was drowning.  He felt like he was on fire, but he was drowning.

            He couldn’t breathe.  Everything felt… dim.  He realized he was about to faint.  Against the burning in his chest, against the blazing pain of the lyrium and the pounding in his head, fainting did not sound so bad.  He felt himself going limp, rushing towards the embrace of unconsciousness that would mean a release from pain.  A release from suffering and torment and all the pains of living.

            They said you went to the Maker’s side when you died.  That didn’t sound so bad.  He wouldn’t be in pain there would he?  And if it were only the Void for him, which he had always thought as being more likely, that wasn’t so bad either.

            Being alive hurt so much.  Every whisper of the wind, every touch, every time his clothing rubbed against the lyrium, it hurt.  He could never get it off of him, and it _hurt_.  Death didn’t seem to hurt as much.  Maybe in death the lyrium would finally free his soul.  Maybe in death, magic would finally release him.  Living hurt so much.  His eyes closed.  Dying wasn’t that hard.  His thoughts scrambled.  It was hard to think, hard to reason.  Hard to do… anything.  It was so cold.

            Maybe death wasn’t cold either.  He was beginning to feel numb, and the cold was beginning to fade.  He was beginning to lose consciousness, he recognized with a dim understanding.  It had once been so important that he stay awake, that he stay…

            His eyes opened.   _Alive_.   _I don’t want to die._

It was so hard to stay conscious.  He couldn’t fight to reach a surface he couldn’t see.  Every second to stay awake was a battle.  His thoughts tumbled by his head.  Think of something.  Stay awake.   _Stay awake!_  He thought about Hawke, and felt himself relax, and let go.

            _No, don’t!_ he wanted to scream at himself.   _If you black out, you die!_

What would keep him awake?   _Danarius.  Thoughts of how much I hate him, feared him, resented him_ , _has kept me awake many a night._  He thought of how his blood had felt on his hands.  He thought about what it had been like to look into that man’s eyes as fear had finally masked his face, as the damned magister had finally realized he could no longer control his runaway slave.  And that had been the moment, the real moment, Fenris had been free.  Free to let his hate go, free to let his life choices not be dictated by a need to run and build his life the way he wanted it to be.

            He wasn’t ready to die yet.  He couldn’t die yet.  Not yet!

Something grabbed onto him.  His fogged mind couldn’t tell what it was.  Had he gotten stuck on something?  Trapped, and now he was pinned here and he was going to die?  Drowning, just the way he had always thought…

            He had been wrong.

            Drowning was not pleasant.

            Dying, compared to living, was relatively easy, but it was not pleasant.

            The thing pulled him--under?  Deeper?  He couldn’t tell.  What was going on?  What was…?  Everything felt so faint.

            His head came over the water, and he gasped, coughing water out of his mouth.  He choked, and gagged, feeling himself going weak.  He still might faint.

            He coughed, his lungs heaving to expel the water.

            Something was pulling him again.  He coughed up water, trying desperately to breathe, to stay awake.

            Something--someone--pulled him into shallower water, dragging him onto the shore.  He heard the swearing, in Tevene tinged with a Seheron accent.  “Shai?” he breathed, and coughed up another mouthful of water.

            His nephew helped him roll over to keep coughing water onto the ground, and waited.

            Fenris swiped his mouth--a futile effort, but habitual.  He raked his fingers through his hair, and checked to make sure his sword was still there, not relaxing until he felt the hilt in his hand.  He sagged, letting himself drop to the ground.  His eyes slid closed.  The rain continued to pour.

            Shaislyn knelt, checking the back of his head.  “We need to find you a mage--a real mage who can heal, not me.  Or a potion.  Can you walk?”

            Fenris coughed again, looking at his nephew.  The half-elf looked concerned, and dripping wet.  “Yes.”  He paused.  “Thank you.”

            Shaislyn sighed, then forced a smile.  “You really scared me, you know.  If it weren’t for the lyrium, I never would have found you.”

            “I’ll try not to do it again.”

            When Fenris climbed to his feet, he noticed he was shaking, and everything still felt fuzzy.  Shaislyn grabbed onto him before he fell, and Fenris ultimately had to sling his arm over the shorter half-elf’s shoulders, and he helped support him.  Shaislyn chattered the whole way there, mostly about nothing.  He described the rain in vivid detail, provided commentary on the plantlife, and gave epic speeches about any animal they happened by, all the while forcing Fenris to not only pay attention to his ramblings, but also to respond to them.

            “You hit your head,” Shaislyn said when Fenris had lost his patience and told him to shut up.  “It’s bleeding.  And with head injuries, it’s hard to tell the extent of it.  I think, if you can figure out what I’m saying and respond, it can’t be that bad.”

            The elf felt like that made _sense_ , and some of his irritation ebbed.  He couldn’t wait for a warm fire, a bath, hot food…  Just to get out of these wet clothes would be a blessing.  A mile was not far, but dripping wet and shaking, his head spinning, it felt like half a continent away.

“You are a terrible mage,” Fenris informed him.

            Shaislyn laughed.  “If I must be a mage, I should at least know some magic--is that what you mean?”

            “Precisely.”

            “I know, I think, four spells,” Shaislyn said with a hint of pride--as if his undereducation were a good thing.  “I wish I knew an ice spell--that would improve most of the alcohol I drink.”

            “Shaislyn, you would drink rat piss if it were mixed with whiskey.”

            “And likely have,” he agreed cheerfully.

            The pair were cheered by the sight of the village, and marched down the streets to a building likely to be an inn.  They were correct, and Shaislyn kicked the door open, and the relief from the rain and the warmth of the room was immediate.  The innkeep, a portly woman with a consistent scowl, doddered over to them.  She had a general air of disapproval about her.

            “Close that door!” she snapped.  Shaislyn made a face, but let go of Fenris to shut the door.  Fenris shook his head a little.  He still felt nauseated.  She folded her arms under ample breasts.  She took one look at Fenris and said, “He’ll need a healer.  I’ll fetch her.”  She turned and barked a name, “Mattie!”  A young girl jumped across the hall and dashed forward.  She had the same natural scowl as the innkeep--obviously a daughter.  “Go fetch Lluvia--now _go_.”  Mattie dashed off again.  The innkeep glanced back at them.  “What’ll it be?”

            Shaislyn spoke with her briefly, and she handed him a key.  The pair trudged off to their room.  “Innkeep said she would get the healer over here.  You sit down.  I’ll find some towels.”

            There was a knock at the door and Shaislyn opened it.  A gangly youth with a pockmarked face trudged in carrying firewood.  “Mother said you might need this.”

            “We appreciate it,” Shaislyn blathered on.  He glanced at Fenris.  “And towels?”

            “Go talk to my Mum.”

            The half-elf nodded and trotted off.  Fenris stood silent, trying not to shiver and failing, the water dripping off of him in a puddle.  The boy neatly stacked the tinder and got a fire going.  Fenris thanked him, and the boy muttered some comment about how “his kind should learn to wear shoes” before he left.

            Shoes were deathly uncomfortable--restraining and too hot, sweaty in the best of times.  Still, with his toes frozen and caked in mud, it didn’t sound half-bad.

            He stood in front of the fire, shaking his head a little.  He finally removed his sword and armor, and when Shaislyn got back carrying a large stack of towels, he first dried off his sword before himself.

            The half-elf scoffed.  “You could catch the flu doing that,” he commented, unbuckling his swords and setting them down on the small table.

            Fenris looked up at him, water dripping down his hair.  “The metal could rust.”  He paused, and frowned a little.  “I’ve only ever been sick once that I can remember.”

            Shaislyn cocked his head to one side.  “Truly?”  He sat down, unlacing his boots with frozen fingers.

            Fenris frowned.  It had never really occurred to him before, but… the only time he could remember ever having been sick, he had been knee-deep in snow and practically starving.  Also, discounting when he had been shot in the chest--that wasn’t so much illness as near-fatal though.  “Yes, only once.”

            Shaislyn kicked off his boots and pulled off his soaked socks.  “That’s… an interesting development.  You think because of the lyrium?”

            “That might be,” he said quietly.   _The ancient elves never got sick before their contact with humans._  He shuddered at the thought.  Being immortal was more terrifying than dying.  Watching a child grow up, grow old, and die while he remained fixed in place was frightening.  Knowing everyone he knew would die long before he did was even worse.   _At least I’m aging_.

            They were both quiet while they peeled themselves out of their wet clothes.  They dried off first, and Shaislyn commented that Fenris’ head wound seemed to have stopped bleeding.  They rang out their clothes in a bucket, dumped the bucket, and continued.  By the time they had hung up the assortment of leathers near the fire to dry on various furniture, there was a knock at the door.  Fenris sighed, knowing what this was about.  He wrapped himself in a towel and opened the door to be presented with a small human woman.  She wasn’t particularly chatty, and only bade him sit down while she had a look at him, her back distinctly to the half-elf, and any time she began to turn in his direction, promptly jumped and would look away.  She stared at the lyrium markings, but tried not to while she looked at the wound.  She moved around Fenris to stare at his eyes, asked him to look around the room, and follow her moving finger with his eyes.  Satisfied, she moved on to the actual healing process.

            “You’ll need to stay awake, at least the night.  Things like this can change as time passes.  I can heal it, but… well, you never know,” she said, haltingly as if the King’s Speech were not her first language.  She held a thick Antivan accent.

            “Was your name Lluvia?” Shaislyn inquired as she worked.  He was pulling all the things that had gotten wet out of their packs so they could dry--which was everything.  Shaislyn had pulled off his pack when he went after Fenris in the river, but he had had the misfortune of slinging it into a puddle.

            She looked up.  “Yes,” she answered, quickly looking back down, her face red.  Shaislyn still had not put on a towel.

“Shaislyn,” Fenris growled.

“What?”

“For propriety’s sake…”

The boy frowned.  “I’m sure she’s seen a naked man before.”

Fenris theorized that, because Shaislyn had no idea what _real_ vision was like for a person, he may not realize that people looked at things accidentally.  Or his nephew really was this ignorant of social norms.  Most likely, it was a combination of these things.  “This isn’t up for debate.” 

He grumbled and swiped a mostly dry towel off the floor.  Wrapping it loosely around his waist, he resumed the task of decorating the room with wet items.  He cocked his head to one side as he neatly laid out the travel food, inspecting what was salvageable.  “Always been an apostate?”

“Not always.”

Both the mages fell silent at that.  Lluvia left quickly after she was paid.  Fenris glanced back at Shaislyn.  “So.  You willing to stay up all night and make sure I don’t fall asleep?”

The half-elf groaned.  “Aw, hell.  Damn you and your head injury--fine.”  They went to the bath house first, and the hot water was a very welcome thing, even if the communal bathhouse was strange to Fenris.  In smaller communities, a communal bathing house was often just easier.  This one was for the inn only, and it was empty at this time of night.  There were public bathhouses in the Imperium, but Fenris had certainly never been in one, even since working for Anastas.

“I can’t remember the last time I took a bath,” Shaislyn commented.

Fenris glanced at him, making a face.  “You should really bathe more often.”

“As often as you do?” the other inquired.  “At every chance I get?”

            “I like the feeling of the hot water,” he said with a shrug.  He leaned back in the water.  “And the lyrium is… irritating when it’s covered in dirt.”  It was just one more thing constantly touching it, and that part he could at least do something about.  “I took the liberty of sending our things to be washed by the way.”

            “You like spending my money, don’t you.”

            Fenris frowned at Shaislyn, his brow furrowing in judgment.  “Have you _ever_ washed your clothes, Shai?”

The mage shrugged, dismissing the issue entirely.  “You’re not supposed to wash pants until they gain sentience and try to escape,” he said matter-of-factly.

The elf was unimpressed by this complete lack of reasoning.  Fenris had no idea how the Circle tolerated Shaislyn’s poor hygiene.  Probably why they didn’t mind him being elsewhere.  Shaislyn did say that they often sent him running errands.  “Right…”

Shaislyn continued, “Then, you have to catch them, then drown them in soapy water, then beat them thoroughly.  Then, you drown them again in not-soapy water, then beat them again--to improve morale.  After that, you string them up on a line to reflect on their actions.”

Fenris blinked.  “Strangely… accurate.”

“Right?”  Shaislyn sighed.  “What are we going to do all night?  It’s not like you can drink.”

“Is that all you ever do?”

“Yes.”  He blinked.  “And it’s pouring, so…  Well, food is next.  For sure.  And then…”  His voice trailed off.

“We could always talk to each other.”

“That would be pretty novel, wouldn’t it?”  They shared a small chuckle.

Still wrapped in towels because all their clothing was at the laundry, they stole back into their room, sitting in front of the fire as their hair dried.  Shaislyn had finally taken the time shave his face in the bath house, and because he was careless, was bleeding from his neck.  Fenris watched the blood, as the mage held a small cloth to it until it stopped.  Not once did it smoke and evaporate, but he always half-expected it to.  How could he not?  The half-blood cast a particular spell constantly.  He lived every day of his life with his sight spell, or his shapeshifting spell.  He was almost never not using magic.

“You keep staring at me.”

“Just watching for signs of demons,” Fenris said pleasantly.

Shaislyn let out a noisy sigh.  “That’s a conscious thing.  I can’t cut myself shaving or something, and be like _‘Oo, instant blood magic!’_  That would be really unfair for women.”

Fenris blinked, then made a face as he understood what he meant.  “Mages too easily succumb to blood magic as it is,” he muttered, half in agreement with Shaislyn’s statement.

Shaislyn frowned.  “Actually, I agree with you on that.  And they too easily can become abominations.”

Fenris had never, not once, heard a mage agree with him--about much of anything.  Hawke strayed the fence with his feelings about it, and the pair rarely, if ever, spoke about it to one another.  It had kept things peaceable even if Fenris understood that Hawke’s opinions were somewhat compromised by Anders.  “Why do you agree?”

Shaislyn stared at him.  “I live in Minrathous.  How can I _not_ agree?”

The elf frowned.  “I was interested in your reasons for doing so.”

The other nodded.  “Oh.”  He paused.  “Well.  I’ve _always_ been the master of my own magic.   _Always_.  I have _never_ , not once, not been at peace with it.  But _so many_ mages hate their gift, or try to force it to their will instead of letting it manifest into something they are actually good at.  They want to be like their peers, but maybe that isn’t their talent, but they will never know because that’s all they try to do.  Or maybe they just want their magic to go away because they keep trying to do the things others can do and they have never been good at it.  I mean, if your hands are shaky, don’t try to learn the harp.”

Fenris was pleasantly surprised.  “You think the Circles are wrong, though, all the same?”

“Yes and no.  Many mages have mage relatives, but a lot _don’t_.  And, say, a child discovers they are a mage.  They _need_ someone to teach them magic.  It’s almost impossible to find someone reputable to teach you when you are an apostate.  I was lucky.  So in that, the Circles are--were--important.  For everyone.  Cutting contact with the mage’s families, I think, is entirely too extreme.  That was something that caused more problems than it ended.”

Fenris frowned.  “You can’t just train them and then release them into the world.”

“I don’t see why not.  They need the teaching, but they don’t need a cage.  Caging someone and expecting them to not act like an animal is an exercise in futility.  You, of all people, should agree with that concept.”

“So there would be no one watching them to strike them down when the maleficarum summon demons and murder people?”

Shaislyn frowned.  “You know, I don’t understand maleficarum either, Fenris, and I’m a mage.  Demons should not be that difficult to say ‘no’ to.  They can’t really be controlled or even relied on.  And they should really learn that during the Harrowing.  Just ignore them--it really isn’t that difficult to say ‘no’, so it makes me angry that they don’t.  Or maybe I’m just too stubborn for it, I don’t know  But either way, the end result is blood magic, to try to make up for what they can’t do otherwise.”  He paused, and made a face.  “Mages shouldn’t be pushed to all achieve the same thing--it’s stupid.”

Fenris was bemused.  “So you believe they are driven to it.”  Anders had said the same thing, he remembered, and look how that had turned out.

“No.  The ultimate decision is with themselves.  They are often pushed in that direction, but, well--you can push a horse in a direction, but that doesn’t mean it will go that way.”

None of Shaislyn’s philosophies made sense.  “You say they are driven that way, then you say it’s their decision.  Your logic is circular at best.”

“We, as people, allow ourselves to be driven and influenced by others.  Don’t we?”  
            “I’d drink to that, if I could drink right now.”  He paused.  “But mages _should_ be caged, to protect others if nothing else.”

“Why?  If you cage someone all their lives, they are never going to develop empathy and compassion for other people; they just grow disdainful of everyone around them.  It’s empathy and compassion that keeps a person from doing harm to others.”

Fenris had often thought the same thing.  Danarius had lacked both empathy and compassion.  So had Hadriana.  So had he.  He had tortured that boy, and he had been guilty enough…  If Fenris had only asked him, he probably would have told him everything and he never would have had to hurt him.  Fenris felt empathy and compassion, but he had felt those things for the downtrodden, for slaves, for those oppressed by others.  He had never felt it for anyone else.  “And they can’t learn those things from their peers?”

“No.  If you pull someone away from their entire life and force them into something else, they are going to hate everyone around them, including their peers.  They need to see the world and appreciate that all life is sacred and valued, and you can’t learn that if you are constantly told that _you_ are not sacred and hold value.  If _you_ are despised simply for being born the way you were, how can you expect to learn love and compassion?”  Shaislyn looked pained. 

“I was a slave,” Fenris argued.  “My value was monetary at best, and a badge of honor for my master.  That never meant I didn’t feel pain when that man killed a child.”

Shaislyn raised an eyebrow.  “But how long was it before you learned what love was?  What compassion is?  How long before you felt empathy for someone else?  And not just guilt?”

He thought about Perya.  He hadn’t felt empathy for her, because he couldn’t have known at the time what it was like.  He would never really know, for that matter.  He had felt terrible when Danarius had killed a little boy to impress his fellows, but empathy?  He had desperately wanted to protect the people Danarius would have harmed, but was that only martyrdom?  Had Fenris ever once shown compassion, or even mercy?  Had he ever really felt love before he met Hawke?  He hadn’t.  He had been guilty, and motivated by that guilt.  He had felt poorly about situations, but compassion and empathy were things one had to learn.  Magister Jairus had shown him compassion, and he should have recognized it for what it was.  Annalkylie had shown him empathy and he had never seen it.  Hawke had shown him love, and he had almost missed it.  “I…”

“We don’t need another Imperium.  Mages don’t need _power_ —I never said that.  Freedom is fine.  But, say, keep magic out of politics.”

Fenris rolled his eyes.  That was hardly a solution.  Culling the weak ones might help.  He supposed that was actually what the Harrowing was for though.  The topic was an old, tired one.  He was quickly weary of it.  “Are you hungry?”

“Starved.”

 

Traveling with one another, at first, had been difficult.  They would argue and bicker as often as get along.  It was easier when Shaislyn decided to spend all day and night as one animal or the other, because Shaislyn didn’t understand most of what Fenris would say, and couldn’t talk.  After a couple of weeks, they resupplied in a town.  Fenris drug Shaislyn from what was likely to be a brawl, less angry than only annoyed.

They slept in a hay loft for the night, and come morning, it was raining lightly.  Children played in the mud puddles as adults trudged through it.  Shaislyn watched them, oddly quiet.  By nightfall, it was miserable, but Shaislyn had flown off and found an abandoned charcoal burner’s hut.  The roof was caving in, but it was relatively dry, and the old shed still had dry wood for a fire.

“Did you ever want to have kids?”

The question took Fenris by surprise.  He was quiet for a long moment.  “I don’t think I can.”

Shaislyn raised an eyebrow.  “How do you know?”

He shrugged.  “In Vyrantium, I was seeing this whore pretty regularly--”

“Elf or human?”

“Elf, and she had a child already.  I was her only elven customer; she mentioned it once.  It’s not unbelievable.”

Shaislyn paused as he considered.  “True.”

“At any rate, she got pregnant.”  He sighed.  “I was… really hopeful, actually.”  He didn’t know why he was telling him this.  “It was half-elven.”

His eyes softened.  “I’m sorry, Fenris.”  That was a pretty clear indicator.  Elves and humans only rarely were got with child, and Fenris, by all odds, should have had much higher chances than a human and an elf.  “I’ve never been to the same whore enough times to tell.  And anyway, how could I?  It’d be human.”

“You’ve never just had a relationship with someone else?”

He shook his head.  “Who would want me?”  The elf looked away.   _Like two peas in a pod._  “Maybe if I moved somewhere else, changed my name.  Lied and said I was human; my ears aren’t particularly pointy--it wouldn’t be that hard to believe.”

Fenris glanced sidelong at Shaislyn.  His ears had the very faintest of points, as if his bloodlines had tried, very hard, to make him elven, and failed.  It had been more noticeable when he was a child, fading over time.  He looked back away.  “Do you want a family?”

“I just want to feel… like I belong somewhere.  Like someone wants me.  To feel, I don’t know, loved.”  He looked down.  “I never have.  I mean, Grandmother would say she loved me.  So would Lura.  But I was a little kid.  Varania did a couple times, but I’m not sure she really meant it.”

Fenris knew exactly what he meant.  He knew, exactly, how painful it was to feel like he didn’t belong anywhere, like no one would ever love and care about him.  He knew that pain very well, and had just learned to bury his sorrow and loneliness.  Somehow, with his nephew, he didn’t feel quite so lonely.

            The stopover in Antiva City was brief before they boarded the ship, and the trip there was boring.  They were allowed to go in most places on the ship, so they walked around often.  Shaislyn had a lot of, often humorous, stories to tell about his escapades in his early teenage years.  It made Fenris wonder about his own teenage years.  What had that been like?

            “Did Varania ever tell you anything about when she was a child?”

            Shaislyn stared up at the ceiling of the cabin.  His feet were propped against the wall, and he was lying on his back on the floor.  Fenris sat in the lower bunk.  “She hated talking to me, so no.”  He shrugged a shoulder.  “She hated looking at me.  I guess I reminded her of Danarius.”

            Fenris looked at him.  His eyes, his hair, the shape of his lips and his stubbled jaw, his brow, and most of his facial expressions—it was all Danarius reflected in him.  The elven blood lines had tempered it, though, gave him just enough differences that Fenris didn’t only see the magister.  But he could still see Danarius in Shaislyn.  In the half-light, if the half-elf would just be quiet for a moment, it was, eerily, almost like his old master was alive.  It had taken some getting used to.  “You do look like him.”

            “Do I remind you of him too?”

            He almost laughed.  Shaislyn, lying on the floor in dirty clothes, his hair unwashed, needing to shave and was too lazy to do it, and his breath smelling like whiskey.  Danarius would never.  “No, actually.”  He stopped.  “Well.  At first.  But you are really nothing like him.”

He rolled his head to look at Fenris, or give the impression of looking at him, whichever; it was hard to say.  “Did I ever tell you I had a twin?”

            Fenris almost said “no” and thought about it.  He seemed to remember…  “I’m not sure.”

            He blinked.  “Well.  I did.  She died when we were infants.”  He looked up at the ceiling.  “Danarius told me what happened to her.  Do you know that stream that goes through the orchard--in Danarius’ manor in Minrathous?”

            “Yes,” he said.  He had liked that place actually.  A particular bend in the stream, a small grassy patch under a fruit tree, and he had been able to sit there, sometimes for only a few minutes at a time, and look at the water--just a moment of peace from the madness insanity that had been his life as that man’s slave.  Those moments had saved his mind.

            He nodded.  “That’s where my sister died.  That’s where Varania drowned her--like you drown unwanted puppies.”

            Fenris stared at him, his lips curving in disgust.  And Shaislyn expected him to feel empathy for Varania?  He could barely believe Shaislyn did.  “But… you’re her _child_.”

            He nodded again.  “She would have killed me too, if you had let her.”  He sighed.  “You didn’t get there in time to save both of us, though.”

            “How could you ever care about that woman?”

            Shaislyn looked back at him.  “She’s my mother.  And she did try to do her best for me.  How could I blame her, Fenris?  Think about who my father was.”  His eyes closed.  “She never loved me--not once.  But…  Fuck.”

            “Do you remember my mother--your grandmother?”

            The half-blood’s eyes opened again.  He smiled, rolling onto his side.  “I wish she hadn’t died then.  I barely remember her at all.”  He paused.  “She liked to sing, and she would pick me up sometimes and dance with me around our house.”

            Fenris looked at his hands, wishing he could remember her.  “What was her name?”

            “Mieta.”

            The back of his head tapped against the wall.  “‘Mieta,’” he echoed.  Neither spoke for a long time.

            Shaislyn shifted again, his feet back against the wall, over his head.  “So.  I seduced one of the sailors last night.”

            “I was wondering where you went.”

            “Drunk sex is some of the best sex,” he said assuredly.

            Fenris kind of chuckled.  ”And you like to say no one would ever want you.”

“It’s easy when we’re both drunk and out at sea with few options,” the other said flatly.  

“I’ve only ever seen you go after women.”  He didn’t think there were any women on board, come to think of it.

            “Life is entirely too short to limit yourself to something, and I think the world has placed enough limits on me already,” he commented.

            Fenris considered that, and liked it.  The world was too limiting.  Life was too short.  His life had been motivated by hatred and revenge for so long.  Life really was too short to let things like that consume him.  This was the only life he would ever have, and he had wasted so much of it by dwelling on things long past.  It didn’t make the things and people he had hated right, but it made him a better person to feel his hatred letting go of him, freeing him.  His hatred had so long chained him to it, and it had felt so good, and so righteous, that he hadn’t _wanted_ to let go of it.  He had been as much a slave to his own hatred as he had been to Danarius.  He had not ruled his own emotions, and let his hate dictate his actions.  Hawke had tried to tell him that once, and Fenris had not wanted to listen to him, but he had heard him.

            He had come to that conclusion long ago, and it had been hard to let go of it.  He could never forgive what Danarius had done.  He could not forgive the children that he had hurt and murdered, nor Perya.  He couldn’t forgive all those lives snuffed out.  But he could forgive what he had done to him, but not for Danarius; for himself.  If he could do it all again, Danarius would still have died, but he wouldn’t have died for what he did to Fenris--he would have died for every child, every woman, every man who had ever suffered at his hands, directly or no.  He would die, too, to keep anyone else from suffering at his hands.  It was not justice; it was vengeance, and Fenris knew that.  Vengeance dealt in death.

            Zekiel had told him, once, that hating takes up a lot of energy, and it wasn’t worth it in the end.  He had tried to make him see it back then, and he should have taken it to heart.  For Zekiel, he was determined to try.

 

            The ship docked, and it seemed they were barely away from the docks before a runner approached the mage, and handed him a message, promptly disappearing.  Shaislyn looked over the small note and sighed, crumpling it into a ball.  He glanced at Fenris.  “I have to go for a couple of hours--think you can manage everything by yourself?”

            Fenris wondered why.  “Of course.”

            “Sorry,” he muttered.  He glanced away, an awkward, learned habit.  He sighed deeply.  “The only reason the Circle let me do this was because I agreed to be an envoy.  It’s shit, but they let me leave, so what can I do?”

            Fenris stared at him, quietly hating that he was a mage.   _Hawke was a mage,_ he reminded himself.  But that was _Hawke._  And Shaislyn was nothing at all like Hawke.   _Why does he have to be a mage?_  It was like the Maker was laughing somewhere, at him.  His only family left in the world, an Imperial Circle mage.  Not even an apostate--that would at least be tolerable.  No, he had to be Imperial to his bones, vainly proud of being a mage, and so many things he hated.  It would be so much easier to like him if he were not a mage.

            He had never seen him use blood magic, so there was that.  But he wondered at that.  Shaislyn was not a particularly skilled mage.  He got by in the Imperium because of his abilities, but how long before he tried to be as strong as the other mages, and blood magic was all that was left to him because he didn’t have enough mana to cast?  It was repulsive.  Tempting the half-blood with blood magic was like dangling a goat in front of a tiger.  Eventually, that tiger was going to get hungry.

Shaislyn, completely unaware of Fenris’ inner thoughts, flashed a grin.  “I’ll be out of there by nightfall no matter what, though--then we go have some fun, I promise.”

            Fenris was actually quite content to sleep, to stretch, to enjoy the scent of spices in the marketplace and a long, long bath.  He spent some time in the market, sampling the foreign foods, and wary of pickpockets.  Rivain was an interesting place to be, culturally.  It was always going to be primarily human, but people did not treat Qunari or even elves much differently.  He saw a few Dalish in the city, completely unharassed and everyone seemed to get along.

            He felt like this was largely due to their Qun-like beliefs.  Qunari had indoctrinated many Rivaini people, instilling in them that all are equal in the Qun.  Another part of it was that their worship and religion were very nature-based, and not at all the primary teachings of the Chantry.  Religion was a sore spot for him.

            He opened the door to their room and Shaislyn was disentangling himself from his robes.  Fenris actually laughed when the half-elf threw the garment disdainfully on the floor.  “I hate wearing robes,” Shaislyn said, standing there in his underwear.

            “Do you have to when you go to the Circle?”

            “Only for official crap--the Minrathous Circle let me go on this venture because I agreed to go visit the mages here, like I said.  Hell, do they ever talk.”  He kicked the garment aside.  “Remind me to set that on fire later.”  The mage started pulling on his leathers.  Fenris would have thought that, with the heat, the robe might be more comfortable.  “Never let a Circle mage… ex-Circle mage… talk at you, I swear--you will be dead long before they finish.”

            Fenris raised an eyebrow.  “I’ll remember that, Circle mage.”

            “Oh, you know what I mean!  We ready?  There’s horse races in town--let’s go have some drinks and take a look, shall we?”

            Races, drinks, women, men, gambling, music, more drinking, and the last thing Fenris remembered of the night was standing on the docks while Shaislyn stripped and jumped in the water--it had something to do with a bet.  He woke up on the floor of their room at the inn, with his nephew no where to be found.  He was dimly concerned as he located all of his clothing, and checked the beds.

            He decided he shouldn’t worry, and washed off the stink of the somewhat wild night.  He was just thinking about food, standing on the balcony in the morning air, when the door opened.  He wandered into the room to see Shaislyn crash face-first onto one of the beds.

            “Where’ve you been?”

            His voice came muffled through the pillow, “I don’t even know.”  He snorted a laugh, rolling onto his side.  “I woke up in a hallway--um, to clarify, on a ship, in a hallway.  Also I smell like semen, so I am assuming something happened last night.”  He rolled over.  “You hungry?”

            Every day in Rivain was much the same as the first night.  Shaislyn had to make several more appearances on behalf of the Minrathous Circle, each time drinking all the way up to the meeting place.  Fenris thought they must have been glad to finally get rid of him when their ship left.

            Their ship to Seheron was a cargo ship, laden with food, weapons, medicines, bandages, and other assorted goods in large, heavy boxes.  The pair had a cramped windowless cabin and neither spent much time in it.

            Shaislyn snuck off frequently and disappeared--Fenris had no idea what he was doing, but sometimes he would not see him for days before he appeared again.  Those times were quiet, sometimes even pleasant.  His nephew was obnoxious, and would sometimes talk in his sleep when he didn’t thrash--nothing amusing or intelligible either, often half-garbled languages.

            He used the time alone mostly for quiet contemplation about his life, how far he had fallen.  After all, here he was, knowing that Shaislyn walked a perilous and tempting path with his magic, and Fenris was right here… apparently sanctioning it.  And living in the Imperium again on top of that, working for a rich man that owned slaves.  That wasn’t quite how it was, but looked at objectively…   _My morals have definitely loosened._

He often thought about how his nephew was a mage, how his sister was a mage.  Had he cared, from the time before his memories were wiped clean?  It didn’t seem like he had.  Why not?  He had been a slave then too!   _Why_ hadn’t he cared?

            He considered that.  Probably, he hadn’t cared because he--because _Leto_ \--had been devoted to his family above all else.  He hadn’t cared because he had just accepted everything as the way the world was.  And, most of all, he hadn’t cared because Varania being a mage meant she had a chance for something more than slavery and scrubbing floors all her life.  The Magisterium saw someone as a mage first, and an elf second.

            His only shot at being something other than a gladiator, meat for slaughter, was in the markings in his skin, the lyrium rushing through his body.  That had been his only chance.  It had worked, but not in the way Leto had thought.

            Sometimes, when Shaislyn would leave, he would come back with fresh fruit--a very rare commodity at sea that the pair would consume away from the watchful eyes of the sailors.

            On one such excursion, he was gone for nearly a week, and confessed he “had trouble finding the ship again”.

            “What do you mean?” Fenris couldn’t help but ask, catching the apple Shaislyn tossed to him.

            He shrugged.  “I flew back to Minrathous--I had a…”  He made a vague gesture.  “Thing.”  His face twisted into a frown, casually tossing his remaining apple into the air and catching it in an act of pseudo juggling.  “Did I mention I’m actually an Enchanter there?”  He shrugged again helplessly.  Fenris briefly inspected the fruit before he bit into it.  It was rich and juicy, and tasted just like…  “I really do my best to _not_ get promoted--short of failing my Harrowing--and they keep… wanting to promote me…”

            Fenris raised an eyebrow.  “It’s not about having faith in your abilities; it’s about keeping track of you.”

            Shaislyn’s eyes widened, and he gestured.  “I know!  They deny it, of course, and they do _everything_ to try to keep me busy.  I hate it.  I mean, I tried to keep from getting the promotion by showing up drunk all the time.  And what do they do?”  He put on his best Minrathous accent, “‘Hey, Shaislyn, we see you’re intoxicated again.  Good job--test all the liquor in the city and make sure it’s up to standards.  We’re promoting you for your good work.’”

            This only confirmed Fenris’ belief.  “Do you like that Imperial leash around your neck?”

            “Isn’t it pretty?”

            The elf snorted, taking that for acceptance of the fact.  “Where did you get this?” he asked him, gesturing with the bitten apple.

            The other grinned, biting into his.  “Stole it.  Sort of--right out of dead Danarius’ orchard.”

            Fenris snorted a laugh.   _Dead Danarius._ He liked the term.  He stared down at the fruit, rubbing his thumb along its smooth surface.  “Sometimes, when Hadriana wanted to starve me, I’d go by the orchard on my way back to the manor from the sparring field.  I used to sit by the stream, and if an apple _happened_ to fall, I got to eat something.”

            Shaislyn’s face softened, just a little, the smirk fading to obvious sympathy, then was gone, replaced by another smirk.  “And by ‘happened to fall’ you mean, ‘I’ll just _accidentally_ hit this apple, and--hey, look.  Waste not, want not.’”

            Fenris quirked a smile.  “Yes.”  He looked back at the fruit.  “If Hadriana had known, she would have been furious.  I have no doubt that Danarius knew; I don’t think he cared.”

            “You ever get to try the spiced cider that came from them?”

            Fenris leaned back.  “Yes.  And the apple wine.”

            Shaislyn kind of smiled.  “I’ll remember that you like apples.  If I have to go back again, I’ll grab some more.  I hope I don’t though--it’s exhausting.”

“They keep you fairly busy?”

            “Only with stupid things,” he agreed, sitting down on the small desk, legs dangling over the side of it.  “I mean, when I was an apprentice, before my Harrowing, I just had to ask my mentor if I could take off for a bit.  And, you know, nothing about that really changed until they promoted me to Enchanter.  Now I have to get written approval from her, the First Enchanter, and have to make sure someone else can see to my _duties_.  So, yes, I realize very well it’s a leash.  The higher up in rank you are, the more closely you are watched--unless you are a magister, then you get to be the watcher, so long as you understand there are always people watching you too.”  He made a face.  “What are you up to?”

            “Nothing,” he admitted.

            “It’s boring out at sea,” he said in agreement.  “That being said, I found some wooden poles in the hold--come spar with me.  I’ve always liked seeing you fight; now we can beat each other up.”

            It was good exercise, and a good waste of time.  Fenris hadn’t fought just one opponent in a very long time.  He used different tactics when fighting groups, and he had almost forgotten what fighting only one person meant.  It wasn’t easier, per se, just different.  Fenris was taller than Shaislyn, who seemed to be more elven in height, and had a much longer reach than he did with his sword.  With the heavy wooden pole, it was about the same, but the pole was faster than his sword.  Shaislyn was quick, but without the heavy two-handed sword to weigh Fenris down, they were almost evenly matched in speed.  The half-elf was agile, and Fenris realized quickly that he couldn’t feint and pretend to attack at one angle, and move toward another, because the other simply never fell for it.

            It meant a further change of tactics, but not by much.  Fenris was used to longer fights, waves of enemies and being attacked from every angle by all kinds of attack.  Shaislyn, by contrast, was more used to single opponents, and subterfuge.  In the dark of the hold, they were near evenly matched, but Fenris still won most of the time, at least while it was a proper duel.

            When they decided to make things more interesting, and split up, each at one end of the hold, and a strict rule of no magic or phasing (Shaislyn’s sight aside and he agreed to limit it), the half-elf “killed” him more frequently.  When they moved on deck, Fenris still won most of the duels.  Their game of cat-and-mouse, Shaislyn won more frequently; he had an easier time sneaking up on Fenris.  Fenris often as not complained about this, saying it was unfair because the lyrium would show up like a beacon in the dark.

            Some of the sailors would watch them sometimes.  As time passed, they would sometimes place bets on which one would win that day and their mock battles became more heated with a crowd cheering.

            Fenris actually didn’t mind the crowd, but it made his nephew feel awkward.  He supposed it was because he had been a gladiator.  It was comforting to know even a little about his past.  He was still bitter about it, but it was better than it had been.  It wasn’t his entire life that was gone any more, just much of it.  And every year, he had another year of memories.  It wouldn’t replace what was lost, but it could console him.

            He couldn’t move forward if he were always looking back, and his past had been a difficult piece of himself to give up on, but nothing good had ever come from trying to dig it up again.  When he had told Merrill to leave the elves’ past where it was, he should have listened to himself as he spoke.  If he had, things might have turned out very differently.


	110. Seeds of Distrust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris receives an omen from a fortune teller and contemplates what it means.

            Shaislyn had disappeared almost the moment the ship docked, saying he would meet up with him at a particular inn later, and if Fenris wanted to go directly to it, that was fine.  He actually wanted to look around the city first.  He assumed the kid was out whoring or gambling, or both.

            He looked out at the sea, taking in the colours of the waves and the sky, the creaking of the ships and the crying of the gulls.  He walked away from it.  Seheron City looked different from the last time he had been here, but much of that was circumstantial.  The last time he had sailed into Seheron, it had been as a slave, with a collar around his neck.

            He hadn’t really stopped to look at the sights.  He had looked at the people, measuring proximity to the magister, analyzing possible threat, his every breath and movement only for his master, as if the mage were some kind of god.  That was all that had mattered, though.  He hadn’t really thought of anything past what might please Danarius.

            That was a sobering thought.  He really had changed a lot since then.  He walked down the streets, watching the people live their daily lives, and wondered what it would be like to be so ordinary.  What would it be like if he had never held a sword?  What would it be like if he were perfectly ordinary, like everyone else?

            _Boring,_ he decided.  Delightfully uninteresting.  Unworthy of note or consequence.  What would it be like to never have killed someone?  To be that innocent?

            The city was the Imperial’s only real foothold in Seheron at the moment.  They were losing ground, badly, to the Qunari in a desperate attempt to keep the war off their doorstep.  Once all they had was the water between Seheron and Tevinter, the Qunari dreadnaughts would annihilate their coastal towns.  He wondered if it would get that far.  The mages were doing all they could to keep the war away.  If the Senate could stop squabbling and warring with one another and stand united, they would make a lot more headway.  Fenris actually shivered at the thought.  Better a warring Magisterium than a united one.  When the whole of it united to a common cause, they were a force to be reckoned with.  Separate, they were weaker.  Fenris was a warrior at his core, and he knew that very intimately.  If the Qunari could crush Tevinter, he would not particularly mourn this--save a few things.  Anastas, for one.  All the families that would be torn apart for reeducation from slaves to Altus bloodlines, planting the brutal seeds of their religion into them, secondly.  

Himself, for another.  There was no guarantee that they would not leash him the same way they did their mages.  Danarius had seen to that, and had known the truth of it too.  His whole body was molded into a weapon, and the Qunari would not be blind to it.  No, he feared he would be treated much like the mages.  It was unfair, and he had no doubt the Qunari would think so too, but the dangers he represented would outweigh any ridiculous notions of fair or unfair.

            The city had been broken, squashed to rubble under the might of the Antaam, then the Qunari had ruled Seheron virtually unchallenged for some time before the Imperials retook the port again.  They were making headway, but he and Shaislyn really should not linger here overlong.

            The city of Seheron was an Imperial city, but one at war, and the people there reflected that.  Even the children knew they were on a battlefront.  Most of them were refugees, fleeing their smaller towns for Imperial protection.  There were just as many slaves, hurrying and busy, or forlorn in chains waiting for their fate to fall upon their shoulders.

            He hated it.

            He had rescued many a slave from the auction block, with little choice.  He wanted to cut down the slavers and free _all_ of them, but Anastas made too good a point:  That action would only result in them being caught again, worse fates befalling them, and it would place him back on a bounty list.  Logically, he had to let the matter go.  He was outspoken about the evils of it, and actually found that there were many free people, some of them even people in positions of wealth and power, in the Imperium who disliked it, and some of it was even on moral grounds.  Yet he found plenty of slaves, too, that didn’t  care.

            Like Shaislyn had said, it was better than starving and dying in the street.  There had to be a better way.

            He had spoken to a Circle mage who Anastas was on good terms with, and asked about a way to get rid of the markings.  The woman and he had talked a long time discussing the Ritual and the effects thereof, and he found that she disliked slavery, but not on moral standards.

            He listened, in quiet horror, as she described a more efficient system than slavery to him.  “If we paid them, it would increase morale.  We wouldn’t pay them much, granted, but still pay them--they can come and go as it please them.  This also means we won’t have to have an overseer and pay someone to watch them, or waste money on hunters to go fetch the runaways, because they will be easy to replace, and we will have no financial loss if one of them dies or is maimed.  Because they will be free, we can just fire them and hire someone else.  I own no slaves,” she added, pleased with herself.

            That was hardly a better solution.  If anything, to Fenris, that sounded almost worse.  Better in some ways; the workers could leave if they could, but most would not be able to.  Worse, if they were hurt, they would just lose their job and be replaced by someone else.  Slave owners had to eat the losses when that happened, and pay for healings.  They had to pay to get rid of the corpses of their slaves.  If a woman were with child and could not perform the work, they moved them to lighter work; this mage said she would just get rid of them.

            The woman proposed they abolish slavery, but not because it was moral; because it would be _cheaper_ for the most part.  He had quickly changed the subject, back to Danarius’ book and the matter at hand, and she had discussed the blood magic aspects briefly, before straying slightly off topic.  “Why, you know, I’ve found plenty of people with these strange fetishes for being cut.  They would pay _me_ for it.  They orgasm from the cutting, believe me or not,” she went on.  That had pretty much ended their conversation, and Fenris had left the room with barely an at-your-leave.  If he lost his temper and killed her--something he believed needed to be done--he would wind up back on a bounty list, or arrested and tried for murder.  Or both.  At least the woman could not say that her workers were not willing.

            A Rivaini hedge mage had a small booth he passed by.  Her wares were specially blended incense, strange tokens, and a collection of carved bones.  The signs claimed they were dragon bones, carved and ornamented to keep their owner safe.  They were probably chicken bones.  She was reading fortunes in a person’s palms.  

            The girl she was reading from giggled to her friends as she left, their talk about her future marriage, all signs pointing to a man she knew.  He wondered if any of that was real.

            “You,” the hedge mage said, pointing one bony finger toward him.  He blinked.  “I have an omen for you.”

            He shook his head.  “No--I don’t want--”

            She stared at him.  “This one is free.”

            He felt intrigued, but he knew this was probably just a lure.  Did he look like he had money?  He stepped toward the old woman.  “I think you must be mistaken--”

            Her surprisingly swift hands clutched his wrist, bringing it forward.  She flipped his palm over, staring hard at the lyrium.  She traced a mark on his palm.  “The lyrium cuts into your lifeline,” she said gently, as if she were telling him he didn’t have long to live.  “It casts your loveline into shadow.”  She was intrigued, as if doing this for her own curiosity, and not to his benefit at all.  She looked up, into his eyes.  “Don’t trust him.”

            “Who?” he had to ask.

            She stared back at him, one blind eye rolling lazily away from his face as if showing its disinterest in this strange elf.  She did not seem to have heard his question.  “You will want to trust him, but you mustn’t.”

            _Shaislyn?_ he wondered.  He didn’t trust him.  Maybe that was all it was.  He wanted to believe in his half-blood nephew, trust in him, but he couldn’t bring himself to trust a mage, and someone who only a few weeks ago had tried to kill him.  So that seemed an odd warning.  Or was it something more?  “Is it someone I know?”

            “You know him, but you don’t know him,” she said, and dropped his hand as if it had suddenly caught fire.  She leaned back.  “That’s all I know.”

            Cryptic.  Words he already knew.  This was why he didn’t like fortune tellers.  They gave a cryptically worded message that could be taken for anything, and made a person paranoid.  He dismissed it.  He already knew he shouldn’t trust Shaislyn.  He already knew that he knew him, but didn’t really know much about him.  What of it?  Or was this some dire warning from the Fade, from the spirits there, that Shaislyn was taking him into a trap?  If he wanted him dead, they _had_ traveled through Antiva.  As much money as the mage had at the moment, he suspected he would be dead by now.

            Unless there was something to this he didn’t see.

            He almost laughed aloud.  He had told himself he would dismiss what the woman said, and there he was--thinking about it.

            He explored the city for a while before he came across Shaislyn, getting kicked out of a whore house.

            He watched the display from a distance, faintly amused.  He was half-naked, his swords wrapped in the baldric clutched in one hand, the rest of his things in the other.  The bouncer and he were yelling at each other, and then the door slammed.

            “What did you do?” Fenris asked, chuckling.

            Shaislyn glanced back at him.  “One of their regular patrons called me a mutt, and said my mother should have drowned me like a worthless dog.”  He made a face.  “So I hit him over the head with a chair.  It escalated a bit from there.”

            Fenris stared at him flatly.  “This happens to you entirely too often to blame other people for it.”  He knew what the man had said to Shaislyn had been, even unwittingly, too personal, but the half-breed had still over-reacted.  Fenris supposed he had no room to lecture on that though.

            The other ignored him.  “Can you hold these?”  He shoved his swords into Fenris’ arms before he could answer.  Shaislyn started dressing quickly, on the street, and wriggled into his boots.  He untangled the baldric and shrugged into it.  He fiddled with it for a moment before he took the swords too.  “And, yes, actually--I know that.”  He shrugged it off the same way he shrugged off responsibility and common sense.  They started to walk down the street.  “Did you find the inn?”

            “I haven’t even looked for it.”

            He nodded.  “Right--um.  I don’t know how to get to it when I’m walking.  This could take a while.”  It took over an hour.

            The entire time they walked, he thought about what that woman had said.   _Don’t trust him._  Why?  Was Shaislyn up to something?  He wondered what it could be.  They arrived at the inn and his nephew promptly took off again.  That was fine.  It left Fenris some time to think.

            Shaislyn had tried to kill him once.  He had also had a hand in trying to re-enslave him.  Shaislyn made no secret of hating him.  Simultaneously, they had actually been getting along rather well as of late.  He wondered if that wasn’t an act on his part, just to make Fenris more at ease around him.  Silly--if he had wanted to kill him, how hard would it have been to stab him in the throat when he slept?  Or to have slid a blade between his ribs when they had “hunted” one another in the hold of the cargo ship?

            Or what if he wanted something else first?  Wanted him to suffer?

            He had brought him through Antiva, the perfect place to hire a Crow assassin if Shaislyn didn’t think he could manage it.  They had sailed all the way here, giving him lots of time to do the deed if he had wanted to.  No, Seheron was his biggest clue.

            He wanted to show him Varania’s grave, and Fenris’ mother’s grave--Mieta.  Was there anything more to that?

            Would Shaislyn make his move after that, or would he try to kill him when he showed him?  It would be iconic, him standing over the graves of dead family, dead family Shaislyn blamed him for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that was a description of minimum wage.


	111. Logic and Legend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaislyn and Fenris head out of the city.

            It was past midnight when Shaislyn pulled himself down the stairs of the brothel, legs weak, smelling strongly of sex.  He had a pleasant buzz going on, and really would have liked some more alcohol.  Whisky sounded good.  Rum sounded better.

            The alcohol kept his mind off of what he was doing with his life.  It kept him relatively happy when he had no reason otherwise to be.  He hid behind laughter and jokes because it kept everyone else away.  The alcohol made everything easier to bear.

            He finished off a drink, and had no idea what it was, and ordered another.  He was finishing off a third when someone sat down next to him.

            He thought nothing of it, at first, then the person addressed him.  “Shaislyn.”

            The half-elf paused, and looked at him.  Aiming his sight was difficult when he was drunk, and it wandered a bit, but he straightened when he recognized Lysander.  It had been a few years, and Lysander was a young teenager now.  “Lysander?”  He blinked.  “What are you doing in Seheron?”

            “I could ask you the same thing,” the other mage commented.  He raised an eyebrow, glancing at the empty shot glass.  “But I thought I could do some good here.”  He paused, and the pause stretched.  Shaislyn shifted in his seat.  “I passed my Harrowing recently.”

Shaislyn leaned against the bar, and asked the bartender for a glass of ale.   “You’re progressing very quickly.”

            “I have,” Lysander agreed.  “I’ve heard… you’re here with Fenris.”

            Shaislyn looked at him.  A mug seemed to plop down as if from nowhere beside him, and the shot glass disappeared.  “We’re visiting some graves—that’s all.”

            Lysander snorted, not believing him.  Shaislyn hardly blamed him; the half-blood was a renown liar.  “Do you want revenge?”

            The half-elf smiled sardonically.  “Yes.  The Maker is at the top of my list.”  The half-blood sipped at the ale. 

            “What’s the real reason you’re here with Fenris?”

            Shaislyn laughed gently.  “You caught me.  I plan to knife him in the back when he looks at my mother’s grave.  It’s a shame, really; Fenris had so much potential.”

            Lysander frowned in puzzlement, trying to tell if the other were telling the truth or not.  “I would be very pleased to hear of his death, and I would reward you in the future.”

            “I’ve already had one offer.”

            “Did you take it?”

            Shaislyn laughed.

Lysander seemed annoyed.  “I’m going to be a magister in the future, Shaislyn.  And you’re a Circle mage with no ambition, no political power, no family—you have nothing.  You could use an ally.”

            Shaislyn stared at the half-empty mug.  He knew when he was being threatened, but he had been threatened by more than a recently Harrowed apprentice.  He shook his head a little, and picked up the mug again.  “All I’ve ever had is nothing.”

            “Don’t you ever want anything more?”

            Shaislyn chuckled.  “Sure:  Revenge, sex, money, drugs, and perhaps another shot of rum—or whatever this is.”  He raised it, tilting the liquid in the mug.  He stared at the contents.  “Because it sure as fuck is not ale.”

            “Dwarven ale,” the bartender called.

            Shaislyn frowned deeply.  “Are you taking bets on what will put me under?”

            “There’s a betting pool,” the bartender said pleasantly.  “Drinks are on the house until you pass out.”

            Shaislyn drank to that.  “Good luck,” he cried, and gave a rueful grin after another long swig of the ale.

            Lysander had finally had enough of him.  “Kill him, and I’ll be grateful.”

            The half-blood laughed again.  “If I kill him, and I’m not saying I plan on it, it won’t be for you or Hadriana, Lysander.”  He finished his drink.  “It would be for me.”

           

            The room wasn’t the classiest place he had ever been, but it wasn’t just a couple of shoddy beds either.  There was a single bedroom, which Fenris, seeing that the other wasn’t around, took.  Shaislyn must have slunk in sometime in the night, passing out on the sofa.  He reeked of alcohol.  The half-elf had left as soon as they had the keys to their room to go back out drinking.  He was, Fenris noticed, smoking less often though.

            Fenris sighed to himself and went down to the market.  He came back with a horrible smelling concoction in a glass bottle.  He set the bottle down and nibbled on some of the food the maid had brought up.  Shaislyn woke some time later, falling off of the couch awkwardly.  Fenris barely looked up, beginning to accept this as normal.

            Shaislyn muttered to himself unintelligibly.  It didn’t even sound like a language Fenris knew, or even a language for that matter.

            “Drink the contents of that bottle.”

            Shaislyn fumbled blindly for a moment, his hand running over the low table until he brushed and nearly tipped over the bottle.  “This?”

            “Yes.”

            The other picked it up and uncorked it.  He sniffed, and recoiled.  “I pass, thanks.”

            “It’ll get rid of your hangover.”

            Shaislyn sniffed it again, his nose wrinkling in disgust.  “I like the hangover better.”

            Fenris raised an eyebrow.  “I’d like to see those graves today.”

            “We’re in for a bit of a walk then.  Fine.”  He downed it all in one swallow, and gagged dramatically.  He set the bottle down, and swore liberally at Fenris, cursed the day his uncle was born in three languages, and stumbled over to the tray of food.  He was pleasantly surprised to find a cool mint tea.  He downed half of it before he stopped swearing at him.  Fenris ignored him utterly.

            “So.  Mieta was originally buried in the alienage here.”  He gestured vaguely, and assumed, correctly, that he was pointing in the wrong direction before his arm dropped.  “But I buried Varania elsewhere.  I didn’t want her resting place to be an alienage.  I moved Mieta too.”

            Fenris made a face.  “That seems… wrong.”

            He shrugged.  “People move around gravesites all the time.  I just thought she should be buried with the rest of her family.”  He pointed, again in the wrong direction.  “In Schavalis.”

            Fenris blinked, his stomach twisting uncomfortably.  “Schavalis?”  He had thought he had forgotten the name of the town, but hearing it again jogged his memory.

            “You were born there, apparently.”  He pointed at him, this time accurately.  “Danarius had quite extensive records of your bloodline--I’m guessing he did some research at one point.”  He shrugged.  “Anyway, whatever.  Schavalis.”

            “Schavalis,” Fenris repeated slowly, a faint tremor running down his spine.  He thought about complaining, and wished he had known it wasn’t Seheron City that Shaislyn had wanted to bring him.  If he had said Schavalis from the start, he would have declined the trip.  What if the Fog Warriors were still there?  How could he bare to face them?

            Shaislyn was quiet, listening to his voice and his breathing.  “There’s no one there any more, Fenris.  Schavalis got attacked by a dragon some time ago, so they moved somewhere safer.”

            That was relieving to hear at least.  “And are we getting horses for this trip?”

            “If it will make you happy, I suppose.  Easier to carry supplies too I guess.  I’ll walk, or fly.  You can take care of the horse.”

            Fenris didn’t mind that chore so much, and said so.  The other only snorted.  

            “If I’m buying you a horse, you can come with me on an errand,” Shaislyn told him.

            Fenris shrugged and agreed, and Shaislyn led them both out of the inn.  He paid the innkeep, and the half-elf wandered down a series of streets.  Sometimes, they would comment on the sights, but mostly the pair were quiet.  Shaislyn must be contemplative, because he was usually very chatty.

            Fenris stopped when he saw Shaislyn head towards the fort.  “Shai, I can’t,” he said, staring at it, his voice flat.

            The other turned, looking back at him.  “Why not?”

            “Have you forgotten that I’m an elf?”

            Shaislyn’s lips curved into an “O” of realization.  He waved the matter off.  “You’re with an Enchanter.  I’ll get you in--no way I’m letting you skip out on this.”

            Fenris rolled his eyes, and, as expected, the guards didn’t want him coming in, period.  Shaislyn and the guards argued, and the half-elf ultimately pulled rank, and the guards let them both pass.  Fenris groaned inwardly.

            The half-elf walked about the fort as though he knew it well, stopping by a supply closet, but found it locked.  He looked at the width from the bottom of the door to the floor, and whatever he was looking for, the finger’s width of space between the two was not it.  He swore, kicking the door childishly.  Fenris watched him for a moment, wondering what he intended to do.  “We’ll have to hunt down whoever has the key.”

            Fenris rolled his eyes, the lyrium singing in his ears.  His fist, then his arm went through the wall, he twisted the knob on the other side, and pulled his hand back.  The door creaked open.

            The other blinked.  “So.  If you ever want to get into burglary…”

            “I’ll let you know.”

            From the supply room, Shaislyn pilfered two spades, and nothing else.   _What are we digging?_ Fenris wondered.  He followed him out wordlessly anyway.  The mage shoved a door open into the training yard.  Fenris felt more at ease here; he had spent a good portion of his life in such places.

            Shaislyn hunted through particular areas, and it occurred to Fenris after a long moment that he was seeking something using magic, for he stumbled on occasion, his sight spell gone.

            “Watch your step,” the elf called.  Shaislyn froze, seconds from tripping over a large stone.  The half-elf stopped.

            “Fenris?” he called, turning his ear toward him.  He faltered, chewing on his lower lip.  “Would you… help me?”

            The other hesitated, but stepped up to him.  “What do you need?”

            He sighed, and set the spades down.  “I need to find the spot first--could you just guide me?”

            Fenris grabbed onto his arm, letting the half-elf follow after his footsteps, walking only very slowly, and no doubt they looked incredibly foolish.  People did their best not to watch the spectacle, but he still felt the odd glance their way.  Shaislyn suddenly froze, pointing.  “That way,” he said.

            Fenris headed in the direction indicated.  He stopped when the other stopped.  Shaislyn let go of him, and there was a faint buzzing in the air, a numb tingling that must have been the other’s spell fading.  Shaislyn knelt in the dirt.  “Right.  About those spades.”

            “I’ll get them.”

            “Thank you.”

            Fenris wondered what could possibly be buried in the training yard that was so important.  He grabbed the spades and walked back.

            Only one person tried to stop him, demanding what he was doing.  Shaislyn had not even looked at him, and only said, pointing towards himself, “Enchanter.  Mage business.  Don’t talk to me.”

            The guardsman left.  Shaislyn actually did most of the work.  The hole was deep, the earth hard-packed, and the other was sweating when he stopped.  “Can you keep digging?  It’s really deep in there--got buried deeper when they reconstructed the fort.”

            Fenris shrugged, and continued.  They switched once more, and Shaislyn pulled something out of the hole.  He tossed the old leather satchel in the dirt and worked on filling in the hole.  Fenris helped him.  They packed the earth, and the mage picked up the satchel, turning back towards the fort and the storage room.  They put away the spades, and Fenris finally had to ask, “What’s in the sack?”

            “A box,” the mage told him, opening the sack.  It was indeed a box, old and buried in the earth for a long time, but though the leather sack was worm-eaten, the box was not.  

“There’s an enchantment on the box to protect the contents,” he explained.  “I didn’t know that at the time, so it’s convenient, or these might not be intact.”  He twisted the latch, and the box opened.  Dirt fell as the lid creaked backwards.  In the box sat three slender volumes, bound in hard leather.

The mage stared at the books, almost reverently.  He ran his finger down the stained brown cover of the first one, an image of what might have once been some kind of raptor faded on the front.  He picked it up.  “The book that taught me my sight spell--this one is actually a grimoire.”  He set it down on a mostly empty bench.  He picked up the dull red book without a title.  “This is the one that taught me how to shapeshift.”  He set it on top of the other book.  The last one was the most tattered, and Fenris assumed the cover had once been yellow, but it was closer to a stained white now, sunbleached and filthy.  The title read “Corpus Illumine”.  “And this one… was about magical theory; it helped me understand what I needed to know about the other two.”  He looked back at Fenris.  “Regret helping me now?”

The other watched him.  “No.  It is knowledge you already know.  I am assuming the books hold a sentimental value to you; it’s why you buried them.”

“You are a very shrewd elf, Fenris.  But, yes; to keep them safe after the Qunari attack,” Shaislyn admitted.  “They’ve been here a long time.”

Fenris was quiet a moment.  “Are you going to give them to the Circle?”

            He laughed.  “Oh, _Maker_ , no!  Could you imagine a Circle filled with shapeshifting Tevinter mages?  The debauchery!”  He laughed, shaking his head a little.  “No.”  He slipped the three books into his pack, but left the sack and the box where they were.  “No, I think the Imperium really doesn’t need to know this.  They can keep their blood magic and their demons; this is mine.”

They left the city by mid-morning, and Fenris was quite content to ride the grey mare instead of bareback on a horse prone to whim.  Shaislyn walked beside him for a short while, before he took off, an eagle flying high overhead until Fenris lost sight of him in the fog.

            He didn’t much care what Shaislyn was up to, so long as he wasn’t doing anything vile.  He did not have a difficult time imagining what vile things a mage with his abilities--and rank--could do.

He wondered what it was like to fly like that, whenever he wanted to.

            A group of Imperial soldiers passed him by with barely a glance in his direction.  They had hunting hounds with them.  They walked on their leashes properly, keeping slack on the chain and not darting out and around the horses.

            He had seen many dogs not properly trained, who would go where they pleased on their leash, larger ones dragging their handlers and all around being a nuisance.

            He touched his throat absently, remembering the way the collar would feel around his throat, the chain tinkling.  The way the chain would tug, ever so gently, at his throat.  It was just one more reminder that he had been only a step above an animal.  Danarius had taught him to walk like the hounds--never getting in the way, always keeping slack on the chain, and if Danarius had left the chain somewhere, Fenris would obediently stay in that spot.  A tame wolf.  He had heard somewhere that when a person trained a dog, they didn’t so much train their dog as train themselves how to train their dog, and the dog followed.  It was, supposedly, instinctual.  He had followed Danarius doggedly, instinctually wanting to obey him.

            His hand fell away from his throat.  Those days were long, long over.  But it was hard to leave it completely behind him.  Being treated like that had been painful even then, and it was so much harder to consider that he had really believed that there was nothing wrong with it.  He had really believed that it was, for lack of a better term, normal.

            He had hated it, but he had endured it because he hadn’t known any better.  He hadn’t known there could ever be another option except to obey that man.  That was the reason for a lot of things he had done in the past.

            It was a few weeks before they made it to Schavalis, and not un-accosted.  The Imperials questioned Fenris frequently, and he would sigh deeply and respond in perfect Tevene when they grilled him with questions, trying to ascertain that he were not a runaway slave.  Shaislyn, who must have never been far away, would show up out of the fog as if from nowhere and complain loudly about them being stopped.  When they found out the half-elf was a Minrathous Circle mage of rank, they always backed down.

            Shaislyn would warn him if there were Antaam scouts nearby, and they would venture off the road for a while, skirting the area by a wide margin before resuming their course.  Fog Warriors, Shaislyn would want to avoid in a similar manner, but they never encountered any.

One thing about traveling that Fenris truly disliked--if it wasn’t completely miserable, it was impossibly boring.  He really wasn’t much of a wanderer, despite that he had done a lot of traveling.  He would much prefer to stay in one general area, at the least.  It was nice to always have a place to return to that felt like his own.  He had been denied that for a long time, until he came to Kirkwall.  It had taken a while, but Kirkwall felt more like home than anywhere else he had ever been.  Or maybe Hawke had just felt like home.

            He found his mind wandering, thinking of Hawke.  He thought about the way his eyes would light up when he laughed, or how his lips would pull when he smiled, or how he would get lost and pretend he had known exactly where he was going.

            “I’m not lost--I know exactly where I am going,” he had said once.  Fenris and the others had only stared at him flatly.  “I just don’t… know where I am.”

            Fenris had seen a great deal of arrogant and self-confident mages, and had learned to associate them with cruelty.  Hawke was not exactly arrogant, but he was self-confident.  So confident that Fenris would return his affection, so confident when he held him, kissed him…

            He thought about all the times Hawke had kissed him.  Drunken kisses, passionate kisses, chaste kisses, stolen kisses--their last kiss had been bittersweet.

            “Whatcha thinkin’ about?” a voice asked, walking beside him.

            Fenris frowned, only to realize he had been smiling.  “Nothing,” he lied.

            Shaislyn smirked, catching up to walk beside the horse.  “Thinking about someone?”

            “It’s none of your business.”

            Shaislyn’s smirk widened to a toothy grin.  “You were thinking about Hawke, weren’t you?”

            “Shut up, Shai.”

            He laughed, shaking his head.  “No, but it’s funny.  I mean, you hate mages.  And there’s Varania, and me.  And then Hawke.”

            “Shut up.”

            He continued, “So it’s funny, cuz it’s like you’re stuck with us.”

            “Ugh,” Fenris groaned.

            The half-blood laughed.  “Wanna race me?”

            He snorted.  “No--you cheat.”

            “Just because I’m smarter than you--”

            Fenris cut him off, “You’re smarter than the _horse_ , I’ll give you that.  It’s hardly fair when you are unburdened though.”

            “Fine.  I can race as a dog.  Is that more fair?”

            “No cheating.”

            “Scouting the terrain ahead isn’t cheating, is it?”

            Shaislyn got to the end point faster, by a handful of seconds.  The two fought and bickered over whether or not the half-elf had cheated or not.  Shaislyn vehemently denied cheating, and Fenris was just as certain that he had, dismounting his horse to argue with him face-to-face as they walked.  The debate was spirited, but not unfriendly, just as quick to  laughter as anger.

It was strange, in ways--when Shaislyn argued passionately about things with him, at many times, he would scowl or glare in such a way that reminded him of Danarius, but it was often accompanied or followed by a mischievous smirk that was not at all the magister.  Fact of the matter, the more time he spent with him, the less of Danarius he saw in him.  His nephew would happily trek through mud, climb up trees to collect fruit and nuts, and would plop right down in the dirt when setting up camp.  No, Shaislyn was _not_ his father.

A storm hit before they had made it to Schavalis, and the pair found shelter in a rocky outcropping, almost a cave.  Fenris hurriedly tended the horse while the other cut pine boughs, constructing a sort of wall against the shallow, low cave, and covering the bottom in the same boughs, to keep them out of any rain.  They hurried into the shelter out of the encroaching storm.  They couldn’t make a proper fire, so they made do with jerky, cheese, and some hard travel biscuits.

            They sat in silence, listening to the rain and the sounds of the storm outside.  Fenris was glad to be out of it.

            “How’d you learn to make this?” he asked his nephew, gesturing at the structure.

            Shaislyn shrugged a shoulder.  “I didn’t grow up in Minrathous.  I just live there now.”  He stretched.  “A Dalish Keeper showed me, before I killed a couple of Templars, and he got mad at me and told me to leave.”

            Fenris wasn’t sure what to make of that.  “You lived with the Dalish for a while?”

            Shaislyn shook his head.  “No.  The Keeper of the Arlathan clan was captured by Templars a long time ago.  I think the clan was destroyed by slavers or something.  Anyway, I lived with him for a while when he escaped the Circle, but he wouldn’t have anything to do with me after I killed a couple of people who would have happily killed us.”

            He frowned.  He felt like there was more to that story than Shaislyn was letting on.  His eyes shifted away, thinking about Aramael and Wren.  He knew what had happened to that clan.  “When the Circles fell, what did you do?”

            “The Imperium’s Circles are a joke, so essentially, they were pretty stable.  Furthermore, since the Imperial Templars aren’t addicted to lyrium, we didn’t have that problem either.  I’d have been on the mage’s side--I really believe that…”  He sighed.  “No one is really _evil_.  People are just what you make of them.  Every blood mage I’ve ever talked to is very against becoming an abomination, believe me.”

            Fenris frowned.  That was… not what he had been expecting.  “But mages are too easily corrupted, and can cause a great deal of destruction by themselves.”

            The other gave him a flat look.  “I could say the same of you, so I’d shut up if I were you.”

            He wanted to argue that that was different, but he considered it objectively.  He _had_ killed someone by accident once.  He _had_ destroyed property by accident while learning to manage his abilities.  But that was…  He hadn’t wanted…  He hadn’t asked for…

            _I did want it.  I competed for it.  I asked for it._

Mages never did.  They were just born that way, the way Fenris had been borne of Leto.

            But someone _else_ did this to him!  This hadn’t been natural.  It hadn’t been something uncontrollable.  A mage had done it to him!

            He supposed many mages blamed the Maker for their lot in life too, and it was just as pointless.

            _Perhaps,_ he thought dully and with some sarcasm, _I’m going to have to reevaluate my life._

            The difference, he decided—the pivotal difference—was that he really just wanted to live and let live, and the mages always seemed to want more; they wanted more power, or imagined safety, and they were more than willing to step over the corpses of children to get to it.  He wasn’t.  He would rather not have that safety, or the power he thought he needed, if it meant leaving a trail of dead children behind him.  Mages always justified their repulsive behavior.  Their taste for blood, gold, power, and sexual conquest all that seemed to motivate them.

            The wind howled outside, and he listened to it whistle through the trees, but the branches kept it, for the most part, out of their shelter.

            “Nearly every mage I’ve met has fallen to blood magic because it was convenient for them.  Maker’s breath, if they _trip_ going down the stairs, they decide to use blood magic.”

            Shaislyn actually laughed.  “That’s ridiculous.  Why?”

            Fenris was so incredulous he nearly laughed.  “A girl I knew practiced blood magic to try to _purify_ something.”

            The half-elf’s eyes widened.  “That’s insane.”

            The elf agreed with the sentiment.  He continued, “Other mages practice it to gain power, like Danarius or Hadriana for example.  Or to…”  He hesitated.  “To create me.”

            The other’s face softened with sympathy.  “But that’s…”

            “When the Kirkwall Circle fell, Orsino—“

            The other cut him off, “Oh, I could understand the mages in places like _Kirkwall_ wanting to kill all the Templars; they treated them like shit!”

            Fenris actually felt offended.  “If the mage in question is an abomination or a maleficar, I can hardly blame them for taking precautions.”

Shaislyn kind of twitched.  “You know the Templars in Rivain let them keep in contact with their families and do whatever they wish for the most part?  And did you _know_ that, given that, the mages are much, _much_ less likely to rebel or practice blood magic?  Because they have no real _reason_ to?  They aren’t scared or feel the need to escape.”  

Fenris scoffed.  “They are locked up for their own safety as well as everyone else’s.  At one point in history, being a mage was just illegal, and they were outright killed.  The Circles are an offering of peace, and the mages spat on it!”

He made a face.  “Try the same experiment with slaves.  How often are there slave rebellions near quarries and mines in Tevinter?  All the damn time, because they’re treated like shit.  How often in cities, where they are for the most part cared for?  You treat someone like an animal, don’t be surprised when they act like an animal.”

            Fenris blinked at him.  “I don’t believe those things are comparative.”  He shifted slightly.  “When slaves rebel, it’s because of how they are treated, how they’ve been taken from their homes and _enslaved._  They aren’t _allowed_ to learn or make their own decisions.  They can be killed for no reason.  They’re beaten and starved, their children ripped away from them.  It’s completely different.”

            Shaislyn stared at him, shocked.  “But that is _exactly_ what happens to _mages_ in most countries!” he complained.  Fenris started to argue that it wasn’t, but the other cut him off.  “Oh, talking with you is pointless.  Goodnight.”  Fenris felt similarly, and found himself glad when his mageborn nephew was on four legs and furry instead of his usual obnoxious self.

            The wolf seemed more comfortable on their bed of branches anyway.  Fenris sighed to himself, and pulled his blanket over him.  He rolled over and tried to sleep, the big wolf stretching again.  Sometime in the dark, a tree groaned and with a snap, came crashing to the ground.  Fenris woke with a startled jump, and the wolf stirred, eyes open in the darkness, ears twitching as he listened, then the eyes closed again.  Fenris didn’t trust him all the same, and listened for anything--sounds of flooding or other destruction, but nothing seemed to be coming.  He heard the horse bray nervously outside.

            He shifted in the blankets again.  Shaislyn didn’t use them--he supposed a fur coat was warmer than blankets could be anyway.  The cold had still found a way past the thick wall of blankets and branches though, seeping all around him.  He shivered, and the wolf tilted its head.  He burrowed deeper in the blankets.  He couldn’t wait to be back in Vyrantium, in a real bed after a hot bath.

            The wolf lifted its head, and nudged him a little with its nose.  He wondered what Shaislyn wanted, but when the animal scooted closer and stretched out prone next to him, his suspicion turned to a surprised gratitude; the wolf was warm, and his close proximity was a blessing.  He rolled, looking at the rise and fall of the wolf’s breathing.  He smelled like damp dog, and in no way would anyone ever guess it was something other than a wolf.  One yellow eye opened, then slid closed, perhaps falling asleep.

            The elf looked at the animal he had been named after--a Fenris wolf, and thought about the legend of the creature.

            He had read about the wolf in Vyrantium--part of Anastas’ art collection was in literary art too.  It was a very old story, but the wolf in the legend was mad.  It had tried to destroy the world, and when it was free, it had killed many people.  One man gave up a fist to seal the creature away.  It was sealed by mages, bound in rope crafted by dwarves.  In the legend, the wolf eventually freed itself and began its destruction, to be cut down by the son of one it had killed before.  _Little wolf._  It was an elven name, and the legend never once claimed it, but it was probably elven in origin--given the name:  “fen” was the elven word for “wolf”.

            He wondered _why_ Danarius had picked _that_ name.  Was it the part about the legend, where it was bound in a material crafted by dwarves, and sealed by mages?  Did that _not_ describe him?  The rest of it, surely, didn’t.  He wasn’t mad, and he had certainly never had any intention to destroy the entire world.  Well, maybe the Magisterium’s world.

            _Cut down by the son of one it had killed_.

            He stared at the wolf in front of him, and felt a chill rush down his spine.  The wolf yawned, exposing long, sharp fangs, and some instinct in the back of his mind made the hair at the nape of his neck stand on end.  With effort, he calmed.  It wasn’t a real wolf.  There was a person’s mind in there--not always a reasonable mind, but, it seemed, a sound one.

            He reached out, a finger running along the animal’s thick fur.  Slowly, his hand sunk into the fur, burying his fingers in it.  It was warm, and soft.  A real wolf, he reminded himself, would be, to a degree, dirty.  It would be dirty from tromping through forests and chasing after game.  Each time Shaislyn became an animal, he carried none of the dirt and grime with him.  The animal would carry the scents of the forest, of the earth and the foliage.  The wolf only smelled like wolf.

            It wasn’t a natural creature, not by half.  Still, he was glad of its warmth, and glad that Shaislyn had shut up for a while.

            “Goodnight, Shaislyn,” he muttered, his eyes closing.  The wolf shifted its head, and nipped gently at his hair, those vicious fangs never once grazing his scalp.  He wondered if that was how he had said goodnight, or if he were complaining that the elf wasn’t sleeping.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I am bored, this is actually how I write each scene:
> 
> Shaislyn: I haven't been entirely truthful with you.  
> Fenris: ...  
> Shaislyn: Sorry, Fenris, but the princess is in another castle.
> 
>  
> 
> This one was more amusing:
> 
> Raith: I’m having a problem.  
> Danarius: That’s not unusual.  
> Raith: *ignorant* The markings on the elf’s junk… The foreskin gets in the way. And if he ever has an erection, it will change the shape of the markings, and thus their meaning too. So his power could change slightly.  
> Danarius: Hmm…  
> Raith: We could have him castrated. That would fix everything.  
> Leto: 0_o  
> Danarius: … We could…  
> Leto: *cringes*  
> Raith: I’ll make the appointment.  
> Danarius: …But I don’t think he’d like that very much.  
> Raith: … So?  
> Danarius: … *considering* What if he were circumcised?  
> Raith: … I… suppose… that would solve most of the problem.  
> Danarius: See that it’s done.  
> Leto: *dies*


	112. Discord

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris and Shaislyn reconcile and Fenris spends some time alone at his family's graves, wondering what family and love really means.

            The soil was bloody under his feet.  The grass sodden with entrails.  The fog looked pink with it.  The mist clung to the bodies--so many of them--like flies.  Each face was someone he knew.  The very air was so thick it was suffocating.

            The blood stained his hands, soaked under his fingernails and seemed to crawl up his arms, dripping the wrong way.  He couldn’t get it off.  All the water in the world wouldn’t get it off.

            A voice was calling him, and he ignored it in a desperate hunt for water.  He stumbled over the bodies, an elf with brown hair and a broken bow, dozens of Qunari, and he saw children too.  There was the broken body of a human boy with tallow hair, a sword piercing his arm.  There was the body of an elf cut nearly in two, his arm outstretched toward a human corpse.  

He stumbled backwards when he saw Isabela, her skull split.  His heel bumped against another corpse, and when he looked, it was Varric, ripped from neck to groin.  He wheeled away from it, appalled.  Anders, his throat torn from one side to the other.  Merrill, her staff through her stomach, one bloody hand clutching at the staff in a feeble attempt to remove it.  Flies crawled across her face.  Aveline’s body lay not far away, beheaded, the eyes rotted out from the face.  He flinched away from the sight, and stilled.  Sebastian, torn to pieces like an animal had ripped him apart.

            _I did this._

            His back thumped against something, and he stilled, and slowly, so slowly, he turned.  Hawke.  His heart dropped into his stomach, and he stared.  The dead eyes stared back at him.  The sword that pinned him to the tree was a Blade of Mercy.  Blood ran from an unmoving mouth, yet Hawke’s voice echoed all around him.

            “Fenris,” Hawke’s voice whispered.

            “No,” he heard himself gasp, stepping backwards, unable to take his eyes from the sight.

The soil under his feet had given way to the wooden planks of a ship, and he turned from the impaled body of Hawke, running, but the ship seemed to stretch, and stretch.  The ship pitched in the storm, rain pounding down around him, making it slippery.  He slipped, grabbing for the handrail.  Lightning flashed, and he realized the rain wasn’t rain.  It was blood.  He froze on the pitching ship, hand gripping the railing so hard it hurt.  The rain pounded down around him, rain that wasn’t rain.  The sea wasn’t water.  It was blood, a sea of blood and tears and corpses.  Every toss and rock of the boat threatened to toss him into it, and he turned around, running from the edge.  The blood sank deeper, crawled higher.  It was all over him, consuming him.

            It sunk into the lyrium, making it twist and wrench at his being.

            The wood of the ship groaned, and lightning flashed all around him, blinding him.  He heard a tremendous creak, a groaning like a great tree falling.  He froze, and looked up to see the mast falling forward, falling toward him.  He dove out of the way, rolling.  It crashed and splintered only an arm’s length from him.  The boat tipped and he cried out in alarm as it threw him toward the side.  His back hit the railing, and the boat rocked, tipping farther, farther.  He gasped, reaching out, for anything, anything at all.  His hands caught empty air, and he fell through space.  He closed his eyes, expecting to fall into the bloody sea.  

He fell, and tumbled to the sand of the Proving Grounds.  He looked up at the crowd of dead bodies, standing in silent audience, watching him.  He recognized them.  All of them.  So many people, so many dead.

            He stared down at the sand, watching it turn red with blood.  In alarm, he rose to his feet, trying to step away from it.  The blood pooled around his feet, and seeped between his toes.  He stepped back, but there was no where to step back _to_.

            His back thumped against a wall, and when he blinked, the coliseum was gone.  He rushed forward, his fingers wrapping around the iron bars, pushing and straining against the door but it wouldn’t budge.  He was trapped.  Trapped, and the blood kept pooling, rising.  It was up to his knees, and he was going to drown in the blood.

            A body floated by him, and another brushed against his leg as it climbed up his thighs.

            A dim sob escaped his throat.

            He stepped backwards, away from the tide of bodies, but where to?  They were everywhere, all around, and the blood just kept rising…

            It came to his waist, to his shoulders, his neck.  Just as he went under it, he fell back against a cold, dry floor.  He looked up, and the blood was gone.  He stared up at Danarius, even as he felt the blood again pooling around him.

            “Please help me,” he begged him.  “Please make it stop, Master…  Please…”

            The man smirked down at him, and said nothing, just watched him as the blood rose around him, filling his mouth, his nose.  He gagged and choked on it, and someone grabbed his arm, hauling him upwards, dragging him backwards.  His eyes opened, and he watched the nightmare fade.

            The blood was gone.  The scenery was gone.  They were stranded, alone, in a barren landscape, the Black City in the distance.

            Fenris panted, swiping his sweaty brow.  Danarius waited, and sighed.  “You fell prey to a fear demon--again,” he muttered.

            Fenris glanced at him, puzzled for a long moment.  “I thought you had gone,” he confessed.

            Danarius raised an eyebrow.  “Hardly.  Not with you around.”

            Fenris sighed, and shook.  Just a nightmare.  He should have known.  “Well.  Thanks for… dropping by, as it were.  I wanted to ask you about something anyway.”

            Danarius rolled his eyes.  “Of course.”  He took a deep breath, and the scenery shifted.  They were standing in the garden of Danarius’ Minrathous manor.  It was a bit more pleasant than it had been before.

            “Have you been avoiding me?” Fenris asked him, but it wasn’t what he wanted to talk about.

            “I try to, but I usually end up stumbling across you when you sleep; I normally don’t interfere.  But you were begging, and…”  He shrugged.

            The elf cringed at the thought of Danarius, still always nearby.  He couldn’t truly escape, could he?  He shook his head as if to cast off the remnants of dismay, and he exhaled deeply in something almost a sigh.  He stared upwards for a moment, then let the matter go.  Danarius was not here because he wanted to be. 

            Fenris looked at him flatly.  “It is nice to know you’ve decided to mostly leave me alone.”  He sighed.  “I wanted to ask you about Shaislyn.”

            “I don’t think I know him well enough to comment on him, but you can ask.”

            The elf frowned.  “How so?”

            Danarius considered for a long moment.  “I know he’s a whoremonger, he smokes, and drinks copiously.  I don’t know if any of that has changed--”

            “It hasn’t.”

            Danarius was clearly irritated that Fenris had felt free to interrupt him, but he continued anyway, “My point being, I don’t know him very well.  I knew him as a young teenager.  He could very well have changed quite a bit.”

            Fenris sighed.  Too true.  “I need an opinion, and quickly.”

            The dead magister blinked.  “All right, then ask.”

            “What was the role he played when you tried to trap me?”

            Danarius watched him, and his face closed like a door, sliding into a fixed, unreadable mask.  Fenris stared back at him coldly.  “I told you already; he orchestrated much of it.  It was never really about you, though, Fenris; he hated you, but he…”  He paused.  “He really wanted what you wanted--what Leto wanted, more specifically:  To care for his mother.  He was only sacrificing you for her, and that he already hated you was, I think, just convenient for him.”  He stopped, and began to pace as he thought, a signal which immediately put Fenris at better ease.  When the magister was truly thinking deeply about something, he tended to pace, or sit, but never stand.  He stopped his pacing.  “It was really all about his family, Fenris.  Not you.”  He looked a little sad for a moment, even regretful.  “He’d do anything for your sister, and she never even looked at him.”

            Fenris was unmoved.  “Are you regretting not tearing an infant from its mother’s arms to keep as your own?”

            He glanced back at the elf.  “You phrase it as though I were kidnapping him and keeping him as a slave; he’s my son and I would have kept him as such.  If I had only the foresight, I would have raised him as human and never told him about his elven heritage.”

            The idea made Fenris feel sick.  Danarius would have raised his bastard, mageborn son right in front of Fenris, never even hinting to either of them that they were related.  He was quiet for a moment as he contemplated how that may have turned out, his stomach twisting.  Surely he would have known?  Looking at the child’s face, he would have known?  He looked back at Danarius.  “He tried to kill me a while ago.”

            The mage was unsurprised.  “Did he now.”

            “You have no contact with him?”

            “No.  My only contact with the living is you, Fenris.”

            The elf made a face, and stepped away, studying the too-perfect petals on the daffodils.  The stupid, bright yellow daffodils that Danarius only liked because his damned dead wife liked them.  He thought about the dried daffodil he had found in the mansion, and sighed quietly to himself.  “Well.  Shai and I came to an agreement, and I went with him to Seheron.”  He paused.  “To see our family’s graves.”  The magister raised an eyebrow.  “After the ship docked, a fortune teller stopped me and told me ‘don’t trust him’.”

            “You can’t believe some half-trained Rivaini hedge mage,” the magister scoffed.  “It’s superstitious nonsense, nothing more.”

            “I know.  But it’s too coincidental to dismiss.”

            “Conveniently coincidental.  Dismiss it anyway.”

            Fenris scowled.  “I’ll dismiss it if I think there’s no merit in it.”

The magister visibly rolled his eyes.  “So.  You think that he is going to try to kill you somewhere in Seheron?”

            He shrugged hopelessly.  “He had plenty of opportunities to kill me on the way here.”

            The mage frowned in thought, thinking hard on the matter.  Fenris knew that Danarius actually did want Fenris to live out his natural lifespan.  It couldn’t hurt to get the man’s opinion.  Fenris just told himself that whatever Danarius might say, he had to temper it first with what he knew.  “He might still want to.  The only way you’ll really know though is if he attacks you, I’m sorry to say.”

            Fenris bit his lower lip.  “But how trustworthy is he?”

            Danarius actually laughed.  “How much money do you have?”

            That didn’t bode well.  Fenris sighed, flustered.  “This isn’t getting me anywhere.”

            “I don’t know what you were expecting.”

            He stared at him.  “An answer.  Something.”

            “No, you can’t trust him, nor should you; he hates you.  The Shaislyn I knew would kill you given a chance.”

            The elf shook his head a little.  “Thanks,” he said blandly.  He stilled.  “Did you ever consider how to get rid of these markings?”

            “I don’t think it’s possible without killing you.”

            Fenris shook his head a little, staring down at the grass underfoot.  He kicked idly at a clump of grass and looked back up.  “What about my lost memories?”

            “Blood magic.”  Danarius hesitated.  “I split your memories off and partitioned them.  If you want them back, the cost is going to be higher than I think you are willing to pay.”

            Fenris stilled.  It was possible, though.  It was possible to not be plagued by half-remembered images and phrases.  It was _possible_ to remember completely who he had been.  “What’s the cost?”

            Danarius seemed to smile, just a little, like a cat with cream.  “Too high for you,” he said again.

            “Don’t bait me like this.”

            The other shrugged.  “Fine; but you won’t pay it--to remember everything, you’ll need another blood mage.  Give them complete access to your memories.  They can unearth your memories as Leto, but in return you will have to give up your memories of Fenris.  You see, I split the “two” of you, and that part cannot be undone--not permanently.  Pick one or the other, Fenris.”

            Fenris’ mouth felt dry and he swallowed.  He glanced away.  In effect, he would have to die.  The person he knew as himself would have to die to revive the person he had been.  The dead magister was right; the cost was just too high.  It wasn’t worth it.  He would rather keep his half-remembered fragments of memory than forget who he was--than forget Hawke.  “I can’t.”

            “I know, my little wolf.”

            Fenris looked back at him, feeling an old hatred well up in his chest.  It was the magister’s fault--he had done this!  It was his fault that Fenris would never remember half of the life he had lived.  It was his fault he felt incomplete, unwhole, like something was always missing.  It was his fault!  He took a deep breath, trying not to let his temper and his hatred run away with him.  “My only remorse in killing you was that you died too quickly--but not for what you did to me,” he added quickly.  “For everyone else you have tormented.”  The lyrium was glowing, a blaze of light in the Fade.

            Danarius only looked at him.  “Die as you lived, Fenris.”

            He felt himself being pulled away.  He was waking.

            “Remember, there are other people left in the world who would kill you too,” Danarius reminded him, before he felt the Fade slip away.

       

            He woke, as usual, before Shaislyn, and was pleasantly surprised to see sunlight filtering in through the woven branches.  He yawned, and sat up.  The wolf shifted, burying its face under its paws, very much like a child.  He frowned at it.

            He tapped on its shoulder.  “Wake up, you.”  The wolf grunted, and rolled over, but onto him.  He cursed.  It weighed as much as a man.   _Idiot--he is a man._ “Andraste’s tits--Shaislyn, get off of me!”

            The wolf’s eyes opened partway, and a paw fell down on his shoulders, and the wolf shifted again.  Its weight made him thump back to the ground.  He scowled up at the animal, presently using him like a pillow.

            Irritated, he wriggled and shoved the mage in wolf’s clothing off of him.  The wolf rolled into his blankets.  He sighed and rolled his eyes.  “Fine, be like that.”

            He crawled out of the shelter, stretching.  The morning was beautiful, and he wondered if he could find any dry tinder.  Then he realized that was ridiculous--he was traveling with a mage.

            He frowned, staring at the place he had left the horse.  The animal wasn’t there.  Could the mare be lying down?  He stalked over to it, and found the broken line.  He sighed deeply, and cursed loudly.  He looked for any obvious signs of where the animal had ran off to, but it had rained so fiercely, he couldn’t see anything.  He called for it, but heard nothing.  Shaislyn could probably find the animal faster than he could.

            He haphazardly gathered some firewood, and tossed the wet collection of sticks and tinder into the pit.

            He had been trying not to think about it, but the idea that there _was_ a way to regain his memories was tempting when he was awake, more so than when he had been dreaming.  Yet it still was not worth the sacrifice.  Some prices were just too high.

He took a look at the rest of their supplies, then meandered back to the shelter where the wolf was still sleeping.

            “Shaislyn?” he barked at the entrance of their small shelter.  The wolf rolled, staring at him.  “I need to talk to you.”

            There was a flash of light, and he sat up.  “What?  You know it’s hard for me to understand you--”

            “Yes, I know.  Look, the line broke last night and the damn horse ran off--do you think you can find her?”

            Shaislyn sighed.  “Yeah, probably faster than you.”  He stuffed his feet into his boots and crawled out of the shelter.  He climbed to his feet, brushing pine needles off of his trousers.  He glanced to where the animal had been tied, and he walked by the firepit, casting out his hand casually.  The fire lit, and the wolf bounded into the woods.

            “Don’t scare her!” Fenris yelled at him, but had no idea if Shaislyn had understood his words.  The elf thought it prudent to ignore the matter for the moment, and chose to work on breakfast.  Some water was found in a nearby stream swollen with rainwater.  Oats, a small amount of spices, and dried fruit did well enough, he supposed.  He wasn’t a particularly picky eater.

            He stirred the pot idly, his mind elsewhere.  Danarius seemed to want to leave him alone.  That, at least, was good news.  Yet the dead magister had no more insight into Fenris’ problem with Shaislyn than he did.  Still, his opinion had never been necessary.  The ultimate choice to trust Shaislyn belonged to Fenris, and he was on the fence about it.  Shaislyn had done many things that should make him untrustworthy and a lack of murdering  Fenris in his sleep did not really do much to redeem him.

By the time he had begun eating, Shaislyn had come back leading the mare.

            He stared grudgingly at Fenris as he tied her back up.  He was soaked with water up to his waist.  “Your damn horse ran across a river and got her dumb ass stuck on the other side.  You’re fucking welcome.”

            “Thanks,” Fenris said blandly, only halfway listening to him, and more to the sound of his voice than his words.   _Don’t trust him_ , the hedge mage’s words echoed in his memory.

            Shaislyn continued grumbling for the duration of the morning, and Fenris was glad when his nephew took off again, as was his custom, for the rest of the day.

            They were in Schavalis by mid-noon, and Shaislyn joined him by then, walking beside him but rarely speaking.  Fenris was surprised that he remembered much of the place, considering how long it had been.  It had survived the ravages of nature and time, and even a dragon attack.  Many of the buildings still stood, even if much had been destroyed.  He picketed the horse in a mostly fenced in yard, leaving the tack hidden under overgrown bushes.  They continued the rest of the way on foot, picking their way over debris and skirting overgrown plant life.

            Shaislyn was right when he said the place was long-abandoned.  There was no sign of people here.  He listened to the cries of the seabirds off the shore, the songbirds, the occasional chattering of a squirrel.  A feral dog barked somewhere.

            Fenris remembered the old hedge mage’s words:   _Don’t trust him._

            He looked for any signs of a trap, of an ambush.  He saw nothing, but that meant little in truth.  They came upon the long-rent gates of the graveyard.  The mists shifted among the headstones like forgotten ghosts, clinging tight to the earth.  Some of the ground here was scorched, as if by a dragon’s breath, a tree that long ago caught fire twisted out of the ground, blackened.

            The mage stilled, and looked back at Fenris, pained.  “Can I… tell you something?  Before we see the graves?”

            Fenris stopped, curious.  “Yes.”

            The other made a series of facial expressions, then sighed in defeat.  He kicked at the earth underfoot.  “I could have bought Varania back.”  He laughed without humor.  “I could have demanded a seat on the Senate.  I could have demanded the Altus bloodline and be named Danarius’ heir.”  He smiled hollowly at Fenris, shaking his head.  “I could have saved her.”

            Fenris wondered _what_ he could possibly be talking about.  Maybe his own lament that he had not let Danarius officially adopt him while he was still alive.  “Shai…  It isn’t your fault.”

            The half-blood seemed almost angry, then it died.  “No, it is.  I want to blame you, but…”  He shook his head.  “It _is_ my fault.”  He cocked his head to the side.  “When the Qunari were in Kirkwall, I _stole the gaatlok recipe_.”

            Fenris’ jaw dropped, then he closed it when he realized that his mouth was open.  He blinked slowly as he processed this.  “ _What_?”

            Shaislyn swiped his fingers through his curly hair.  “I stole it.  When the Qunari were occupied.  I spent a long time watching them, and spying, and I found it.  And I memorized it—never thought I would memorize it, let me tell you.”  He shook his head, staring downwards.  “I could have sold it to the Magisterium.  Hell, I could have sold it anywhere and got half a kingdom.”  He laughed again, pain beyond words in his eyes.  “I could have _saved_ _her_ ,” he said again.  “She died in slavery alone because I weighed the lives of those that would die to the _gaatlok_ over hers.  She _died_ because of _me_.”

            Fenris was quiet as he looked at his nephew.  He could only wonder at the pain it took for Shaislyn to keep that secret; the very real torture he must have gone through to witness his mother’s suffering and know he could end it with a word if he only found a way to make her mean more than the countless people who would die when Thedas had the Qunari’s powder recipe.  “You did the right thing, Shai.”

            “Did I?” he whispered, then turned his back to him.  Shaislyn walked systematically, but Fenris noticed, avoided walking across the graves.  “Fenris?  Don’t tell anyone that.  The Imperium would have no problems torturing it out of me.”

            “I won’t,” he promised him, and realized the burden Shaislyn had placed on him.  If he ever mentioned it, people would kill for the information.  If he ever slipped, Shaislyn’s life was in danger.  _He trusts me_ , Fenris thought.

            _Don’t trust him._

Was it a ploy?

He followed a twist of overgrown and broken paths until they came down a hill and around a bend.  The weeds were so dense that the headstones were mostly covered.  Shaislyn knelt beside it, pulling the weeds off of it enough to see.  Fenris knelt to look, curious.

            He pointed to the weathered stone.  “Your grandparents.”  He moved to another, newer looking one.  “Mieta.  Obviously, it would have been impossible to recover Calias, but--”

            “Who?”

            Shaislyn blinked.  “Oh.  Grandfather--your father.  Calias.”

            Fenris stared at the headstone, at the names carved into it, and the dates.  The day his father died marked the day his life as a slave had began.  In his mind’s eye, he watched the axe fall--again and again.  “Thank you for doing this, Shaislyn,” he said quietly.

            He was still, not acknowledging Fenris’ words.  “I don’t know the exact date Calias was executed.  I looked up some old Imperial records and found his name, and an approximate date.  I guess we’ll never know for sure.”  The other rose, and moved to a last grave.  “I just thought…”  He sighed and shook his head a little.  “It’s nothing.”  This headstone was smaller than the others, just a single name on it.

            Fenris looked at it, long and hard.  He remembered Varania from the Hanged Man, the woman who had betrayed him for a job.  He barely remembered the little girl with her hair in braids, playing in their master’s courtyard.  He wanted to remember _that_ Varania--the little girl, not the mage that had betrayed him.

            But he didn’t.

            He started to turn, then stopped.  A small grave, one his nephew had not pointed out to him, sat partially obscured under a tangle of grass.  He pushed the stalks aside.  The headstone was only about as large as his hand, and the dates were in the same year, with only a single name:  Viscaria.  Was that the name of a flower?

            “It’s an empty grave,” his nephew said hollowly.  Fenris glanced up at Shaislyn.  “But I thought my twin should still have one.”  He hesitated, as if he might say more, but stilled.

            Fenris looked at him, his heart heavy in his chest.  He thought about his dream where he had spoken to Danarius.  “Shaislyn?  Do you… still hate me?”

            The other was quiet for a very long time before he spoke.  He finally sighed, and shook his head.  “No.  I…  I forgive you, Fenris.”  His voice was soft.  “And I know you are sorry about what happened with the Fog Warriors.  And I know you feel remorse about Varania, so I can’t ask for much more from you, can I?”

            “Shai.”  Fenris hesitated.  “I forgive what you tried to do.”

            The corners of his mouth pulled into a crooked smile.  “I know forgiveness doesn’t come easily to you.”  He snorted a laugh.  “For either of us.”  He halted, and flushed briefly.  “I want…  I want you to be my family— _really_ be a family.  Oh, Maker, that sounded corny, didn’t it?”

            “It did,” he agreed, but looked back at his nephew.  A family?  Broken and needy, but still a family?  That was… something he had dreamed of for as long as he could remember.

The other sighed, and shook his head.  He turned away, suddenly feeling awkward.  Shaislyn sighed again, his head down.  “I’ll… leave you alone for a bit.  … I’ll go figure out camp then—somewhere by the horse.  Come meet me when you’re ready.”

            The half-elf was gone before Fenris said anything, walking quickly away.  Fenris looked at the graves in turn.  He had no memories at all of his grandparents, and judging by the dates of their death, he had been too young to remember them anyway.  He knelt, tracing their names with a finger, wondering what they had been like.

            _Your grandfather wielded a great sword.  Like you._

            His eyes closed for a moment, in pain.  Information hard-gained, but all he had of who they had been.  It was a wonder how so many people could live their lives and have no impact on the world, their lives passing with barely a ripple in the pond of existence.  Individually, people meant little in the passage of time.  A rare few stood out in history, and the rest passed unremembered.  Life went on, but they did not.

            He looked to the second grave, touching the smooth granite, trying to remember Calias.  For the life of him, though, all he remembered were leaf-green eyes and a sad, sad smile.  The chopping of the axe, a moment of helpless terror, and his stomach clenched.  He swallowed the lump rising in his throat.

            _I’m sorry I only remember your death, Father._

            At least he remembered something, though.  Anything he remembered at all of him, at three years old, had to be better than nothing, didn’t it?  He wasn’t so sure.

            His eyes slid to Mieta’s name.   _Mama…_

If he closed his eyes, he couldn’t remember her face, but he could remember her voice.  He couldn’t sing the tune if it killed him, but he could almost _… almost_ … remember the song.  Slavery had taken her song and her dance away, and he couldn’t bear to watch the life in her fade day to day.  It had been better to sacrifice himself than watch his mother’s life pass before his eyes, to be forced to watch, a captive and tormented audience, as her smiles came less and less frequently, as the laughter faded from her voice and the song left her completely, as her feet unlearned how to do dance.  It had been more than he could bear.  It was what had ultimately driven him to Danarius.  Forever tormented and Danarius’ prize possession, his favourite pet, was better than watching that and helpless in the face of it.  Nothing that man had done to him had been as painful as watching his mother’s soul and being fade before his eyes.  Not even the lyrium matched that pain.

            _I’m sorry_ …

            His eyes were wet, and he blinked it away, trying to hold back his own sorrow.

            Varania’s grave, he went to last.   _What did you endure to make you turn back to Danarius?_

            A young girl laughing as he chased her, giggling as he caught her.  A young girl holding a newborn kitten, the way she had smiled in delight.  A girl bruised and dirtied as the other children had taunted her for being a mage, and how angry it had made him that they would.  How she went to him instead of to their mother when she was upset, always to him.  And he had sent her away to a world she didn’t understand and had never experienced, where she would never see him again.

            He knew seeing the graves would be painful.  He hadn’t known how painful it would be, or what it would feel like, but he had been imagining it.  He had experienced a lot of grief in his life, and this was only more, a raw ache in the wake of his other pains.  There was nothing he could do about their deaths, no words he felt like he could say.

            _I had a family once_ , he thought.  That alone was enough.  Someone cared, once.  He had cared for someone else.  His life hadn’t been devoid of love, family, and laughter.  That was something, at least.

            He wished he could remember it.

            A sea breeze caressed his skin.  The lyrium felt like it was digging in farther in protest, and he inhaled deeply, his eyes closing, as if in prayer, but he didn’t pray.  What for?  Who to?

            The Maker was a human god.

            The gods of elvhenon had been just as cast down as the elves, sealed away and gone forever.

            The Ancient Tevinter gods were nothing but beasts, rising again only in a Blight.

            _If anything of your spirits remain in the Fade, maybe one day, I’ll find you all again._

            His heart ached for each loss, for each death.   _I wish I knew you.  I wish I could talk to you._

            He stared at the graves for a long time, wondering what might have been had things turned out differently.  He had been born in this place.  His parents had been born here.  What had it been like back then?

            He was still as he watched the grass twitch in the wind, watched the weeds dance, and the leaves rustle.  He listened to distant birds, a squirrel scolding.

            He rose, finally, his legs aching for how long he had sat, unmoving.  Fenris walked slowly down the path, lost in troubled thoughts of family and love, and what it all meant.

            When he had first met Hawke, Hawke had had a brother, a mother, an uncle.  Hawke had been dispirited when Carver had been forced to join the Wardens, and heartbroken over what had befallen his mother.  His sister and father had died long before Fenris had ever met him, but each loss seemed to have taken its toll.

            He thought of Sebastian, and his family murdered over greed.

            He thought of Isabela, whose mother had sold her into a marriage she had hated.  Varric, who had been betrayed by his brother.  Merrill and Keeper Merathari, how the Dalish Keeper had cared about her so much that she had sacrificed herself to a demon to keep her safe.  Anders, whose family had sent him to the Templars.  Aveline, who had lost her first husband to the Blight but found love again.  He wondered what it all meant, and what it could mean.

            What was family anyway?  A concept?  An ideal?  Was it really as simple as blood ties or was there more to it?  What was love?

            He didn’t think it was entirely possible to fully describe a concept, an emotion, like love.  So, too, it would be difficult to describe what family really was.

            He walked as far as the path went, then turned and headed back the other way, taking another path farther away, and doubled back again.  He paced, feeling restless.  He came back to the graves of his family--whatever “family” really was.  A pile of ash in a grave, a collection of carved stones.  An assortment of dates and names.  A menagerie of vague images and half-remembered words.


	113. Masks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We all wear masks. Sometimes we wear many, sometimes just one. But we always hide pieces of ourselves, the ugly parts we don't want others to see. We hide our secrets and our sorrows and put on a mask to show the world, as if nothing is wrong, as if there is nothing to hide.

            The songbirds had begun to sing of nightfall as the day wore on into evening.  He should go back to camp.  He needed to take care of the horse and figure out a meal.  Fenris wasn’t much of a cook, but he was more patient about food than the half-elf was.   If he left Shaislyn to it, the mage would either burn or undercook it.   He started to turn from the grave, staring down at the path, only his thoughts for company.

            “You know them?” someone asked.

            Fenris’ head snapped upwards, the stranger’s words shattering his train of thought.  The Qunari looked back at him with pale violet eyes, a shock of disarrayed white hair falling against a bronze complexion, horns trimmed but not cut.  As the shadows grew darker, the man somehow seemed even larger and imposing.  “No,” he answered.  “I never did.”

            _Blue eyes filled with tears.  “No.  I never did.”_

            Hadriana’s words, the one shred of humanity he had ever seen in her, and so quickly she had put it away, burying it under layers of cruelty and greed.  How quickly she had cast aside her compassion and care.  Why?  Had she felt that being compassionate and caring would make her weak?  Maybe in the Magisterium, it would, but he didn’t think compassion was ever something to exchange for cruelty.

            The Qunari was quiet for a moment, as if puzzling through what Fenris might be doing.  “Place has been empty a long time--it’s pretty lonely, isn’t it?”

            Fenris stepped toward him, but kept a fair distance from him, just in case.  The Qunari was armed, after all.  A great axe was strapped to his back, and by the scars on his arms, and the way he walked with it, he knew how to use it.  He judged the space between them to be, even should the other step forward, just out of his reach.  “Yes,” Fenris agreed.  “Are you here to pay your respects to the dead?”

            The Qunari shook his head.  “Just a corpse now--no point.”  He frowned a little.  “Saw you, though.”  He frowned at him.  “Don’t remember your name, and I doubt you remember me, but I saw you--long time ago, can’t remember how many years…”  The Qunari considered, trying to remember.  Fenris felt the blood drain from his face, his stomach clenching.   _Oh, no.  No…_  Fenris felt like he was suffocating when his gaze fell to the amulet at the man’s chest--an amulet he recognized:  A Fog Warrior’s amulet.  “Saw you in Seheron City.  I went scouting--heard you went to Schavalis with the others.”  He paused.  “But when they went out, they never came back.”

            His eyes shifted away and with effort, the elf forced himself to act as though nothing were wrong.  “I left,” he said quietly, and started to walk toward the gate.  The Qunari strode right behind him on the narrow path.

            “We came across the bodies--looked like something happened.”  A pause.  “Probably Imperials, or we would’ve found Antaam bodies too.  Imperials like to do something with their dead.”

            Fenris was quiet.  Should he lie?  Should he…?  He couldn’t bring himself to tell the man the truth.  Maybe saying nothing would be in his best interest; Fenris was not a skilled liar.  “My name is Fenris.  I’m sorry, but I don’t remember your name--?”

            The Qunari nodded.  They passed through the gate, and the man walked beside him, dark and imposing yet somehow amiable.  The man’s arms were like a leg, and he put a new name to the term “barrel-chested”.  He had a thick bull neck and fingers like sausages.  Fenris felt incredibly small next to him--he was well below his shoulders and probably less than half the other’s weight.  “Aban-ataashi.”

            “Sea dragon?” Fenris haphazardly guessed.  It had been a long time since he had had need of the language.  What on earth was a…  It came to him.  “A cetus?”

            “You ever see one?”

            “No,” Fenris admitted.  Many sailors went their whole lives without ever seeing such a creature, and Fenris, for all the sailing he had done, counted himself among them.  Anastas had once paid a princely sum for a good portion of it for a meal though.  He had offered Fenris a plate, for a paltry fee of fifty sovereigns.  Fenris had politely declined, and the smell from the filet had been ghastly.  “Have you?”

            The Qunari grinned, showing a gold tooth among the stained white.  “It’s the reason I’m Tal-Vashoth,” he admitted.  “A great storm attracted the beast, and it crushed the ship.  I escaped and ended up here.”  He paused.  “Not so unlike as to how you were freed of your master.”

            Fenris considered the wisdom in that--a great beast assaulted the place he had been, and he had escaped.  Even so, that hadn’t _truly_ been the moment of his escape.  His escape had not been sudden.  It had been slow and gradual, and he had come to it timidly, and perhaps even against his will at first.  He had not started out running from Danarius.  During the attack, it had only been about surviving.  When he had killed the Fog Warriors, he hadn’t been running from Danarius.  He would never be able to outrun himself, and he could not escape the horrors of what he had done.  Fenris had ran enough at first, but he had not actively avoided or killed the hunters until he learned--incorrectly as it was--that Danarius wanted to kill him.  Danarius wasn’t without blame, but neither was Fenris completely innocent.  What would have happened if he had not tortured that boy?  He would never have falsely believed that the magister wanted him dead.  And would he have fought so hard to keep his freedom if he had not thought that capture meant death?  He didn’t know.  “True enough.”

            “I like to come through the abandoned cities sometimes, weed out the scum, if you know what I mean.”

            Fenris glanced at his axe.  He could imagine.  “Do you often travel alone?”

            “Best kind of travel.  But perhaps we go the same way?”

            The elf glanced up at him.  He doubted it.  “I’m going back to the mainland,” he said.

            “So you’ll be headed to Seheron City, then.  Mind if I accompany you?”

            He hesitated.  It _couldn’t_ be a good idea to let him go, not with Shaislyn who would probably run his mouth off, who was so very quick to accuse Fenris, and bring up that massacre.  Fact of the matter, Fenris himself felt so guilty about it, he felt like he would be lying to the man every step of the journey.  “Are you headed south?”

            “I can go south,” he said amiably.  “Say, there were no Fog Warriors who survived…  How did you?”

            Fenris’ eyes flicked away.  What should he say?  “I’m an elf; they were expecting Tal-Vashoth.  I look Imperial, so it wasn’t…  That difficult.”

            “Coward,” the man scoffed.  There was some venom in his voice that time.

            Fenris said nothing.  Let him think that.  It was so much better than the bloodied truth.  He would rather the man brand him a coward in his mind than a betrayer and a murderer.

            He considered the man’s curious method of speech.  He spoke primarily in fragments, tumbling over words as if they had no meaning, cutting sentences to make them shorter.  Perhaps his grasp of the King’s Speech was deceptively looser than his accent suggested, or perhaps he just spent a lot of time alone.  It was not so dissimilar to the way many slaves spoke; slurring their words and butchering their sentences.   The odd manner of speech mostly affected the miners or field workers, rarely leaking into their city slave counterparts.  Their masters tolerated offenses to the ears and eyes least of all.  Fenris would have been slapped if he had ever developed the mannerisms, and he never developed that habit.

            The Tal-Vashoth had a big draft horse, the size meant for pulling heavy ploughs or even heavier carriages, as a riding horse.  It was picketed not too far away, and mostly obscure.  When Aban-ataashi said they should merge their camps for safety, Fenris could not think of a viable reason they should not.  The Fog Warrior’s camp was better secluded, and the man stayed behind while Fenris went to get his horse.

            Fenris walked slowly to give himself more time to think.  His thoughts tumbled together, on the verge of panic.  Should he saddle the mare and run?  Kick her into a gallop and run her until she wouldn’t move any more, letting Shaislyn come find him?  Shaislyn would know why he had ran.  He might belittle him for it, but he wouldn’t press the matter.

            Fenris quickly brushed the horse down and saddled her.  He told himself that he would have to, just to move all the tack anyway.  He hefted the saddlebags, testing the straps.

            “You’re not running away, are you?” a voice asked, half-laughingly.

            Fenris froze, because that had been exactly what he had intended to do.  Run, because that was how he dealt with all of his problems.  He forced himself to calm.  He looked back at the big man, at that enormous axe.  “No--but I can’t carry all her tack, and she can.”

            The Qunari shrugged, reaching around Fenris to take her bridle.  He looked at the horse’s mouth, at her hooves and flanks.  “She could use a good rest,” he commented, and started leading her away.  The horse was nervous about being led by such a big, horned stranger, but Fenris walked beside her, just as nervous as she was.

            When they arrived at Aban-ataashi’s encampment, he started removing the tack, putting it beside his own.  Fenris had to lift the saddle with both hands; the Qunari heaved it around with one as if the weight were nothing.  The Tal-Vashoth could probably lift Fenris’ mare.  Fenris felt oddly helpless as he watched him.  Should he mention Shaislyn?  He was going to find out about him anyway.

            “I’m going to go look for my companion,” Fenris said slowly.  “If that’s all right.”

            “Sure--you didn’t mention anyone?”

            The elf shrugged.  “He runs off a lot.  I’ll be back soon.”  He turned, thinking hard.  They could abandon the horse and the tack.  He could live without the mare.  He would be fine without the supplies, even if uncomfortable.

            He found Shaislyn near where he had had his horse picketed.  The young man had his arms crossed, his eyes accusing.

            “Were you watching that?” Fenris asked him.

            The boy cocked his head to one side.  “I don’t like this,” he admitted.  Fenris searched his face.  The mage had an almost unnatural distaste for Qunari.  He had flinched any time they even passed a Tal-Vashoth.  He wondered why.  

He approached him.  “I was actually considering running.”

            Shaislyn’s eyebrows rose, his demeanor changing completely.  “Oh,” he said.  He chewed on his lower lip.  “What about the horse?”

            Fenris shook his head.  “Leave it.”

            He nodded dimly.  “Understood.”  The other followed close behind him as he led the way back out onto the street.  They stole down the alleys, the sun fading fast on the horizon.  It seemed terribly disingenuous, but what else could he do?  With it dark out, and Fenris agitated, the lyrium was glowing brightly.  He tried to calm enough for it to dim, but it only made it flash, which he was certain only made it more obvious.

            “Maybe we should cover you in tar,” Shaislyn mused.

            “I’m not sure that would help.”

            “We could still try.”

            “Shai?  Now is not the time.”

            “Right.”  They both fell silent, stealing across the street and down a twist of alleys and side streets, into crumbling buildings and into an overgrown lot.  They headed toward the gate, staying off the wider, better lit streets in favor of concealment.  A collapsed building hampered their path, and they veered off the side street, looking for a way around.  Fenris found an alternate route through a barn, and they headed through it.  They ventured down the maze of alleys and buildings and finally had to rejoin the main street.

            Fenris heard hooves, and groaned aloud, turning around.  He would shine like a beacon in the dark, and he should have known better.  He looked back, chewing on his lower lip as he watched the horse approach, the big man astride it, for the moment just a distinct silhouette.

            “I’ll say you needed to come find me,” Shaislyn muttered with a sigh.  Then he cocked his head to the side.  “I could probably set him on fire, though--if you want.”

            “Do it and you lose an arm.”

            The other snorted.  “Touchy.”

            Fenris glanced at him, then back at the approaching Tal-Vashoth.  “Not one word about the Fog Warriors, Shaislyn.”

            His lips curved into a smirk.  “Oh?”  An eyebrow raised.  “And what do I get out of keeping my mouth shut?”

            Fenris stared at him, and debated on slapping that smirk off of his face, then calmed.  “My eternal gratitude and thanks.”  The glow of the lyrium and his tone of voice made it half a threat.

            His lips curved into a disapproving frown.  “But--”

            “I helped you scam people out of money.”

            “The correct term is ‘hustling’.  Fine.”  Shaislyn huffed, but crossed his arms and fell silent as the rider approached.

            “You took so long, I thought you might’ve come across bandits--found some the last time I was here,” the man said sincerely.  “I’m sure you could handle yourself, but you never know.”

            Fenris shrugged.  “He was difficult to find.”  He glanced at Shaislyn.  “And shy around strangers.”

            Shaislyn made a face, but said nothing.  The man swung out of the saddle.  It did little to decrease his height.  “Name’s Aban-ataashi.”

            The mage looked back at him, an expression of bored aloofness on his face.  He had never looked quite so much like Danarius to Fenris as that moment.  “Enchanter Shaislyn Avidius, Minrathous Circle.”

            Fenris frowned at him.  That could have gone better.  The Fog Warrior stared at him, his eyes narrowing only slightly.  “You travel in strange company, Fenris,” the man said.

            The elf sighed deeply.  “He’s mostly harmless,” he muttered.  The half-elf snorted with disdain.  The Fog Warrior walked his mount and the other two walked with him, Shaislyn a fair distance apart.

            “Where’s your horse?” the Fog Warrior asked Shaislyn.

            The mage lifted his head, and smirked.  “Why ride when I can fly?”

            “Shaislyn, no,” Fenris snapped.  He paused, and the pause stretched to an uncomfortable silence.  “Avidius.  I would not have expected you to have an _Imperial_ last name.”

            Shaislyn had removed the slender case of cigars he kept on his person, prying at the lid.  “The Circle insisted.  I didn’t see a point in pressing the matter.”

            “Hmm.”  It made Fenris feel irritated.  Shaislyn claimed to have so much devotion to their family, and he just tossed aside everything about them.  Maybe because he was a bastard.  It was a poor excuse.

            The cigar lit, and the Fog Warrior visibly stiffened to see the mage use magic to light it.  The case snapped shut and disappeared back in his pocket.  Fenris hadn’t seen his nephew smoke in weeks, come to think of it.  He wondered if it wasn’t just something he did when he was stressed.  Did that mean Shaislyn had been comfortable around him before?  He considered that in silence.

            Aban-ataashi looked at each of them, noting the small animosity between them.  “Well, are either of you hungry?”

            Shaislyn froze, and chuckled a little.  “I completely forgot--I killed a deer in the forest.  Came back to get the horse because I couldn’t lift it by myself.”  He glanced toward Fenris, inhaling on the cigar.  “So, I’ll just borrow your horse, Fenris, and I’ll go get it.”

            The Fog Warrior stopped.  “Hissra is already saddled; lead us, Bas-Saarebas.”

            Shaislyn visibly bristled at the title.  Neither mage nor Tal-Vashoth moved, and Fenris felt like a captive audience watching the two stare at one another, as if measuring their strengths and weaknesses, and deciding where to strike first.  The tension in the air was so thick if Fenris struck it with his sword, it could be cut.  Shaislyn tilted his head slightly, the cigar burning unnoticed in his hand.  “ _Horned beast,_ ” he said disdainfully, but in Tevene.  Aban-ataashi frowned, not understanding the term.

            Fenris ground his teeth.  “Shaislyn--”

            The mage turned.  “Follow me.”

            Gone was his nephew, and the half-elven mage who had been happier an apostate; gone the thief and the drunkard; gone the gambler and the whoremonger.  This was the Laetan Enchanter.  Fenris wasn’t so sure how he felt about the change.

            The mage walked fully expecting that the other two would follow, never even glancing back at them.  Fenris’ eyes shifted toward Aban-ataashi, the man’s violet eyes flashing with indignation before it cooled, and he turned, following the other.  Fenris sighed, walking beside the Fog Warrior, the mage ahead of them.

            “You must be doing something important,” Aban-ataashi commented dryly.

            Fenris shook his head a little.  “Just a personal venture.”  He glanced at him.  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

            The other’s demeanor softened.  “You didn’t end up back in Imperial hands, did you?” he asked, his voice gentle.

            The elf shrugged one shoulder dismissively.  “No.  I was never a slave again,” he clarified.

            The other paused.  “Keep your secrets, if it please you.”

            “It does,” Fenris said good-naturedly, and the Fog Warrior’s lips curved into something almost a smile.  The elf’s eyes again fell to the mage in front of them, his head raised, back straight, even arrogant.  He hoped he didn’t plan on acting this way all the way back to the city.  Of course, if Shaislyn really hated traveling with Aban-ataashi, he could always leave them.  Fenris could get back to the mainland without him, but it would be lonely.  He supposed that it was inevitable that they part ways as they both had very different lives, but he had grown to enjoy the other’s company.  He _had_ thought that Shaislyn had felt similarly, but he didn’t think his attitude had to do with Fenris at all.

            He wondered why he had hated Qunari so much, trying to remember anything he had said about them.  It came to him, suddenly:  Shaislyn had been used to spy on them.  Fenris had not asked about it, but now he wondered.

            Shaislyn had an odd abrasion-like scar around his lips.  Fenris had never really questioned it; it had been there since he had met him when he was a young child.  But Fenris had seen Saarebas.  Their mouths were stitched shut with a thick leather cord.

            If he considered the scars around his lips…

            He missed a step.  All this time, it had been staring him in the face, and he had missed it.  Shaislyn sided strongly with the Imperials because he hated the Qunari, and he hated the Qunari because…

            He shivered.

            “Are you all right?” Aban-ataashi inquired.

            Fenris looked toward him.  “Fine,” he responded, frowning in thought.  Well, if Shaislyn were really uncomfortable around the Fog Warrior, he could leave, he supposed.  Nothing was stopping him.

            They followed the _Enchanter_ into the woods, and down a meandering deer trail, before the mage stopped.  He turned around and confessed, “I can’t tell where it is from here.”

            The Qunari stared at him, behind Fenris with his mount.  “A fine waste of time.”

            The mage scoffed, and a light flashed around him.  The wolf darted off ahead of them, confident in its abilities to smell its way there.  Fenris sighed, and glanced back at the stunned Tal-Vashoth.  “No, not all Imperial mages can do that; it’s really just Shaislyn.”

            He stared off at the waiting wolf.  “Mages,” he muttered, but followed.  The wolf led them for several minutes, then snarled as it bounded forward, its thick coat pulling against a blackberry bush.  Fenris hurried around the foliage when he heard the wolf snarl, followed by a short yelp.  He came across Shaislyn snapping his jaws at a pair of feral dogs, swiping one with his paws.  The dogs snarled back, circling.  Fenris drew steel, and the lyrium brightened.  The dogs jumped, backing up.  Shaislyn ran toward them, and the dogs abandoned the deer carcass, running into the wood.  The wolf followed them a short distance before trotting back.

            The wolf sniffed at the deer, and Fenris looked at it, but it didn’t look as though the dogs had gotten to it just yet.  A flash of light, and Shaislyn knelt over the carcass, drawing a hunting knife to hand.  “Anyone want to help me?”

            Aban-ataashi assisted him, neither speaking to one another.  Shaislyn had bled the animal before he had gone, but he apparently intended to gut it here.  They worked, and Fenris stepped away from the awful smell of spilled viscera.  He tended the horse, gentling the big animal, uneasy around the scent of blood.

            Aban-ataashi had a stained tarp in his saddle bags he threw over the old leather saddle.  Gutting it was the work of minutes.  They left the cold entrails in a bloody pile and heaved the dead doe upwards.  The horse stirred only a little when the dead animal was lain across its back.  The carcass was quickly lashed in place, and the Tal-Vashoth lead the horse back out, following the path they had taken.  Shaislyn glanced backwards, making a face half a wolf’s snarl.  The feral dogs had come back, slinking out of the trees to nose at the intestines.  Fenris half-expected him to chase them off again, but the mage did not.

            Shaislyn was quiet and strangely… dignified the rest of the evening.  Even skinning the carcass, he did so with a calculated sort of precision.  He let Aban-ataashi light a fire, and Fenris attend the horses, with the same sort of cold aloofness that, perhaps to the Fog Warrior, seemed standoffish and even rude.

            Shaislyn salted the meat they wouldn’t be immediately eating, and used a heavy cord to tie it to a tree branch to keep animals out of it.  While he did it, Fenris walked up to him and said, “Shaislyn, stop acting like a Blighted gemlock.”

            He looked up at him.  “ _Tell him to stop calling me_ ‘Bas-Saarebas’,” he hissed, but in Tevene instead of the King’s Speech.

            Fenris groaned inwardly.  “If we are all going to get along, you will both have to give a little ground.  Don’t act like an asshole.”

 _“Fine, just as soon as he stops calling me_ ‘Bas-Saarebas’.”

            “It’s just a word.  It means ‘non-Qunari mage’, which you _are_.”

            Shaislyn’s face twisted into, for just an instant, a wild rage before it slipped beyond rage, into the calm of the storm.  “ _It means so much more than that,”_ he snapped.

            Fenris caught himself looking at the scars around his mouth, and flinched.  “Shaislyn…”  He glanced at Aban-ataashi, and switched to Tevene.  “ _Shai, were you… ever captured… by the Qunari?”_

Shaislyn stared at him, his eye twitching slightly, lips pulled into a sneer.  “ _And if I was?_ ”

Fenris felt a lump rise in his throat.  Mages should be collared and controlled, lest they abuse their power, but…  They did it to children.  Qunari held a firm belief that demons could ride a mage’s words, but Fenris did not think that belief could hold water.  If that were true, a lot more people would be possessed.   _Fenris_ would be possessed if that were true--how many blood mages had he been near and he had never had such a problem?  Caution was all well and good, but they used caution to justify torturing children.  _Nothing_ justified the torture of a child.  Still, there were some mages he would not have minded seeing their mouths stitched shut--but those people were long dead.  He thought of Magister Elden briefly, and amended that thought.  “ _Was it when…  you were a child?  Before I met you?_ ”

The mage crossed his arms, staring downwards.  He swallowed.  He looked back at Fenris.  “ _They stitched my mouth shut and put a collar on me, and they threw me into a cage.  They took away my sight, my name, and my voice.  They took away everything that made me a person_.”  He looked pained.

Fenris didn’t know what to say.  “ _But you got away_.”

“ _Because I learned to shapeshift_ ,” he told him peaceably.  He frowned at him.  “ _I was only there for a few weeks, but I will_ never _forgive what they do to their mages_.”

Fenris’ eyes flicked toward the Fog Warrior, and back to Shaislyn.  “ _He isn’t_ …”

Shaislyn shook his head firmly.  “ _I don’t care.  You give up all your prejudice about mages and I’ll stop hating those oxen and their damnable cult.  Is that fair_?”

“ _That’s not the same-_ -”

 _“It is_ ,” he hissed lividly.  “ _They put a collar around my neck, took away my name and who I am.  He calls me ‘_ Bas-Saarebas’.”  He jerked his head in the direction of the Fog Warrior.  The man had to know they were talking about him.  “ _How would you feel if a mage kept referring to you as ‘slave’?  It is the exact same thing_.”

To a child, a few weeks was an eternity.  His mouth stitched shut, locked in a cage, beaten and alone…  He couldn’t even imagine…  But mages could do so much harm if left to their own devices.  He had seen it, lived it.  The Qunari did those things, yes, but they didn’t do it because it pleased them or for the sake of being cruel; they did it because they wanted to protect others.  Danarius had only done those things _because_ it pleased him and _because_ he wanted to be cruel.  The intent changed the deed... didn’t it?   _“I’m sorry, Shaislyn.  It’s not the same._ ”

Shaislyn grew angry.  “ _Oh?  Maybe if I started calling you ‘pet’ you would understand how I feel about being called ‘_ Bas-Saarebas’.”

The lyrium flared with his temper.  His teeth bared in the wake of his rage.  Shaislyn did not back down.  “ _That is_ not _the same.  Danarius called me that, and he tormented me for years, mage.”_

Shaislyn scoffed.  “ _Tormented you,_ ” he laughed.  “ _You spoiled shit.  You had one of the best rooms in his manor.  What hardships did_ you _endure?”_

Fenris stared at him, his jaw clenched so hard it hurt.   _“That bastard beat me.  He cut me for his filthy blood magic.  He let Hadriana starve me when she would.  He paraded me around on a leash, Shaislyn.”_ He swallowed. _“He raped a girl in front of me because I thought she was pretty.  He let another magister…”_ He stopped, and stared down at the earth under his feet.  

Shaislyn shook his head, fuming.  “ _I had my damned mouth stitched shut.  They put a collar around my neck that made me blind and unable to speak.”_ Shaislyn gestured angrily, as if he might speak with his hands.  Most mages learned, very quickly, not to do that--ever.  The Magisterium had just made it rude and uncivil, but mages elsewhere learned not to do it for very different reasons.  Shaislyn had not heeded that lesson, and Fenris half-expected accidental spells.  He should have known better; his nephew had no mana to cast.   _“They threw me into a cage, too short to stand up in, too small to lay down.  They beat me when I tried to speak or when I screamed.  They never had the time to castrate me, but they had planned to.  They let me out once in a while to relieve myself, and always someone was watching me.”_ He stopped, shaking with rage.   _“What could ever justify doing that to a child?”_

_“Because of what you are and what you can become!  Mages can summon demons--every mage has the ability to kill people!”_

_“So do you!”_ Shaislyn snarled. _“Look at you!”_ He pointed at him.  “ _Every time you use your ability, you step into the Fade.  Do you think demons don’t see you as an opening to our world?”_

Fenris stilled, speechless.  Hawke had brought him into the Fade.  He should have done what Sebastian did and refuse to go, but he had not.  He remembered the pride demon with self-repulsion.  Pride had been the ancient magister’s greatest folly and sin… and it was his too.  “Shaislyn--

_“I’m sorry, but I’ll take your silk pillows over the cage.”_

Fenris stared at him.  “ _You don’t know what you’re saying.”_

“ _I don’t?”_  He paused, and a slow smirk spread across his face.  Fenris impulsively wanted to step back, his gut wrenching.  How could his obnoxious, drunkard of a nephew look so much like Danarius because of a facial expression?  “ _Pet.”_

The lyrium consumed his body, washing over him in a torrent of anger and pain.   Aban-ataashi was trying not to stare.   _Shaislyn doesn’t understand,_ Fenris tried to tell himself.  Shaislyn _didn’t_ know what that word meant to him, what the term _meant_.  That single-syllable word perfectly summed up _every_ horrible thing Danarius had done to him.  It summarized every bruise, every cut, every fallen tear, the way he had made him feel, the things he had done to him, and the things he had made Fenris do.  “Pet”--because he had treated him like an animal.  “Pet”--because that was all Fenris had been.  Some people used the phrase as a term of endearment--it was the single worst term of endearment he could ever imagine.  It was only made worse in that Danarius had often used the term almost affectionately.  That had just made _everything_ so much worse.  He didn’t understand, or didn’t know, what Danarius had been like.  Shaislyn had no knowledge of what Fenris’ life had been like, and the elf was not about to tell him just for the sake of an argument.  There was a number of things Fenris wanted to say.  There was an even longer list of things he wanted to do.  Instead, he found a different set of words, what he hoped were the _right_ words to keep the situation from escalating.  Fenris’ temper, in many ways, was often his own undoing.  It was hard to reign it in, and hard to want to.  It was always a small victory when he did--a victory against the hatred that Danarius had instilled in him.  He could be better than what Danarius had made him.  The beacon the lyrium had become dimmed to the glow of a lantern, like a nimbus of light surrounding him.

            “ _What you are acting like is one of the many reasons Qunari treat mages like they do._ ”

            Shaislyn stiffened, but nodded dimly.  “ _Ask him to refer to me by name, and_ _I’ll try_ ,” he muttered.

            “ _Good_.”  He turned from his nephew, taking several deep breaths, trying to calm.  His eyes slid closed, and he tried to think of water, of the calm of the sea or the babble of a brook.  The orchard.  Riding Siren in the surf with Kylie.  His eyes opened, and he didn’t feel so angry any more.  Shaislyn was being an ass, but he was a kid; he really didn’t understand, and that was all there was to it.

            With that, he went to Aban-ataashi.  “ _Please act civil,_ ” he requested gently, and to get his point across he used his not oft spoken Qunlat.  “ _Shaislyn agreed to be peaceable if you will refer to him by his name_.”

” _What was that about?”_

Fenris shook his head a little, dismissing it.  “ _Nothing.  We just had a disagreement on a… difficult subject.”_

            The man watched him, as if considering.  “ _You shouldn’t trust him, Fenris; he is Bas-Saarebas_.”

            _“I can hear you_ ,” Shaislyn called from across the camp, responding in Qunlat as if to spite the Tal-Vashoth.

            The man watched him the way one watched a viper, but did not rise to meet the challenge, not yet.  The half-blind hedge mage’s words echoed in his mind: _Don’t trust him._

            The meal was consumed in a silence that the word “awkward” could not do proper justice to.  Despite that, the roast had turned out well, and Fenris commented to Shaislyn that he might have cheese in one of the saddlebags, but they were completely out of the travel bread.  Shaislyn dug around in Fenris’ saddlebags until he found the last of the cheese.  Aban-ataashi declined.

            The mage watched him loftily.  “What do you have against cheese?”

            “When I was a child, I grew sick, and they fed me cheese, and said it would make me better.  Threw it up, and they made me eat more cheese.  I learned to hate cheese,” the warrior explained.

            Fenris chewed thoughtfully on a bite of cheese.  “Someone once told me that he never trusts someone who doesn’t like cheese.”

            The other made a face.  “Cheese is molded milk.”  His judgmental gaze shifted towards the mage.  “I can’t imagine why anyone would eat it,” he said, as if to suggest that Shaislyn’s enjoyment of cheese was a result of his magery, and not just a personal preference. 

            “It’s delicious,” Shaislyn offered, his tone of voice light-hearted, but his reproachful stare betrayed his innermost thoughts.

            It was going to be a long night.  They each took a watch, Aban-ataashi taking the middle watch, and Shaislyn took the first.

            The big Fog Warrior had his hand on his shoulder when Fenris woke.  It was disorienting, at first, then he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.  Shaislyn had disappeared at the end of his watch, he saw.

            Fenris liked the last watch of the night.  The dawn was peaceful, and he liked to watch the sun turn the mists pink as the birds woke.  Breakfast was consumed quickly, and in relative silence.  When they left, Shaislyn flew off, circling overhead.  Aban-ataashi liked it not one bit.

            “Can the mage understand us speaking when he is an animal?” he inquired of Fenris.

            The elf shook his head.  “Not particularly well.”

            He seemed relieved to hear it.  The two talked a bit, mostly of mundane things and asking questions of one another.  Fenris was interested to hear of the Fog Warrior’s many travels and campaigns.  Aban-ataashi had been all over Seheron, fighting Imperials and Qunari alike.  It reminded Fenris, too much, of the Fog Warriors--their tales of their exploits and their bravery, the awe Fenris had felt for them.  

Aban-ataashi told him about how they had lain a trap for the Antaam by having a rogue taunt them into giving chase.  The rogue could run faster than they, and had lured them right into an ambush.  Fenris laughed when the man described their elaborate traps.  There was a pit, a grease trap, and Fenris’ personal favourite--a log suspended on ropes the Fog Warriors had used to knock over their foes and slay them while they were down.  Aban-ataashi had all sorts of stories like that, and they were not all of victory--some were of defeat, some stalemates.  He told one story where he and a few other Fog Warriors had ended up trapped in a cave-in, which he described as being the most harrowing experience he had ever endured.

It was not all battles and adventures with Aban-ataashi either, though.  The Fog Warrior had known very little of other cultures or social norms, and had made, from the sound of it, quite the fool of himself at first.  He was fortunate to have a good sense of humor and knew when to laugh at himself, and did not take himself as seriously as most Qunari seemed to.  The Tal-Vashoth mentioned the first time he had tried whisky, and they both laughed.

Aban-ataashi inquired as to Fenris’ own adventures and adapting to life as a free man.  Fenris admitted his acquisition to normalcy from slavery was not particularly humorous or entertaining.  He mentioned the hunters, the crazed paranoia he had to live with for many years that had left him with a habit of constantly scanning his surroundings.  It was not a bad habit to have, especially while working or traveling and the Fog Warrior agreed.  He mentioned the smugglers, and that he had walked from the Arlathan Forest to Kirkwall.  The other was impressed at that feat, and asked about the lay of the land and the desert especially--as he had never seen one.  Aban-ataashi asked him about Kirkwall too.

“ _Was it worth the many years you spent there?_ ” the man asked in his native tongue.

Fenris thought about Hawke.  “ _I suppose so.”_  He hesitated. _“A man I met there helped me deal with the hunters and even taught me to read--among other things._ ”  The elf thought, _He taught me so much more than that.  He helped me so much more than that._

It must have been something about what he said, or maybe the look on his face, for the other commented, “ _You cared about him_.”

            Fenris’ eyes shifted away.  “Yes,” he admitted.

            “Then why leave?”

            He looked back at him.  “He loved someone else.”

            He nodded knowingly.  “I understand.”

            _Do you?_ he wondered.  “It’s better that I left.”

            “Must have been difficult.”

            “It was.”


	114. The Monster of the River Ván

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There are so many fragile things, after all. People break so easily, and so do dreams and hearts.”  
> ― Neil Gaiman, Fragile Things: Short Fictions and Wonders

            By the afternoon, they stopped for a lunch of venison.  Shaislyn didn’t bother.  Sometime toward late afternoon, the mage circled back to them, the eagle screeching, wheeling and diving.  Fenris commented, “I think he is trying to get our attention.”

            “Seems that way.”

            The bird stopped, and flew off the path, winging low in the fog.  It took Fenris a moment to puzzle through it.  “He found something, and I think he wants us to follow him.”

            “He could just say that, couldn’t he?”

            Fenris agreed, but they followed the insistent bird anyway.  When they passed a stand of pine trees, he put a finger to his lips, and led them deeper into the grove.  When they stopped, Fenris swung out of the saddle.  He went to him and asked, “What’s going on?”

            “There’s a band of thieves coming up the road.  We could probably handle them, but I don’t want to risk the horses; they’re not destriers.”

            Fenris glanced at Aban-ataashi, and the man nodded in agreement.  “Let’s leave the animals here and go take care of the vermin,” he suggested.

            The other two promptly agreed.  They discussed a course of action, and Shaislyn flew off again, a raven this time.  Fenris thought that choice of forms was a little foreboding and melodramatic.  Maybe Shaislyn liked that.  Merrill had once told him, somewhat against his will, about the difference between crows and ravens--in a very long, boring lecture while walking down Sundermount, after one of the offending birds had shat on him, and he knew more about the animal than he cared to.   _Wolf birds,_ he thought.   _They play with wolves._ Then, _Danarius called me his “little wolf”.  Does that make Shaislyn a raven?_  

It flew off, circled in the fog, and flew back, signaling where they were.  Fenris moved around, into the forest to flank them, and Aban-Ataashi took the dangerous place walking up the middle.

            Fenris wasn’t close enough to hear the confrontation, but the bandits did confront him.  When he saw weapons being drawn, he flew out of the trees like a ghost, his sword rending flesh and bone.  At first, he didn’t even see Shaislyn, and would have called him a lazy coward for letting the other two do all the work, but then he did.  He worked better in subterfuge; he would appear in a flash of light, drive a blade into someone, and disappear, a sparrow zipping around them, or a wolf surprising them and quickly vanishing.  Aban-ataashi, though, was a sight to behold.  Terrible and fearsome at his full height, his hulking mass hefting the great axe like a child would a stick, the bandits were nearly as terrified of him as they were of Fenris; glowing bright in the mist and obviously of some dark magical origin.  The bandits broke and scattered, and a wolf ran them down.

            When it was done, the two warriors inspected their weapons, cleaning their blades.  Fenris and Shaislyn checked the bandits for coin while Aban-ataashi took a whetstone to his axe’s blade.

            “Didn’t think a mage would stoop to using such a _mundane_ means of attack,” the Tal-Vashoth commented to Shaislyn.

            The half-blood snorted.  “You think I lug these around for decoration?  They’re pretty, but that just sounds inconvenient.”

            Something about spilling blood together made the two more amiable towards one another, Fenris was relieved to see, even if it were only by degrees.  Men were like that though.  It had been like that between he and Anders too--it never lasted beyond a few minutes, but they would, even briefly, be at least amiable towards one another.  Isabela and Aveline, controversially, had been the opposite--their blood was riled and they would be more temperamental.  He guessed it was as simple as a man getting to vent and a women just working up to it.  Like an orgasm, maybe.

            The thing about fighting, though, he always wanted to fuck after it.  Isabela had been great for that--they would go out with Hawke, and the moment the doors closed, often before the doors closed, it was a done deal.  She was always a sure thing.  With Anastas, there was a slave he thought he might have been half in love with.  Human and gorgeous, she had been happy to welcome him back every time he fended off bandits or wild animals while on the caravan.  She had gotten married some time ago.  On the eve of her wedding, she had slipped into his room and jumped into bed with him, but that had been the last time.

            He often felt it was better that way.

            Aban-ataashi and Shaislyn were talking.  “I’m sure a man like you has a girl or two waiting for him somewhere,” the mage was saying.  “Well, don’t you?”

            “Somewhere,” he said, evasively.

            The mage made a face.  “Well--tell me about her.”

            “I’m much more interested in the girls _you_ have somewhere.”

            “Just, you know, my hand.  It gets the job done,” Shaislyn said matter-of-factly.  The other two laughed.  “I really hadn’t intended to say that out loud.  I _meant_ to say, I fuck a lot of whores.”

            “That’s really not any better,” Fenris chimed in.

            “Well, one is free,” he agreed.  “The left is cheating though.”

            Aban-ataashi’s face flushed--something Fenris had never seen in a Qunari, the bronze of his skin heating like melted metal.  The elf couldn’t help but laugh, and when Shaislyn saw him, he chuckled too.  The good mood only lasted for so long, until they got back to the horses, and Shaislyn took off again.

            “ _The Bas-Saarebas is not what I expected_ ,” Aban-ataashi commented to Fenris.

            Fenris raised an eyebrow.  “ _He wasn’t what I expected either_.”

            That evening, around the campfire, Shaislyn prowled in the dark, leaving Aban-ataashi and Fenris alone.  Aban-ataashi told him stories about his many travels, and what had happened the night the Imperials lost Seheron City, when Fenris first tasted freedom, from the Fog Warrior’s perspective.

            It was interesting to hear about.  They had seen the fires from a long distance away, and ventured cautiously toward it.  Waiting for the Antaam to leave, they had gone through the city looking for survivors.  There weren’t many; the Antaam always took whoever they could.

            Shaislyn came out of the forest stretching, and sat down.  “If you go north at all, be careful; there’s a very steep, not very visible, cliff up there.”

            Fenris looked back toward the Fog Warrior.  “The men you found dead in the field, how long did they lie before you found them?”

            “We reckoned a week, maybe two--animals had been at them.”  He shrugged.  “Guess we’ll never know what happened--any tracks or clues were gone.”  He stared at the fire.  “Guess it doesn’t matter--damned Vints.”

            “What’s--” he started to ask, then it dawned on him.  “Oh.”

            Fenris watched Shaislyn, prepared to throw something at him if need be to keep his mouth shut.  The half-blood said not one word, however.  The elf hesitated, and stared down at his hands.  “The… field you found their bodies in…  Do you happen to know where it is?” he asked, looking toward the Tal-Vashoth.  Shaislyn’s mouth twisted into a disapproving frown, but he said nothing.

Aban-ataashi nodded.  “Yes.”

There was a moment of hesitation, and then Fenris knew what he had to do to try to reconcile what had happened in his heart, and finally lay these ghosts to rest.  “If it is not too much trouble, could we go there?”

“You should leave it alone,” Shaislyn finally muttered.  

Fenris ignored him.  “How far away is it?”

“We’ll be near in about two, maybe three days, and it’s a few hours off the road.”

Fenris nodded.  “I’d like to visit there.”

“I’ll take you,” the man promised him.

Shaislyn sighed, defeated.

 

Fenris’ heart was pounding the moment they stepped off the road, following a deer trail into the forest.  Aban-ataashi had to lead his mount or the low-hanging branches would catch on his horns and weapon.  Fenris ducked low, and Shaislyn trailed behind, a lonely wolf dragging its feet.  Shaislyn had made it abundantly clear he didn’t want to talk to either of them, and had been deathly silent for days.  Fenris couldn’t help but wonder why.

            True, he had been testy and quiet since Aban-ataashi had shown up, burning his way through the cigars until there were none left, and his attitude had not improved when his supply ran dry.  The past couple of days had been the worst of it.  It felt like all the progress he and Fenris had made had dissolved.  They had almost been friends, almost liked one another, very nearly been like real family.  Maybe one day, they may have learned to care about one another.  All of that ended when Fenris asked to see the field.

            Shaislyn, he had reasoned, would forgive him this one diversion, but he hadn’t yet.  At camp, his nephew stalked the perimeter or watched from above, and did not even transform back to eat or sleep.  Once, he had woken sometime during Shaislyn’s watch, and saw the mage standing with his back to the fire, watching the dark in his birth form.  It was frustrating, and difficult because he could not even talk to him about it.

            What would he even say anyway?  The one time he had managed to talk to him, alone with Aban-ataashi asleep, he had whispered, “I’m sorry, Shaislyn, I _have_ to do this.”

            Shaislyn had stared at him, the steam from the tea in the tin cup mingling with the ever-present fog.  The tea was the only reason Shaislyn wasn’t an animal at the moment.  “Drag the past around after you like a dead goose?” the mage had hissed lividly.  “Because that’s what you’re doing.”

            Of course, that had only riled the elf’s temper.  “Don’t you ever want to make amends for past wrongs?”

            Shaislyn gave him a vacant stare, his lips drawing into a thin line.  “There’s nothing you can do.  Stop being an idiot.”  He sipped at the tea.

            His eyes narrowed.  “This has haunted me for years--if there’s even the slightest chance I can ever forgive myself by going, I have to go.”

            The other’s jaw set, his brow drawing down in a glare.  “You’re an idiot,” he reaffirmed.  “And this is a waste of time.”

            Fenris stared at him, watching him sit straight-backed on the fallen log as if it were a throne, the way he held the tin cup and regarded him.  “You’ve never sounded so much like your father.”  As soon as he said it, he regretted it.  It wasn’t true, and he knew it was a sore spot for his nephew, but it was too late and the damage was done.

            “Fuck you.”  And that had been their last conversation.

            Fenris contented himself, instead, to listen to the sounds of the forest.  The birds, squirrels, the whispering of the wind, and the laughter of a brook.  They passed by an elk, who stood silent and serene, staring at them with large eyes, watching them but not so afraid as to flee.  They left it alone and it bent its head to continue to graze.

            A rabbit darted across the path, and the wolf that was really a mage chased after it.  Apparently bored with following them, it pursued the animal a short distance.  There was a sound as the rabbit’s spine snapped, and Fenris made a face.  He could barely believe that Shaislyn had no qualms about eating raw, bloodied flesh.

            The wolf came back licking blood off of its muzzle.  It stared up at Fenris for a moment, then fell back into line behind him--far behind him.  Fenris’ horse had gotten used to it, but Aban-ataashi’s gelding was still finicky around the wolf.

            He thought about his “discussion” with Danarius, and the nightmare.  Maybe he couldn’t trust Shaislyn.  Maybe Shaislyn did intend to kill him.  But what if he didn’t?  Dare he act on an impulse, before proof was provided?  Should he really condemn someone for something they _may_ do, without first giving them an opportunity to prove they won’t?  Should he administer punishment before the crime?

            If a child may strangle someone in the future, does that make it right to chop off their hands now?

            His tumultuous thoughts had pursued him for days, and wouldn’t leave him be.  Aban-ataashi would tell him to kill him, he knew that.  Even Danarius had wondered.  Fenris himself was on the fence about the issue.  He wanted to trust Shaislyn, because he was the only family he had left.  Shaislyn had even told him that he wanted them to be family.  Didn’t that mean something?  But was that a good enough reason to trust someone?  He had put as much trust as he dared in Varania, and that had nearly put him back at the end of a leash .  Worse, Shaislyn had done more than stand idly by while it nearly happened.

            He thought of all the traitors and mutineers he had known.

            He thought about Anders, who had bombed a building, killing and injuring innocents, to free mages.  The Chantry had tried to seek a peace between the Templars and the mages, and Anders had ended that.  He had betrayed everyone when he tipped the scales and incited a war.

            He thought about Annalkylie, though he had not thought about her for years.  She had betrayed everyone she had ever known, and her entire country, for her own freedom above all.

            He thought of Isabela, who had taken the Tome of Koslun and ran.  It didn’t matter that she had come back; she had still done it.

            He thought of Merrill, who had betrayed her Keeper’s teachings to study blood magic.

            Bartrand Tethras, who had betrayed Varric and left him to die in the Deep Roads.

            He thought of the great betrayals in history--Loghain betrayed King Caillan.  Andraste betrayed by her own worldly husband to the Tevinters.

            He thought about how he had betrayed the Fog Warriors.

            He should not have come.  He should have…

            “This is it,” the Fog Warrior announced, stepping into the field.  If Fenris were not astride a horse, he may have stopped, and may have been reluctant to break free of the stand of trees.  He may have hesitated, and shied away from the sun and the grass, but the horse only felt a small tension on the reins as his fingers tightened, and plodded forward.  Fenris swung out of the saddle, the grass climbing to his knees.  The summer sun was warm, the fog dense, but not so dense that he could not see.

            Fenris looked at the field.  The sunlight shone brightly on the shifting mists between the trees.  The grass was green and springy underfoot.  He had heard once, somewhere, that grass grows greenest where blood had been spilt.   _Bloody soil, fertile land._

There were small buttercups scattered in the grass, the occasional trampled daisy.  He saw grass twitching as small animals moved in it.  Shaislyn had not caught up yet.

Fenris held onto the horse’s lead, and stepped forward, listening to the lark singing in the distance.  All he could see was the blood, the bodies, the horrible sins he had committed.

The lark’s song only sounded like the gurgle of a throat as it bled, the light breeze the sigh of the dying.  The whisper of the wind through the grass like whispered words.  The branches creaked gently in the breeze like brittle bones.  Then the lark went quiet, he assumed because they were here.

He heard a growling behind him, and looked back at the wolf.  His ears were bent back, head low and hackles rose.  Long, dripping fangs were exposed, the yellow eyes aflame.  Aban-ataashi was staring at him, his expression blank.

“Shaislyn?” Fenris wondered, staring at the wolf.  Something primal, some instinct of survival, tingled in the back of his mind.  He fought down the instinctive fear of the sharp fangs and vicious claws.  He wished he were the mage right now, and not the wolf.  At least he would be able to tell what his intentions were.  “Shaislyn, what are you--”

The wolf sprang forward, 140 pounds of fur, fangs, and claws slamming into Fenris’ chest.  It all seemed to happen so slowly.  The wolf’s weight against his chest, hot breath at his face, smelling faintly of blood.  He imagined the fangs at his throat, tearing into him the same way it had torn into the rabbit.  Despair was first to claim him, all he had time for--betrayal hanging over his head like a headsman’s axe.  The pair went down, Fenris hitting his back hard against the earth, the weight of the animal driving the wind from his lungs.

He did not have time to be terrified.  Shock and despair weighed too heavily against him for fear to edge into his mind.  Shaislyn had betrayed him after all, just like he had suspected.  Had Shaislyn and Aban-ataashi actually collaborated this whole time?  Had it all been a hoax, and now Fenris was going to die?  Those fangs were going to tear into his throat, and he was going to bleed to death?  His life was going to end, where he had ended so many other lives.  All those people deserved justice, and he could barely remember their faces and their voices.  He had owed it to them to remember them, and he had not even been able to do that.  Mortals were so frail.

            He had always known, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he would never die in bed old and toothless.  Yet, he had not imagined he would die like this either, betrayed by someone he was just learning to trust.

_I never even thought…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaand cliff hanger.
> 
> I will be uploading the next chapter soon though.


	115. The Fenris Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Love is watching someone die. So who's gonna watch you die?” --Deathcab for Cutie, What Sara Said.

The arrow thudded into the horse’s neck, and the animal cried, and fell.  There was a sickening crunching noise as the mare hit the ground, one of her long legs snapping under her weight.  If the arrow had not killed her, the fall had.  The wolf bounded from Fenris, standing over him defensively, ears flattened, staring at the direction the arrow had came from, leaving the elf relatively untouched.  Fenris’ heart hammered as he cautiously sat up, eyes straining to see whatever Shaislyn had sensed, whoever had loosed the arrow.  If he had been standing, that arrow would have hit him instead of the horse.  He had thought…

            He glanced first at the horse, then at Shaislyn.  Shaislyn had not attacked him.

            _He had not attacked him._

            It took him a long, pivotal moment to process that he had not been attacking him; he had been trying to protect him; he had not had the time to transform back, and had to act.

            Or had he?  It still wasn’t impossible that this was some kind of elaborate trick.  He could not imagine the purpose of it, but he couldn’t rule out the possibility, no more how ridiculous it sounded.  And it did sound ridiculous.

            Then he had no time to consider it any longer; the field was suddenly alive with people, weapons raised.  Fenris paled, rising to his feet.  His sword was brought to his hand in the same motion, and the wolf sprang again, close at his back as their opponents--bandits, slavers?--melted from the mist all around them.  Or were they mercenaries?  Assassins?  An old paranoia surfaced.

            Fenris didn’t think; his sword swung, and the lyrium sang its song.  He moved and breathed the art of death and warfare.  It consumed him, breathed through him, and he became it as easily as drawing air into his lungs.  Throughout his life, he had never been as confident and at peace as when he wielded a weapon.  Let them think that they had the advantage in numbers; it made them bold and overconfident.  Let them think to trap him in a pincer movement when he could cleave through them and use their numbers to a disadvantage.  Arrows and bolts meant little when they could just as easily hit their own.  And, no matter their numbers, against a single opponent, no more than two, maybe three, skilled fighters could attack him at once or risk hitting each other as easily as him.  He knew how to fight large numbers, and he knew what they meant.  

As anticipated, two groups of the attackers convened, forming a hammer and anvil--the hammer seeking to drive him back, onto the anvil.  He broke, but did not move back--he moved to the side, turning their prepared attack against them.  Regrouping quickly, they formed into an offensive wedge, one man with a broad shield taking point, the brunt of their force designed to drive him down under the sheer weight of the assault.  He saw it coming, and rolled to the side, coming up to strike down a woman at the corner of the wedge.  He drove hard into them, breaking them apart to keep them from continuing to strategize.  The strategy is what would ultimately kill him.  He needed to break them apart.

            He heard the horse coming before he saw it, and his heart hammered in his chest.  He knew, academically, the best ways to attack armored horse, but it had been _years_ since he had even practiced such skirmishes.  He risked a glance toward the horse and rider.  Three of them.

            He swore, bringing his sword up to counter an incoming blow from a mace.  The very earth seemed to shake as the armored horse came closer.  His stomach tightened, and he could almost feel the lance aimed toward him.  Armored horse was the bane of any infantry, and with other foot soldiers blocking his path…

            He heard a man cry out, and a horse whinnied, rearing as the man fell.  The hawk wheeled away, and Shaislyn drove one of his swords into the horseman’s neck, then was quickly away before anything engaged him.  He breathed in relief; Shaislyn had seen the urgency in dispatching the horsemen.  He had to rely on his nephew to deal with the horses while he put himself against the others.  At least the half-elf was efficient, if nothing else.

            As he parried and attacked, he heard the second horseman dispatched in a similar manner, but by then, the third had learned to watch the skies, and put aside his lance for a bow.  Even a single arrow would be deadly to the mage.  He looked up to the man aiming at the hawk.  The lyrium pulsed, searing through the air, driving the men around him back.  The horse wheeled back in fright, and the horseman scrambled to get control of the horse again, but the animal had the bit in its teeth, and it wasn’t going near Fenris again.  Horses, when it came down to it, were not as stupid as their riders could be.

            Fenris kicked a man’s legs out from under him, and jumped over him.  His sword struck the horseman in the lower back, cutting into the armor, through the leather padding.  The horse jumped, trying to get away from the glowing elf.  The animal kicked in fright, and Fenris pulled back, narrowly avoiding getting a shod hoof to his face.  The elf turned back to the melee.

He scanned the area, trying to spot Aban-ataashi, but for the life of him, did not see him.  How a giant could disappear was beyond him.  The mists rolled in, heavy and thick against the earth.  Or perhaps the Fog Warrior had melted into the fog.

He recognized each method of attack and knew the counter for it.  This was his life, at the core of his being, this is what he was.

            But was it all he was?

            A warrior… a betrayer?

Men fell, and he shivered.  It was just like back then.  Just like…

His dream floated back to him like a swollen corpse in water.  The blood dripping off blades of grass.  Hawke impaled by a Blade of Mercy.  All the bodies of people he had killed…  Could it be...?

            No, it wasn’t.

            _They_ were attacking _him_.  No one had sat astride a horse with a self-confident smirk on their face as he commanded him to kill them.  He was only doing this to defend himself.  If they had not attacked, this would not be happening.  They had brought it upon themselves.

            The ground was slick with blood.  It dappled the long grass, and men lay dying and in pieces in the lea.

            He sensed an incoming weapon, sliding nimbly to one side, effortlessly blocking another blow.  The lyrium surged, as if eager.   _Yes_ , he thought as it boiled inside of him, leaping to do his bidding.  It was what the lyrium had been designed for--what _he_ had ultimately been designed for, molded for, trained for.  This was his existence.  Maybe Danarius had known he was born to wield a weapon, and had in turn fine tuned him into a weapon himself.  He could not, even for a moment, imagine it any other way.  He could not imagine a life without the searing lyrium.  He couldn’t imagine a world without its song and its pain.  The lyrium screamed through him, an angry torrent of power and he agreed with it, letting it burn, feeding its own wrath.  The lyrium blazed, coming to life inside him like a tiger being released from its cage.

            He didn’t hate the lyrium.  It had become too much a part of who he was.  It was too much in sync with him.  It fed off of his emotions, and fed his emotions.  A constant companion of torment, it being used by him as much as it used him.  The metal leapt at his command, hungry to be used again.

            The great axe sailed harmlessly past him, and he stilled when he saw the Tal-Vashoth.  It hadn’t been an accidental blow.

            _Don’t trust him._

His heart fell.

            He _had_ trusted Aban-ataashi.

            And he had blamed Shaislyn.  He had never once considered that the warning could have not been about Shaislyn.  But the warning had never been about his nephew; he had jumped to conclusions--the wrong conclusions.  And now he was paying for it.  Shaislyn was paying for it.  All these dying men were paying for it.

            And hadn’t it been so obvious?  Aban-ataashi had found him as if from nowhere, and he had been so agitated he had not even considered the possibility that the man had been _looking_ for him.  The man had gone looking for him again, and he was so amiable, and Fenris so guilty, that he had never stopped to wonder _why_ the man was so keen on traveling with him.  He had never, not once, even considered the possibility that he had always meant to betray him.  He had been too busy feeling guilty, too busy dancing around lies and secrets, too busy chiding Shaislyn for being unfriendly when his mageborn nephew had the right of it the entire time.

            _And it’s my fault.  I chose not to see the truth even when it was laid bare to me._

            “Why?” Fenris demanded, the power of the lyrium echoing faintly in his voice like a metallic ring.

            “You killed them,” he answered, and swung again.  He ducked, and the wind of the weapon’s passing ruffled his hair.  He broke the fight to hit a rogue near him with the pommel of his sword.  He ran him through and turned quickly back to the Tal-Vashoth.

            “I’m sorry,” Fenris told him, but knew it wasn’t enough.  It was never enough.  No apology would bring them back.  No apology was enough to make amends for a life cut short, and he knew that better than most, but it was the most he had to give, and he had paid for those grievous sins every day of his life.  Fenris could not hope to wash away his sins, but he did want to try.  “I killed him!  I killed the man that told me to do it!”

The other did not even acknowledge it.  Fenris supposed that he deserved that; an order was not a deed, and Aban-ataashi might blame the magister, but he still blamed Fenris.  He stepped, following the Fog Warrior’s movements.  Behind the giant, he saw a wolf’s jaws close around a man’s neck.  Shaislyn was doing his best to keep the other attackers at bay while he dealt with the other warrior.  Fenris finally pressed the attack, seeing no other option.  Defense was his largest weakness; it was difficult with his weapon choice and if he kept defending, he would die.  Attack had always been, however, a strong suit.  His best method of defense was to attack.  Maybe they would surrender.  Maybe they would give up, and turn and leave him be.  If only they would.  He didn’t think any more people needed to die for deeds long gone and sins long past.

            Aban-ataashi used every means at his disposal to gain the upper hand, and the others were quick to press any advantage.  The axe moved with a viper’s deadly grace.  The warrior had too long a reach for Fenris to get close enough.  He needed to think of another strategy--and quickly; the others were regrouping to attack.  Shaislyn could not hold them off for long on his own.  A mage harried him with every step.  A spell made him stagger and lose his footing.  He scrambled to his feet, rolling out of the way of the axe as it buried itself in the earth where he had lain not seconds before.  He leapt upwards, seeing an opportunity to strike as the Tal-Vashoth heaved the weapon away from the earth.  He moved past the broad head of the axe, ready to swing his sword.  The air felt frigid.  His breath frosted.  He shook, the ice cracking and falling away as he resisted the spell’s influence.  He needed to do something about that mage, but it was impossible to break away from the fight.

            “Shai, the mage!” he cried, hoping against hope that the wolf would understand him.  The wolf stopped in its tracks, and turned, racing toward his next victim, a dark blur in the high grass.

            The pommel of his sword struck hard against a man’s skull.  He heard it crack, and the man fell.  He jumped over him as he fell, swinging the blade into another man’s midsection.  Aban-ataashi was there, as if appearing like a demon out of the Fade, huge and terrible, full of wrath and vengeance in his eyes.

            Fenris was a spirit in the mist.

            He was always faster, a bright light in the fog, and he could be stronger too, not just faster.  It was why he had chosen two-handed weapons.  He had picked the more difficult to wield weapon, the ones less suited to elves, because he wanted to prove everyone wrong.  He _wasn’t_ weak because he was an elf.  He _wasn’t_ subjugated.  He _wasn’t_ impoverished, and he had never lived in an alienage.  He _had_ proved everyone wrong.  His every breath proved everyone wrong about elves.  His very existence was evidence to the contrary; elves were not weak, many were free, many were not impoverished.  And damn it, he wanted this for everyone.  He had chosen the harder path to prove it was possible, and he regretted nothing.

            _He regretted nothing._

            He had so much to regret.  He should regret every past mistake, regret killing the Fog Warriors under his master’s orders, regret torturing a boy on the deck of a ruined ship.  But every mistake had led him closer to Hawke, and he could not regret feeling love.  He did not regret loving Hawke.  And he did not regret that Hawke had gone to Anders either.  Why should he?  He had loved him once, and that was enough.  If Hawke had chosen Fenris, he would never have gotten to know his nephew, visit his family’s graves.  It was the closest he would ever have to family, and he did not regret knowing what was left of it, or what had happened to everyone else.

            _My grandfather wielded a two-handed sword._

The blade passed scant inches from a man’s neck, the rogue quickly moving out of the way, directly into the wolf’s line of attack.  There was a snarl, a snapping of fangs, and the animal bounded on, toward the mage.

            _My father was executed for standing against the Imperials._

As he fought, he looked at their armor, analyzed their fighting styles.  It was absolutely not Tal-Vashoth or Fog Warrior in style, and Aban-ataashi was the only Qunari.  The rest were human.  What did that mean?  Their form was quite Imperial, their clothing Tevinter in style, but not the maroon of a soldier’s uniform.  Slavers, then, or bounty hunters?  Why?  He had paid off his bounty.  Why would…?  Could they be mercenaries?  Why?  Why wouldn’t Aban-ataashi have simply rallied the Fog Warriors to go against him, and instead bought mercenaries?

            He puzzled through these questions as he fought.  Who had done this?  Not Shaislyn, he decided, the wolf darting in and out amongst the men, killing them with fangs and claws.

            _Who_?

            Fenris reached his hand outward, passing through a man’s skull as easily as a fish through water.  His fingers sank into the soft tissue of his brain and he yanked forward.  The mercenary died instantly.  He flicked his hand, dislodging bits of flesh from his gauntlet.

            The bounty was gone.   _Why_?

            He moved forward, a ghost in the world of the living.  His whole body phased through another person, brushing against him with barely a ripple in the world.  He let one hand trail behind him, fingers clenching around what he guessed was a kidney.  He ripped it out of him from behind.  The man went down, the organ shredded but still attached.

            _The son of one he killed…_

He thought of all the people he had killed--the dozens--hundreds?--of people he had killed.  One day, he may yet stand before Sebastian’s Maker and plead guilty of each crime against His children.  One day in his future, he may face eternal judgment for each death.

            Zekiel.  Aban.  Ashaad.  The rest of the Fog Warriors.  Lysander.  Lysander’s magister father.  Aramael.  Asher.  Hadriana.  Every hunter.  Every mercenary.  Every slaver.  Danarius.

            Danarius only had one child, and…

            He felt the spell wrap itself around him, bind him.  He felt the dread well up from the depths of his soul and he fought it.   _The terror is just the spell.  It’s not real._  His hands shook as he carried the weapon into another attack.  His heart pounded in his ears, his blood rushing as if trying to match the lyrium.  The terrible, heart-hammering fear pulsated throughout his being.  The lyrium flared nervously.   _Don’t think it’s real._

_Think about something else.  Fight the spell._

            He thought about that dead cat.  He thought about the blood on his hand, the clumps of white fur.  He thought about the child Danarius killed to entertain his fellows.  A child he had picked out for him.  He thought about Perya.  The horror coiled its way around his mind like a snake.

            _Think of something else!_

He thought about his mother, who loved to dance.  He thought about his father, who had died trying to protect him and his family.  He thought about his grandparents.  He thought about Varania, not the backstabbing mage, but the little girl in his fragmented memory.  He thought about Hawke.

            His mind seemed to clear, the near-panic receding, but not entirely gone.

            Who orchestrated this?  Who could have...

            It came to him, and he stilled, trying to find the mage again as he felt the spell ebb.

            The lyrium’s song echoed in his ears.  He could almost hear a voice with it, the sweet music ringing out around him, its tempo in perfect tune with his movements, with his thoughts.  Every swing of the blade, every dodge, every step, all of it to its melodic tune.  His soul danced in time with the lyrium, his heart in perfect harmony, and he gave himself over to it fully.  It was a part of him, and would always be a part of him.

            A sharp pain lanced up his arm, burning against the heat of his inner rage as a blade sliced open skin.  Blood, bright and alive, rushed down his arm, twisting over the lyrium.  The blood only seemed to feed it.

            He turned, engaging a new partner to the deadly dance, his feet moving over the bloodied grass like a dancer on a stage.  Nothing could hurt him.  He existed like a spirit of battle, warfare incarnate.  Danarius had told him that he had given him more than he cared to think about.  He had given him a great many things, and some of them were even useful.  He had set him on the path of a warrior, trained him in the art of it, made it so much a part of him that he could never be separated from it, like a lark from its song.  He didn’t want to ever be separated from it.

            _My mother sang and danced._

            He dove out of the way as a ribbon of lightning snaked toward him, crackling as it burned through the air.  He looked back at the mage, judging his distance to him.  He could break and deal with the mage, but then he would have to worry about the Fog Warrior at his exposed back.  In the high grass, he saw the wolf loping toward it, intent on its prey, and he turned back to the Tal-Vashoth.

            Fenris did not directly engage him.  He danced around him, away from the swing of the axe and his longer reach as he tried to decide his best chance.  The sword felt heavy in his hands.  The cut on his arm was still bleeding.  He felt bruised.  He could not keep this up forever; he was not inexhaustible.

            _Drop the sword,_ he decided.   _It’s slowing me down._   _One shot at his heart; that’s all I need._

He watched him, dancing around him, waiting for the right moment.  The giant swung, and Fenris dropped his sword, diving forward instead of back, under the weapon, too close for the weapon to be of use.  He shot up, his hand cleaving through the Fog Warrior’s stomach, driving up under his ribcage.

His arm snaked up and through his entrails, cleaving a way to his heart.  The back of his knuckles scraped against his rib cage.  He tore open more than just his heart, but his fingers clenched around it, and he felt it shred in his gauntlets.  He ripped his hand back, and the body crumpled to the ground, dead before he fell, a huge bloody hole in his chest, ribs shattered under the power the elf commanded.  Fenris stepped out of the way as the axe tumbled to the ground beside him.  He stopped, breathing hard, blood covering his arm past his elbow.

            He didn’t hear any more fighting.  He looked around, but saw nothing.  Burnt grass, blood, bodies and weapons.  He picked up his sword in the grass, kneeling beside it.  He absently cleaned it off, expecting Shaislyn to come find him, but he didn’t.  Could he have gone after any men that had fled?  He frowned, and rose.  Where was his nephew?

            He looked back, trying to find Shaislyn or a wolf.  He saw neither in the fog.  “Shaislyn?” he called.  He stepped over a corpse, looking, hunting for his nephew that had saved his life.  “Shaislyn!”

            Where had he last seen him?  Apprehension raced through his veins.  What had happened?

            He had last seen him rushing toward the mage.  And then…

            He hadn’t seen him again.  He walked slowly toward the direction he had last seen him, hunting in the high grass.  He heard the blood rushing in his ears, and everything else sounded dim.

            He heard something in the grass, and turned toward it.  When he saw him, his heart fell.

            He knelt in the grass, beside the wolf.  The thick pelt was matted with blood.  The air smelled like burnt fur.

            _Cut down by the son…_

            One yellow eye opened, and the wolf shuddered.  Fenris didn’t know what to do, if there was anything he could do.  He reached toward him.  There was a bolt from a crossbow buried deep in his side, white goose feathers sticking out of the black fur.  His hind legs looked badly burned, and the blood was… everywhere.

            The eye closed, and the light swallowed the body.  Fenris expected Shaislyn.  He expected an obnoxious, whoremongering little twat who drank too much and smoked like a chimney.  Even the self-important Enchanter.  Even the thief and the liar, the bastard that had set him up to be betrayed by Varania and re-enslaved.

            It broke his heart to see his nephew, burned and bleeding and so obviously close to death.  Fenris felt helpless watching him die.

            What should he do?  Was there anything he could do?

            He stayed beside him, because he didn’t know what to do, or what to say.  His hand was bloody, but he took it.  “Shaislyn, I’m sorry,” he tried to say, but choked.   _I thought it was you.  For even an instant, I thought it was you.  I thought you were going to kill me.  I thought…_

            The half-elf turned his head toward him, more his ear than his eyes.  No mana, Fenris assumed.  Too weak to cast.  His lips opened, like he wanted to say something, but no words came forth.  Blood stained his lips.  Maybe from the wolf’s method of attack, maybe from…  Fenris tried not to think about it.  The younger man was shaking, and was in obvious agony, between the burns on his legs, and the arrow in his side.

            “Shaislyn, you can’t…”   _Don’t leave me alone again._   _Please, just…_

            Blind eyes closed, and his hand was trembling.  But his lips curved into the smallest of smiles.  “Fenris…” he started to say, then stilled, his face going slack.

            “No,” he whispered.  The man didn’t move.  He felt limp in his arms.  “Shaislyn?”  He looked at him.  Fenris grabbed his wrist and checked his pulse, his own racing heart he could feel between finger and thumb.  He tried to calm enough to tell.  Maybe Shaislyn had only fainted.  Maybe…

            He pulled out the black griffin from its sheath at his nephew’s back.  He held the polished steel to Shaislyn’s lips, and waited, his heart pounding.  He just couldn’t be...  The steel did not fog.  He checked the pulse at his neck, but felt nothing.  The young man’s skin was cool to the touch.  The shortsword slipped from his fingers into the grass.

            Fenris sat beside him for a long time, staring down at the broken, burned body of his nephew, and wondered what he had tried to tell him.  Why had he smiled?  What had he known that made him smile?  What was it that he had been about to say?

            “You shouldn’t have had to die for me,” he whispered.  He could have let him die.  He could have flown away at any time.  He never had to help.  He never had to...

            He washed off the blood on his arms, carefully cleaning the armor, lest it rust.  Taggart had taught him how to care for weapons and armor.  Danarius had considered it impractical and useless, because a slave would “always” be able perform the task for him, but Taggart had taught him anyway.  He had said that knowing how to care for them himself would teach him more about weapons and armor.  It was true, and he was glad to have learned the lesson or he might have inadvertently let it all rust and ruin a long time ago.  Methodical tasks were easy to perform; they didn’t require a whole lot of thought.  No matter what he wanted to do now, some things still had to be done first.

            Aban-ataashi’s horse was not far away, and the animal had grown to like him.  It wasn’t hard to calm the big gelding.  He removed Shaislyn’s swords and baldric from his body, and hesitated only once before he relieved him of his money too.  He wouldn’t need it any more.  He was faintly surprised to see most of it was gold.  He could pay back Anastas with it if he wanted to.  And then what?

            His fingers wrapped around the bolt in the body’s side.  He took a deep breath and pulled it back.  The arrowhead caught, and he heard it break off inside him.  He sighed, yanking the slender bolt out.  Dead, cold blood trickled freely from the hole.  He tossed it aside in the grass, and decided to leave the arrowhead.  His eyes trailed involuntarily to Shaislyn’s legs, and left them be.  He knew they were burned--badly.  He had no desire to see the extent of the burns.

He didn’t have linens, so he wound Shaislyn’s body as best he could in a blanket.  The mercenaries had horses too, and after a brief search, he found their camp.  The ones who had fled during the fight were there, quickly saddling horses.  When they saw him, they abandoned whatever they were doing, and fled.  The ones who were not quick enough died.  Fenris was in no mood to be merciful.

            Fenris looked to the remaining horses.  The three destriers from beforehand been taken by the fleeing mercenaries, or he might have liked to take them instead.  He kept the best of them, and the others he freed from the makeshift corral.  Some of them wandered out of it, others ignored the open door, but they would find it eventually.  He fully expected most of the beasts to wander happily back into their master’s hands, but at least now they had the choice to do so.  He moved about the tents, looking for anyone still left and hiding.  Any slaves they had brought had fled at the first sign of trouble, likely just back to their masters.  What could he ever expect, though?  He took what coin he could find at the camp, and hunted through the supplies.  Food still remained, lanterns and oil, and other camp supplies.  Raiding a camp had never left him so empty before.

            Everything just felt… dim.

            He took his time finding the firewood.  He took everything available from the mercenary’s camp, anything he thought that might be useful for it.  It was not enough for what he had in mind, however.  He walked through the quiet forest, the animals frightened away after the spectacle.  They would be back, given time.

            A spade in the camp was useful for digging out the pit.  Thankfully, it didn’t need to be deep; just enough that he wouldn’t catch the forest on fire.  He could only carry so much at a time by himself, but he brought one of the horses with him to carry the firewood in bundles, wound in a thick cord.  He still had to make several trips, which he did not mind so much, taking the time to stack the wood neatly between each trip.  By the time he had collected enough wood, the day was edging toward evening, the sky just beginning to darken.

He spent a long time building the pyre, stacking the wood in a neat pile.  He had never done it before, and not even seen it done before, but it wasn’t exactly mentally demanding work; it was all obvious.  A pit, so the fire would not spread recklessly, stones to help contain stray sparks, barren earth around it, dry tinder so the flames would catch, lamp oil to make it easier.  He used blankets and rags to make a bed in the center of the pyre, thinking those things would catch first.  

The mercenaries and even Aban-ataashi, he left to rot, but his nephew’s body, his rotten, stupid, reckless mageborn nephew he had every right to hate but didn’t, he laid in the pyre on the pile of blankets.  The violet evening had worn on into a sapphire nightfall, a nightingale taking the place of the lark.  The warm breeze was beginning to get chilly as darkness crept across the sky, the blue darkening to black.  He stared at the pyre in the gloom, the dark and the moons casting long shadows, making every dark twist of the sticks darker, as though the blackest recesses hid vile things.

He picked up the lamp oil, pouring it over the blankets, soaking the body.  He set the empty container down with a heavy sigh.

He looked at the prone body on the pyre.  The blanket was soaked with blood.  Should he have tried to wash the body?  What would be the point?  He didn’t know the right thing to do.  Perhaps there were particular ways he should have been dealing with the dead.  Maybe there were particular ceremonies, but he didn’t know what they were.  He didn’t think Shaislyn cared any more, and he didn’t think he would have cared in life in any case.

The body, he didn’t think, cared either.

            The corpse of a Tevinter Circle mage, the son of the man he had hated more than anything, who had conspired to see him enslaved.  A thief, a whoremonger, possibly a murderer, a cheat at cards, a hustler, a drunkard, treacherous, and untrustworthy.

            The body of his nephew, son of his little sister, who had wanted to show him his family’s final resting place.  A child with a crooked smile and messy hair, who had seen more pain than any eight-year old should have.  The young man who had challenged him, and submitted to his own death when he was defeated.  The last family he had.

            “You shouldn’t have had to die for me,” he whispered as he struck at the flint.  His hands were shaking and it took several tries to get the collection of twigs to light.  When it lit, the lamp oil he had poured over it caught.  It ignited quickly, and he stepped back, watching it burn.

            The smoke from a funeral pyre was not like the woodsmoke from a campfire, or a fireplace, or even a cooking fire.  The smoke was dark, and the smell was unpleasant as the hair burned, as the flames consumed the flesh and the fat popped and sizzled in the fire, the muscle burning to a hot crisp.

            He sat down in the grass a safe distance away, his arms wrapped loosely around his legs, staring at the inferno in front of him, closing his eyes against the heat of the blaze.

How long had Fenris spent hating Danarius and Hadriana?  He had refused to see either of them as people.  Slavers too.  His hate had just consumed him, blinding him to the reality around him.  He had cherished the beauty of an ideal--freedom--and it had blinded him to the peril of believing that _people_ were evil.  People did evil things, but that didn’t make them evil.

Shaislyn had done the same, except he had pulled himself back from his hatred; he had wanted them to be a family, what was left of their family.  And maybe Fenris did deserve to die for killing the Fog Warriors that day, and maybe he deserved punishment for what happened to Varania.  Maybe there was a special kind of hell for people like that, but Shaislyn had forgiven him, he knew that.  The thought was not comforting, as the heat of the fire washed over him.

            As he sat, he remembered Lura.

            He remembered the concept of Lura as a woman he had once loved too briefly to know if he really had.  He remembered her dying in his arms when he had not recognized her, remembered how she had whispered Leto’s name, and smiled as she passed from the world, the way Shaislyn had tried to smile and had died with Fenris’ name on his lips.

            Had either of them had some divine wisdom in their dying moments they had not passed on to him?

            Or, rather, had that _been_ their divine message?

            _Leto._

_Fenris._

The wordless black of a name.  A sad smile and blood before death claimed them for its own.


	116. Epilogue:  Prose Edda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There are no happy endings because nothing ever ends.” --Peter S. Beagle, The Last Unicorn.

**Epilogue:  Prose Edda**

            The way back to Schavalis was long, and it rained a day or two on the road.  He felt too numb to really notice it.  The way to the field had been just as long, in truth, but he had not lacked for company.

            He tried to busy himself with the horses.  He did enjoy their company, at the very least.  He used Hissra primarily for carrying the bulk of the items he carried with him.  The other, he rode, or sometimes he walked and led them when he wanted to stretch his legs.

            He found himself thinking about that day with Hawke, on the beach.  The horses, the sand, and the surf, that kiss in the water.  He thought about how Hawke had pulled away, and sighed to himself.  He wanted more days like that in his life--not necessarily with Hawke, but days where he could forget what his past had been like.  Days where he could forget Danarius and slavery, and the burning lyrium in his skin.  Forgetting pain was a blessing.

            He stilled, the horses at his back halting.  He frowned in thought.

            He had given up his memories.  He knew, from an intellectual standpoint, why.  It had been the best thing he could do for his family.  But there was something… more.

            Danarius had convinced him that he didn’t want to remember.  He had tormented him, raped him, convinced him that his memories would only bring him pain.  And he believed him.  Maybe his life was better without that pain.

            But would it mean more with it?  Would it mean more to him if he could remember his childhood?  Would his life have more meaning if he remembered growing up?  If he remembered his sickly mother?  If he remembered his sister’s rape, and Shaislyn’s birth?  Would his life mean more if he had always been the same person?

            No, he didn’t think so.

            He valued his life, valued all life.  Life was the highest value of anything, the highest ideal, the thing in the world with the most meaning.  He had woken the first time knowing that.  Danarius had, indeed, given him more than he gave him credit for.  He had left him with one value:  His value for life, and his strong will to live.  It had been a grave mistake, because it made him cling so desperately to what it meant.  It was all he had left of Leto, of who he had been.

            Death was just so permanent, and so meaningless.  If he were alive, it wasn’t so meaningless.  He had yet to find a pain he could not endure--and he had endured so much pain.

            He started walking again, one foot in front of the other, his heart heavier than ever.

            He almost longed for a diversion--bandits or, well, anything.  He saw not a soul on the road.  It was empty as could be, and lonely.

            His nights were completely dreamless, or perhaps he did not sleep long enough at a time to dream.  He woke frequently, and to every small sound, worried that the stragglers who had escaped him might have caught up, but there was never anyone there.  Most of the time, he would lie awake at night, listening to the nighttime noises of owls, the squeaks of mice, and other creatures.

            Sometimes, he thought about the long way back to the city, and the boat ride back to Tevinter.  He thought about how easy it would be to slide back into his life with Anastas as if he had never come to Seheron with Shaislyn.  He didn’t think he would talk about it with his employer, but he would write to Aveline.

            She and he still exchanged letters on occasion, and she would give him what news she could.  Hawke and Anders had disappeared from Kirkwall some time ago, vanishing in the night like so many ghosts.  She was unsure of their whereabouts, and admitted that this was for the best; Prince Sebastian Vail was as vengeful as ever and wanted Anders dead, his head on a pike the way it sounded--and he would kill Hawke for protecting him.  He wondered where they had ended up going.

            The Imperium would be a safe bet for two skilled apostates, as much as he was loathe to admit that.  Then again, Anders would just as likely be against going there too.  Anders was not fond of any leash being around his neck--be it the Circle, or the Grey Wardens.  He would likely feel the same way about the Tevinter Circles, and Hawke might be reluctant; he was an apostate who had never experienced anything like what the Imperium had to offer.

            Maybe they had gone back to Fereldon.  King Alistair had made it quite clear that he refused to hand over mages to the Circle if they didn’t want to go, and he might be sympathetic to their plight.

            He wondered if Merrill had ever found a Dalish clan, or if she had made something like another with the Kirkwall refugees.  He wondered if she were the Keeper’s First, or the Keeper.  She had been starting to mature, finally, when she had left.  Maybe she had grown wise.  He would like to imagine that.  Maybe she could prevent anyone else from traveling down the path she had taken.  Maybe she would know what to do to keep it from happening.  That was a pleasant thought.

            Perhaps Isabela had made a name for herself.  Wherever she was, he hoped she was satisfied with the path her life had led.

            Varric?  He just hoped Varric hadn’t gotten in over his head.  He had heard he had gotten himself involved in some venture with Isabela and even King Alistair a while ago, though he knew little else about it.

The rain had let up by the time he made it to the crumbling city.  The broken gutters spilled water onto the shattered streets, but it had not exactly flooded.  He traveled along the path, letting the horses pick their way slowly over the rubble of the streets.  When he came to the graveyard, he dismounted.  He tied the horses to a nearby tree on a long line.  He removed their bridles and bits so they could graze, and on second thought, their tack too.  He didn’t have an urn--Shaislyn’s ashes were contained in a leather sack, and he didn’t know how to construct a box for it, so it had gone in a small trunk he had found in one of the mercenary’s tents.  He put his swords and books in with it.  He first carried the box, and went back for the spade.

He selected a barren space by the rest of their family.  It didn’t need to be particularly large, just deep.  He didn’t think Shaislyn would mind overmuch that he didn’t have a headstone for him.  Recognition had not been something he had ever desired.

            The first few strikes with the spade were hardest, and the rest easier.  It was harder than he expected, his muscles moving in ways he had never had to move them.  The earth resisted him with every shovelful as if resentful of its new charge, but it was futile as he dug into the ground.  When he finally judged that it was deep enough, he heaved in the trunk.  He didn’t think Shaislyn would care, and he had no idea how to gently get it down by himself anyway.

            _A pully,_ he thought, too late.  He stared down at the box, and looked to the rest of the graves.  He would never rest with the rest of them, he didn’t think.  And that was fine; his corpse was only that--so much meat and bones.  Mourning was for the living, and when he died, there was none left of his family to mourn him.

            Flowers were appropriate, but not particularly like his nephew.  He sat on the edge of the grave, staring at the bottle in his hands.  He pried the lid off with a corkscrew, and tossed it into the grass beside him.  He sighed, and drank deeply.  The wine was rich, obviously having belonged to one of the higher ranking mercenaries.  Maybe he had been saving it as a victory drink--Fenris didn’t care.

            Danarius had driven a taste for alcohol into him.  He hadn’t really put it together at the time, but he had.  And how clever that had been!  He stared down at the bottle.  He had driven a dependency to the drink into Fenris.  Fenris wanted the alcohol to sleep, wanted it to take the pain away.  Danarius had made himself the only link to it, and Fenris had noticed that, at least.  He had made him wholly dependent on it, and on him.  His taste for wine had never really left him; he liked alcohol, and wine was a favourite.

            “Fuck you, Danarius,” he muttered to nothing, taking another long swallow.  He looked at the bottle, shaking his head a little.  He was feeling a bit fuzzy now, after drinking almost half the bottle.  He wondered, with Shaislyn dead, if that meant Danarius would be gone from his life forever, free to leave him without the tether.  He certainly hoped so.

He took one small, final sip of the wine and poured the rest over the trunk in the earth.  He dropped the bottle and the glass shattered over the wooden trunk.  He looked up at the sky, and swore loudly before he grabbed the spade again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading! You kept me enthused to continue this when I almost put it down! I know it’s long, and it was never my intention that it would be this long, I promise, but the characters insisted on having their story told. Originally, this had several different ways I thought about it ending before I realized there was really only one way to end it. I knew from the beginning of Shai’s life that he died, I just didn’t know how.  
> Also, who has figured out who hired the hit on Fenris? I give frequent hints throughout, but this is the biggest of them: “The wolf is cut down by the son of one he killed.” So, who did Fenris kill who also had a son?

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this idea and plot in my head for the longest time and told myself I would just write out a couple chapters of it and never publish it. Before I knew it, I had a lot more and felt like I needed to share. I will continue writing it until I feel it's completed, and keep editing in the meantime too, so I'll try to have a new chapter every week.
> 
> The many Original Characters was not my original intention but I found few ways around it, and it ended up working really well I think. You can't build an entire world with only a few characters, after all!
> 
> Thanks for reading!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Nights That Bind Us](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2735381) by [Xenrae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xenrae/pseuds/Xenrae)




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